#morgue tech!reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

letthemkook · 16 days ago

Text

🂱 ACE jeon jungkook (one)

18+

Pairing: Yandere!Crimeboss! Jungkook × Detective!Reader

Themes: Obsession, power imbalance, cat-and-mouse tension, psychological warfare, forced proximity, dark seduction, corruption

Genre: Dark romance, crime thriller

Warnings: Dubious consent, manipulation, possessiveness, graphic language, coercion, criminal themes, stalking, dark erotic content, emotional degradation, SMUT

“He was just another criminal on your list — cold, untouchable, dangerous. But the moment you walked into that room, Jungkook forgot every crime he ever committed and started planning a new one: making you his.”

part two

—————— 🂱———————

He wasn’t just a rumor on the streets — he was the kind of name whispered in locker rooms and back alleys, in morgues and in the untraceable lines of cartel accounts. No fingerprints. No face. Just stories. Gruesome ones. A man who could vanish in the blink of an eye and reappear in the form of another dead informant. Another burned-out safehouse. Another officer “gone rogue.”

Jeon Jungkook.

Your first case as lead investigator was small — an arms deal gone wrong in Busan, two bodies in a warehouse, both shot through the heart. What caught your attention was the precision. Two shots, one for each man. Bullet casings wiped clean. No signs of forced entry. The cameras had been cut thirty seconds before it happened.

The only trace left behind was a single white playing card on the floor, bleeding into the pooling crimson beneath the bodies.

The Ace of Hearts.

There’s a moment in every detective’s life where things stop being about justice — and start being about survival.

Your moment came in the form of a manila folder, dropped onto your desk with a thud and a muttered, “Good luck.”

You didn’t look up right away. Just stared at the stamped name across the top like it might bite.

No face. No verified voice. Just a trail of shattered lives and dead witnesses. His file was thick. Thicker than any you’d seen. Most of it redacted. Every page screamed warning, even the pages that said nothing at all.

Drug trafficking. High-tech weapons. Political blackmail. A hundred aliases. But one signature — left behind like a calling card, stained in red.

Some said he was born into the criminal world, son of a now-erased syndicate boss. Others believed he carved his empire himself, a ghost who learned how to hack his name out of the shadows. Either way, no one had ever seen him. Not clearly. The only known image was blurry, snapped through shattered glass mid-explosion.

He looked young. Too young to be behind so much blood. But something about the tilt of his head, the laziness of his posture, the way he stared directly into the lens — it made your skin crawl. Like he knew he was being watched. Like he wanted to be.

You were officially assigned his case as lead profiler. The youngest ever brought onto the division. You didn’t ask why they gave it to you. Maybe they thought you were expendable. Maybe they thought he’d underestimate you.

——————-

They brought him in at 3:17 a.m.

You were already waiting — coffee long cold in your hand, eyes glued to the monitor as grainy footage played on a loop. A blacked-out car. A familiar walk. He’d exited the vehicle like he didn’t have a care in the world, shoulders relaxed, hands in the pockets of his long dark coat. Even with a team swarming him, Jungkook didn’t flinch. Didn’t fight.

He smiled.

The bastard smiled like he was right on time.

“Are you sure you want to be the one to interrogate him?” your commanding officer asked as he handed over the file. “He’s not like the others.”

“I know.” You didn’t say the rest: That’s exactly why I have to.

You’d been tailing him for six months. Always one step behind. Surveillance footage here, wiretap audio there. The pieces never quite added up. No matter how many hours you poured into his case, the deeper you dug, the more he vanished — like smoke curling just out of reach. He wasn’t a man. He was a myth.

Until now.

You took a deep breath before stepping into the room, heart hammering with anticipation and a dread you didn’t want to name.

And there he was.

The second interrogation started before you stepped into the room.

You could see him through the mirror.

Jeon Jungkook — uncuffed, seated loosely in the chair, one leg stretched out like he owned the ground beneath it. He wasn’t doing anything. Just staring at the empty seat across from him. Like he knew you’d be there soon. Like he’d been waiting.

When the door opened, he didn’t turn.

But when you walked in — when your heels clicked on the concrete and the air shifted around your scent — he moved.

His head turned slow, then his eyes lifted.

And they devoured you.

Not with awe. Not with admiration. With hunger. Sharp, unrepentant, and barely contained.

The cuffs had been reattached at your request — short chain, anchored to the table.

You sat down without flinching.

But your hands tensed on the file.

He didn’t say anything. Just kept watching.

His gaze flicked over your eyes, your lips, your throat. A slow drag. Calculating. Carnal. Every inch of your body felt cataloged, peeled back layer by layer — and not in a scientific way. No, this wasn’t a profiler’s stare.

“So it’s you,” he said, voice low, thick like honey laced with poison. “The little shadow.”

Your spine straightened. “Excuse me?”

Jungkook chuckled, leaning in like you were sharing a secret. “You’ve been on my trail for half a year, detective. I knew someone was watching me. But I never expected you.”

His gaze dropped — slow, deliberate — tracing your form, lingering where it shouldn’t.

And then he smiled like something divine had clicked into place.

“God,” he murmured, “you’re beautiful. They didn’t put that in your file.”

It was the kind of look men wore before they ruined something soft.

“Jeon Jungkook,” you said calmly, forcing your voice steady. “Do you know why you’re here?”

His tongue slid slowly across his bottom lip.

You looked down. You had to. Even one more second of eye contact and you might’ve flushed.

“We have a forged ID. You were in the passenger seat of a car linked to last month’s arms deal. The driver was seen leaving a drop site in Gangseo. You’re being held while we investigate further.”

No response.

You tried again. “Do you deny knowing the driver?”

His mouth twitched at the corner. Not a smile. Something more base.

You knew, without looking up, that he was still watching your mouth.

“You understand this is serious?” you continued.

Still no words. But you could hear his breathing. Controlled. Deep.

He wasn’t ignoring you.

He was soaking you in.

You glanced up again, only for a second — and there it was. The glint. The flicker of movement, the jerk of his fingers against the cuffs. He wanted to reach for you.

The way his gaze had locked between your lips and your collarbone… it was like instinct was fighting him with every breath.

The cuffs were the only thing stopping him from moving.

He shifted slightly, and the chain strained.

The sound was loud in the silence.

“You’re not going to say anything?” you asked, voice sharp now, snapping to protect your own pulse.

His throat worked once.

And then, finally — “You were just a name on a screen until five minutes ago. Now that I’ve met you I feel like I’d burn down the world to keep you looking at me like that.”

Your heart stilled.

He didn’t say it with fondness. He said it like a man crawling through a desert, finally reaching water.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t dare.

Jungkook leaned forward until the cuffs yanked him back with a quiet metallic click. His smile curled slow — dark, knowing, primal.

You wanted to move. You should’ve moved.

But you didn’t.

Not even when he said, softer now, “What perfume is that?”

You opened your mouth to answer, then stopped yourself. You were not here to play. You were not here to entertain fantasies.

But something told you this man had already started building them.

The rest of the interrogation went nowhere.

He answered nothing. Said little. But his eyes never left you. Not even once.

You left feeling like your body had been touched without ever being reached. Like your bones would remember this encounter long after the bruises of his gaze faded.

You needed a break. A shower. Silence.

You got none of those.

Instead, five hours later, you were summoned to the deputy chief’s office.

“He’s being released,” they said flatly.

Your mouth dropped open. “What?! On whose orders?”

“Everything we had is gone. Witnesses walked. Evidence scrubbed. Whoever’s backing him has reach. Judge signed off five minutes ago.”

You were still arguing when the elevator doors opened downstairs.

And there he was.

Jeon Jungkook, fresh clothes, no cuffs. Walking out as casually as if he’d just finished a spa day.

But when he saw you — he paused.

Paused like the sight of you had just punched the air from his lungs.

Then he smiled. Not politely. Not smug.

Like was about to devour you.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

But he crossed the distance slowly, calculated, until he stood just close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed. The same way a man might pass someone at a crowded bar — only this wasn’t crowded. And it wasn’t by accident.

His eyes dragged across your face. No shame. No mask. Just heat.

Then, as he passed, his voice ghosted behind you:

“Next time… you won’t have a table between us.”

And he was gone.

_____________

You told yourself it was over. That he’d disappeared back into whatever empire he ruled from the shadows. That he had more important things to do than fixate on the woman who couldn’t even get him charged with a forged ID.

But logic didn’t help when you looked over your shoulder too often in grocery stores.

Didn’t help when you kept locking your door twice, even though you’d never forgotten once in your life.

Didn’t help when you kept waking up in the middle of the night with your heart racing — from nothing.

From something.

From whatever was now living in the silence.

Because the truth sat deep in your gut, heavier than you could admit even to yourself.

Jungkook had looked at you like you were already his.

And men like that didn’t forget.

You went back through every note in his case file. Every surveillance photo. Every redacted line of intel. You looked for signs that he’d ever taken an interest in one of his investigators before — any woman, any name, any pattern.

But there was nothing.

Nothing but the way he had looked at you across that interrogation table. Like he hadn’t just noticed you. Like he recognized you. Like the universe had finally handed him a shape he’d been waiting to see — and it just happened to be yours.

Attention from a man like Jeon Jungkook felt like heat under your skin. Like a fuse had been lit somewhere deep in the walls of your life, and now you were just waiting for the spark to reach the core.

He wasn’t making a move.

And that’s how you knew he was serious.

You started carrying a weapon off-duty. You started varying your commute. You memorized exits. Not because anything had happened.

But because you felt it.

Like breath on the back of your neck in an empty room. Like the echo of footsteps one beat behind yours on a quiet night. Like an eye watching through a scope you couldn’t see.

And now he knew exactly what you looked like when you weren’t behind a badge.

_______________

You didn’t want to go.

But your friends insisted.

“You’ve been working nonstop,” Hari said, looping her arm through yours. “You’re barely sleeping. You’re paranoid.”

I have reason to be, you wanted to say. But you bit your tongue.

“Just one night,” Minji added. “We’ll dress up, drink too much, dance a little. No cops. No crime scenes. Just fun.”

So you gave in.

The club was new. Lavish. Private. The kind of place where you didn’t walk in unless your name was on a list or your dress cost more than your rent. You didn’t ask how your friend got the hookup — some cousin-of-a-cousin situation, she claimed — and you didn’t push. You were too tired.

Too worn thin.

The second you stepped through the velvet-draped doors, it hit you: the money. The power. The heat.

It wasn’t a place people came to unwind.

It was a place people came to be seen.

Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling. Music pulsed low and dark, more bass than lyrics. Everything gleamed — marble floors, glass staircases, sharp-dressed men and women with too much perfume and too few inhibitions.

You felt out of place immediately.

Still, your friends pulled you to the bar.

“Something expensive,” Minji told the bartender, grinning. “She’s a cop. She needs it.”

You didn’t correct her. Not anymore. You weren’t sure what you were now.

You took the drink. Sipped. Smiled when they cheered.

And for one moment — one brief, suspended moment — you let yourself relax.

Until you noticed something.

A man. In the far corner. Near the VIP mezzanine.

Watching.

You looked away. You looked back.

He was gone.

You told yourself it was nothing.

Just nerves. Shadows. The trick of a crowded room.

But the unease grew. You scanned the layout — exits, guards, mirrors angled too carefully.

And then it hit you. All at once. The subtle perfection. The impossible security. The air of controlled chaos, polished to an art. The Ace of Hearts on every wall.

You’d studied this style before. In reports. In background intel.

And then you knew.

This place wasn’t just owned by someone like Jungkook.

It was his.

You stood so suddenly your barstool scraped back.

Your friends blinked. “Whoa—hey, are you okay?”

You were already walking.

The hall toward the private wing was guarded, but no one stopped you. Not one hand lifted. Not one voice called out.

Like you were expected.

The hallway grew darker. Quieter.

You turned the corner too fast — heart pounding, fists clenched — and slammed into someone.

Hard.

You stumbled back. Hands reached out.

Caught you.

You looked up—

—and froze.

Jungkook.

He wasn’t dressed like he was last time. No cuffs. No chains. A white dress shirt unbuttoned at the top covered by a black suit blazer with the matching trousers, expensive watch glinting, a ring on one finger you’d never seen before.

But his eyes?

Exactly the same.

Still dark. Still quiet. Still piercing into yours like they knew something that could end the world.

He didn’t speak.

He just looked at you.

And for the first time, you couldn’t look away.

Not because of fear. But because you saw something worse. Satisfaction.

Like this moment — you here, alone, in his domain — had already happened in his mind.

Like he’d imagined this exact scene a hundred times.

“Did you follow me here?” you breathed.

His head tilted slowly. “No,” he murmured. “You came to me.”

You stepped back. “I didn’t know—”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t have to.

The hallway seemed to shrink around him.

“You’ve been waiting for this,” you whispered, pulse racing.

And then came the smallest smile.

“Not waiting,” Jungkook said softly.

“Planning.”

You didn’t move at first.

When Jungkook said planning, you froze. Not because of the word — but because of the way he said it. Calm. Measured. Like this wasn’t a surprise to him. Like tonight, this hallway, this very breath between you, had all gone exactly the way he knew it would.

“I’m not here for you,” you said, but your voice cracked halfway through.

He raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you?”

Your fingers clenched at your sides. “Let me go back to my friends.”

“I didn’t stop you.” He leaned casually against the doorframe, one hand in his pocket. “You came this far.”

You swallowed. “We shouldn’t have come here.”

But even as you turned to leave, his voice stopped you. Quiet. Controlled.

“I wouldn’t go back that way.”

You turned slowly. “What do you mean?”

He tilted his head, eyes dark and steady. “Do you know who the man is sitting two tables behind your friend with the ponytail?”

Your stomach dropped.

“You’ve been watching us?”

“I always watch what’s mine.” He took a step forward — not fast, not loud. Just close enough that you felt it. “And what I want.”

You tried to swallow the panic in your throat. “You wouldn’t hurt them.”

“No,” he said simply. “I wouldn’t.”

And then his voice dropped.

“But other people might. People who owe me things. People who’d do anything to earn back my trust.”

You stared.

Jungkook didn’t look away.

He wasn’t gloating. He wasn’t bluffing.

He was warning you.

“I don’t want to see your friends in a tabloid headline,” he said softly. “Not when you can stop it.”

You didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

He stepped back then — gave you space — and nodded toward the stairs at the end of the hallway.

“I just want to talk. Upstairs. Just us.” A pause. “Ten minutes.”

He let that linger.

Then: “Unless you’d rather go back and roll the dice.”

You hesitated.

And that hesitation was all it took.

You followed.

The club blurred behind you. The bass dropped away. You heard nothing but your own heartbeat echoing in your ears as you followed him up the glass staircase and down a private corridor lined with black marble and gold trim.

He opened a door. Waited.

And you stepped inside.

The second it shut behind you, he moved. Fast.

You didn’t even have time to turn before his hands slammed against the door on either side of your head — caging you, pinning you, his body pressed full against yours.

The click of the lock was the last sound you heard before you felt him.

Breath hot against your neck.

Hands skimming your waist, possessive but slow

His lips found your throat before you could reply — warm, wet, desperate. Kisses turned to nips, his teeth grazing sensitive skin like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss you or mark you.

And God, you hated the way it lit your nerves on fire.

He kissed just beneath your ear. Down the side of your throat. The curve of your shoulder. His grip tightened on your hip.

“I’ve thought about this,” Jungkook murmured against your pulse. “Every night. Every time I closed my eyes, it was this. You. Right here.”

You sucked in a breath — not from fear, not from resistance.

From the heat.

The terrifying, suffocating heat of being wanted like this. Devoured like this.

“You should hate me,” he whispered. “I know you do.”

His hand slid higher, curling against the side of your neck, not squeezing — holding. Like you were something delicate. Like you were already his.

“But you came,” he said. “That’s all that matters.”

He kissed you again — harder now, teeth dragging.

And you knew this wasn’t about seduction anymore.

It was about claiming.

And he wasn’t going to stop until every inch of you remembered who you belonged to. Your body was frozen.

Not by choice.

Not entirely.

You weren’t sure if it was fear or instinct or the terrifying awareness of how close you were to destruction — but you couldn’t move.

Not with him that close. Not when you could feel how real his hunger was.

His voice ghosted over your skin.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he said, quiet and rough. “I haven’t been able to think about anything else since that room.”

You flinched, but he smiled like it was affection.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered. “Are you scared of me?”

You didn’t answer. He didn’t wait.

Suddenly, his hands found your thighs, gripped tight, and he lifted you — clean off the floor, like you weighed nothing. Your arms flew around his shoulders on instinct, legs locking around his waist, and then—

Then you were on the bed. Still wrapped around him.

His mouth crashed to your shoulder as he pressed you down into the mattress, still clothed, but pressed so tightly you could feel every twitch of his body.

“I need you,” Jungkook muttered, voice wrecked now, desperate. “Right now. Can’t wait. Can’t—”

He was unraveling. Coming apart at the seams from the fantasy he’d waited too long to touch.

And that’s when you knew you had one shot.

You forced your body to relax. Gave a soft, breathy hum near his ear. Let your fingers smooth along the back of his neck.

“Jungkook,” you whispered sweetly. “Let me take care of you.”

That made him still.

You shifted your hips gently beneath him, fingers brushing his jaw. And when his head lifted just enough, you leaned in and gave him the softest kiss on the lips. Barely there. Just a taste.

He melted.

Eyes fluttering shut, mouth parting slightly as if he didn’t know how to handle that kind of softness.

You smiled.

“Good boy,” you purred, brushing your lips across his. “Let me worship you a little.”

Another kiss, teasing, light, just enough to keep him drunk on you. Then down his throat. His collarbone. His chest.

His hips jerked slightly.

You smirked.

“Sensitive,” you teased. “Didn’t expect that.”

He growled under his breath, but you slid your fingers down his chest slowly, tenderly, like you were tracing a masterpiece.

You kept your voice honey-sweet, just enough to stroke his ego. “You’ve been patient with me, haven’t you, Jungkook?”

He nodded, breath shaky.

“All that time watching. Waiting.” You dragged your nails over his shoulders. “It must’ve been so hard.”

“Every fucking day,” he rasped.

You kissed him again — etting your lips barely part against his, teasing the tension. He moaned into your mouth, hips pressing harder, arms trembling as he held himself above you.

When you pulled back, his lips chased yours instinctively. And that was when you knew you had him.

“You dont understand what it’s been like,” he murmured, voice low, thick. “Knowing your name. Your face. Having to wait.”

He kissed the corner of your mouth — soft, reverent — and your hands curled into fists, not from fear, but from restraint.

Because if you wanted to survive this, you couldn’t play defense.

You had to seduce the devil.

So you tilted your head slightly, lips brushing his jaw. “Then why wait?” you whispered. “You’re the one who locked the door.”

That made him pause.

His eyes darkened, pupils expanding, lips parting just a little. You brought your hands up slowly, grazing the sides of his chest, kissing down his neck and unbuttoning his dress shirt, then trailing them down, down, until your fingers curled into the belt at his waist.

“Tell me,” you said softly, “is this how you imagined it?”

He swallowed.

“I bet it was filthier in your head,” you teased, nails dragging just slightly. “Harder. I bet I was already begging. I bet you thought about me choking on that big, big cock.”

“Don’t,” he warned, voice shaky.

“Don’t what?” You leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Say what you want me to say?”

He hissed under his breath. His whole body leaned forward slightly, chasing the heat of you, and you knew then: you had him.

Of course you did.

Because in his mind, this was always inevitable.

His eyes devoured you like he didn’t know where to look — your mouth, your thighs, your hands as they slowly found his shoulders. His shirt was completely unbuttoned now, revealing the toned hard skin of his chest, and his abs.

His eyes were now fluttering shut, mouth parting slightly as if he didn’t know how to handle that kind of softness.

And while he was distracted—you moved.

Quick, fluid, practiced.

You rolled your hips, shifted your weight, and in one smooth twist, flipped the both of you.

Now you were on top, straddling him.

He blinked in dazed surprise, chest rising and falling, letting you guide him like a man under spell.

You pushed him to lay all the way down, and he groaned, head falling back, and you took that opportunity to press soft kisses along his throat. Each one slow, teasing, calculated. You dragged your lips along his jawline, whispering between them.

“Thought about this too, didn’t you? When I walked into that interrogation room? I bet you touched yourself to it.”

His breath hitched.

“You didn’t want to hurt me. Not really,” you lied, sweet and syrupy. “You just wanted to know what I taste like.”

He nodded, barely breathing.

And then your hand slid down between you — slowly, confidently — and palmed him through his pants.

The sound he made was broken. Half-groan, half-whimper, head falling forward to your shoulder as his hips arched into your touch. His hands found your waist — not gripping, just holding. Like he thought he finally had you. Like this was real.

“That’s it,” you whispered against his throat. “You like being touched, don’t you? Bet you’d let me do anything right now.”

“Yes baby, don’t stop—,” he gasped. You smiled against his skin.

And then you pulled back.

Your hand moved fast — a sharp, sudden strike straight to his groin, the heel of your palm hitting hard through the expensive fabric.

He choked out a grunt, body curling forward in reflex.

Before he could recover, you shoved him back onto the bed.

A ragged, wounded sound tore from his throat as his body curled toward the pain.

And you ran.

You bolted from the bed, flung the door open, and didn’t stop to look back. His cursing rang in your ears, low and strangled, full of disbelief and pain and fury. The sound of it should’ve satisfied you.

But it only fueled the adrenaline in your blood.

You barreled down the stairs, through the corridor, chest heaving. The music from the club below pounded like a heartbeat.

Your friends were still at the bar.

“MOVE!” you shouted, breathless, just as the guards began turning your way.

You slammed into a standing table, sending bottles, glasses, and bodies flying.

A blur of chaos.

It gave you seconds.

Just enough.

You grabbed your friends, who were still too stunned to scream, and dragged them toward the side exit as shouting broke out behind you.

And when you burst into the alleyway and sprinted into the street—

You knew one thing.

You escaped tonight.

But the look on Jungkook’s face as you left him breathless and in pain?

He wasn’t going to forget it.

And he sure as hell wasn’t going to forgive it.

So you kept running.

Ignoring the part of you that wanted to finish what you started back in that room.

#bts imagines #bts #imagine #bangtan #bts updates #love #yandere #jeon jungkook #jungkook #yandere jungkook #jungkook imagine #bts jungkook #possesive love #jjk smut

427 notes · View notes

prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue · 12 days ago

Note

First of all I wanted to say I love ur writing style.

What I wanted to ask is I came across a prompt in ur asks from someone about batfam x neglected reader which u also told u would write.

I just want to know when u might write it because genuinely I loved the prompt and love to read it.

The link of the post is https://www.tumblr.com/prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue/781014256622714880/hi-i-have-a-batfam-x-neglected-reader-angst?source=share

hihi ! Sorry took so long to reply , I had a huge authors block and an unsolicited break (づ ᴗ _ᴗ)づ♡

For some reason it won't let me access the link but if I remember properly it was this ask 🎀

rushed ; cursing ; idk man , edit in honor pof fathers day lol

january marked a month of hope and prosperity , a month of new beginnigs , a shed of the old in many cultures. but to y/n wayne it marked the month of brutality and an era of neglect . she always knew her family loathed her .

cassandra and stephanie are not saints either - in fact stephanie runs a controversial podcast alongside cass where they actively debated with other celebrities - often known as the duo whom likes to instigate things. damian wayne does not have a pretty track record either - he is often every week has trending becuase news of him violently beating up another kid at school got surfaced.

wasn't of of spite , wasn't of of hatred , wasn't out of anything but pure neglect. in comparison to most of her siblings , y/n wayne actaully had a decent public appearance . something most of her family can not relater to .

she did not have have a messy social life like her father , frequent videos of him in night clubs galroe , her older brother dick who had several articles critiquing the manner he cheated on his wife , kori , the night before their wedding or jason's plathera of tabloids talking about his messy death.

tim is not safe either - you think tech genius and prodigy would keep his messy relationships under the wraps would you ? safe to say y/n wayne and duke thomas are the only two wayne family memebers with a decent background.

duke barely posts but y/n wayne is a known and well revered celebrity and lawyer. graudated from Harvard law , top of her class , known as a living legend who passed her bar exam on her first try since 1990's. not to mention she also co-graduated from harvard medicine and was already running her own firm and clinic a year after her graduation. was president for both class and student council and was captain of harvard girl's volleyball team.

y/n wayne is the girl every socilaite talks about , the girl your parents compare you too , the girl everyone wants to be , the perfect embodiment of a wayne . yet despite how good she is , her family would never like her , except for alfred.

alfred pennyworth would never say he had favorites to anyone in the family who asks him in jest but it does not take a person with a brain to figure out it is y/n wayne . the man , despite his old age would personally drive himself to harvard's campus and spend the weekend with name in her apartment that he himself bought for her because why woukd his favorite child live in a dormitory ?

the man personally meal prep a week's worth of food just for her - feigning that his baby shouldn't have to worry about meaningless work she has more important things at hand. said man attends all her events , parent meetings , her school seminars , all her speeches - he personally records for himself , graduations , personally attended her first clinic opening , met her first girlfriend in highschool , literally goes dress shopping to spa and makeup appointment because his baby just got her nails done and has a big gala to attend to why should she worry about driving when he can ?

basically y/n wayne is that man's pride and joy , if anyone walks up to this man and asks about any of the wayne children he'd give a small polite , " they're doing alright " but ask him about y/n wayne ?? that man is already pulling out his phone to show his lockscreen of him and y/n at a recent gala where she gave an opening speech and he will talk your head off about her .

safe to say y/n wayne's life at home maybe depressing but alfred made up for it. flash forward to early morning , and the news are lighting up , ' y/n wayne caught holding a child in gotham square could this be a secret wayne child we don't know of ?'

alfred practically rolled his eyes when he saw those news - it wasn't public information but y/n along with her highschool girlfriend actively run an orphanage , the reasoning why it wasn't public was because y/n wayne kept it under the wraps for the children's safety and wellbeing so her highschool girlfriend became the face of said orphanage and y/n was just a silent owner.

alfred rolls his eyes again before switching to another channel - he knows y/n wasn't waking up anytime soon because last night she not only had an emegency surgery , an unscheduled meeting with italian overseas investors for her firm but she also had an emergency enrollment . alfred doesn't know the specifics of why and how but he knows she did message him that she had been called by gordon about taking in a child last night and he assunes that was just her and the child in the pictures.

alfred sets put the tableware as the other wayne members fillter in. bruce had am angry expression and everyone else was muttering amoug themselves , " how can she shame us like that ?" , " i know she was weird but i mean.." , " such an attention seeking whore i mean whe couldn't keep it in her pants ?" , " for fucks sake shes 16 - when I was 16 i would never do that shit ".

breakfast continued on just like that , everyone murmuring and gossiping staurday morning in silk pajamas except bruce whos taken to brooding more this morning. alfred had just finished washing up before going to finish up y/n's breakfast when she walked in.

she's dressed immaculately , red ysl heels and black channel pants and jacket along with a dark maroon shirt. she wears her gold accesories , her hair is open and free , makeup minimal but beautiful as she strolls in towards alfred.

" I know such a disrespectful child like yoruself is not perading in my house when she was outside being a whore ! " bruce angerily exclaims as his eyes glare into her. y/n just stood there shocked and confused , " what are you even on about ?" she asks.

y/n embracss alfred , has not even glanced at her family - she hasn't since she was a wee naive 11 year old. " morning pa " she greeted him. alfred embraces her back , " morning hun , work meeting ?" alfred asks and before y/n can even respond bruce angerily slams his hands against the table.

damian snared , " dont pretend your not a hooker y/n your disgrace is all over the news " . " yeah y/n have some fucking class " stephanie retroted. y/n just stood there and just looked at them , " listen - i don't know what the fuck crawled up your asses this morning but i am no hooker " y/n said defensively.

bruce laughed , " shut up y/n , you've alaways been a disappointment now ? now you've surpassed it". y/n glares at him - how dare he call her a disappointment when he is one ? " yn its all over gotham fucking news how you have a secret love child no one knows about - like for fuck sake name your 16 close youe damn legs " tim yells at her.

y/n just stands there shocked and angry , " go fuck yourself " she curses before walking out , alfred trailing after her. y/n just walked straight out before walking into her red proche and speeding out of the gateway , not even stopping for alfred.

alfred sighs in disappointment but he's also furious and walks back inside , body shaking as he stands before the rest of them. " IN WHAT WORLD GAVE YOU THE RIGHT TO TALK TO HER LIKE THAT ?" he yelled at bruce.

bruce hides his immediate shock but yells back , " SHES A 16 YEAT OLD WITH A BABY WHAT ELSE WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO ?" . alfred can practically feel the vein in his head popping

" YOUR DAMNED DAUGHTER IS 25 BRUCE , 25 AND WAS NEVER FUCKING PREGENANT " , alfred cursed back , enraged. bruce sat back , in both shock and embrassment and the others ? well the others can only open and cllse their mouth shut . " ..25..." jason murmured as if it's unbelievable . " yes your damn sister is 25 " alfred confirms , voice angry.

" THEN WHAT ABOUT THE KID ?" Stephanie yells back . alfred practically feels himself loose more braincells , " SHE FUCKING CO RUNS A DAMN ORPHANAGE SO SPEAKING SHE HAS MANY KIDS I'D FUCKING KNOW I MET THEM ALL " he shouted back.

alfred then walks off , grabbing a suitcase along with him. " wait where are you going -" dick asks as theh watch alfred haul the suitcase into the foyer , " i'm going to stay at y/n's " and walked out.

257 notes · View notes

nanamineedstherapy · 3 months ago

Text

Until the end of me: Love is stored in the knife

Ieiri Shoko x F!Reader

Yandere!Gojo Satoru

Summary: Gojo Satoru is obsessed with his best friend's girlfriend. A/N: I have never written a doomed Yuri tragedy before, but that "Good Luck, Babe!" Satosugu edit rewired my brain like a bad phone charger so here we are. As always, the reader has no physical description except being body-abled & femme-coded, so go ahead, hallucinate whatever woman you want. pls be nice but also pls be mean idk i crave engagement like Gojo craves therapy. WC: 1400 exact.

You had never seen Shoko Ieiri smile like that.

Not in the brittle photographs from jujutsu school archives, not in the grimy Polaroids tucked behind her apartment fridge, and certainly not in the autopsy rooms where, between slashes of nicotine and exhaustion, she looked like someone half-consumed by grief’s slow digestion.

But when she smiled at you—really smiled—it was tender, tilted, and rare. She never gave it away for free. She never wasted it on the living, except you.

The first time you saw it, you thought you’d earned it by accident.

Now, months in, you knew better.

“You’re staring,” she murmured, wrist bent against the steering wheel, cigarette forgotten between her fingers.

She had the most careless way of holding danger.

Lit end glowing against the dark interior of the car. Engine off. No hurry. No audience.

You leaned your head against the window. The glass fogged beneath your breath. “You look happy.”

“Don’t spread rumors.”

A joke. But even Shoko, with all her practiced apathy, failed to hide the way her eyes softened when you reached over and threaded your fingers through her hair.

You learned early that nothing about loving Shoko was safe.

Not when you first kissed her behind the morgue, breathless, laughing against the bitter taste of smoke.

Not when she stitched you up after a cursed spirit caught you in the crossfire—steady hands, shaking breath.

Not when she whispered, against your throat, “I could love you until the end of me.”

It wasn’t a promise.

It was a warning.

And you were too soft, too smitten to hear it.

Because for a while, you thought you might be safe like this—entangled in late-night shifts, greasy ramen joints, and the quiet rhythm of someone who had nothing left to give but still tried for you.

You never noticed the shadow behind it all.

You never noticed Gojo.

At least, not the way you were supposed to.

---

You’d met Gojo Satoru the same way everyone did—like gravity had given up, and you were simply being pulled, helpless, toward orbit.

He wasn’t subtle. He wasn’t delicate.

He was magnetic in the most terrifying way. Loud, sharp, far too kind when he wanted to be. And yet, the kindness never reached his eyes when he looked at you.

In hindsight, it was all there.

How he lingered too long when you visited Shoko at Jujutsu Tech.

How he’d show up unannounced with something “for you both,” eyes flickering to yours like he was testing the lock on a door.

How he’d ask Shoko, “How’s your girl?” like you were a pet he could someday steal.

The first time Shoko told him to fuck off, it was funny.

The third time, it wasn’t.

When Shoko stopped joking about it entirely, you felt something crawl under your skin, settling there.

---

The evening you vanished, there was no sign of struggle. Only your phone left behind, a chair pulled out, tea still warm. They told Shoko that maybe you’d run away.

She knew better.

By the time she reached the abandoned train station on the edge of Suginami—a place where Tokyo’s neon bled into gray suburbs—you were already gagged and cuffed inside the shell of a ticket booth.

Gojo smiled at her through the fogged glass. Unbothered. Gentle, even. Like this was a surprise party, not a crime scene.

“Hey,” he said. “You came.”

You blinked, unable to scream, tears already stinging as you thrashed against the zip-ties that chewed at your wrists.

Shoko lit a cigarette with one hand.

With the other, she leveled a gun at him.

Dead calm.

“Open the door.”

Gojo tilted his head. “Shoko, come on. Don’t be like that.”

And then—softly, as if the weight of the world meant nothing—he said, “She deserves better than you.”

Your breath caught.

Shoko didn’t blink.

“Wrong,” she said. “She deserves better than both of us.”

The shot came fast.

He moved faster.

The glass shattered behind you.

You barely ducked in time.

---

You don’t remember much after that.

You remember the smell of cigarettes and wet earth as Shoko dragged you out of the booth by the collar, swearing under her breath.

You remember Gojo’s laugh—cruel, boyish, triumphant.

You remember Shoko slamming you into the passenger seat of her car, blood dripping down her temple, still cracking jokes like you weren’t both about to die.

You remember the quiet, brutal intimacy of her thumb wiping the dirt from your face before flooring it.

“Stay with me,” she said, voice trembling for the first time since you’d met her.

You stayed.

---

Weeks later, you stood together on the balcony of a hotel room under false names, sharing a cigarette you couldn’t stomach but refused to waste.

“You ever gonna leave me for someone safer?” Shoko asked, half-teasing.

You swallowed. The wind burned against your skin.

“You?” You said. “Or him?”

Shoko’s eyes flickered with something fragile.

You leaned into her. “Neither.”

And in that quiet, painful moment, with scars you hadn’t yet begun to inventory, you both knew the truth:

You loved her.

It wouldn’t save you.

But you loved her.

---

It was never about love for him.

It was about possession.

Shoko had what he couldn’t.

A sliver of peace.

Something unspeakably soft.

You.

It was a cheap, stolen night. You remember it now, in hindsight, like a cut that only stings when you brush against it.

You and Shoko in the infirmary, alone, pressed into the rickety cot, her mouth leaving bruises against your breasts, laughing softly when you gasped too loud.

Neither of you noticed the figure outside the door—not until much, much later.

Gojo.

And later, when Shoko finally pieced it together, she only said, bitterly, “Fucking voyeur.”

But by then, it was too late.

He’d already decided.

He wanted you.

And Shoko and you both knew he’d come for you again.

---

When you woke up in an empty warehouse, gagged, wrists roped tight, Gojo wasn’t smiling.

He was staring.

Like he’d been staring for weeks. Months, maybe.

“This could’ve been easy,” he murmured.

The blindfold was off. No infinity between you.

Just blue eyes, sharp and frighteningly empty. “But you’re stubborn.”

You didn’t waste your energy screaming. Shoko had taught you better. Keep it. Save it for when it mattered.

He paced in circles, talking more to himself than to you.

“You would’ve been happy,” he said. “With me. I would’ve given you everything. Everything. Not like Shoko.” His lip curled. “She doesn’t deserve you. I saw how she touched you. Like you were disposable.”

Disposable.

The word curdled in your throat.

That night, behind the infirmary door, wasn’t just some cheap indulgence.

It was the first time you saw Shoko crack open, all the sharpness slipping to reveal a woman who loved you recklessly.

And Gojo—

Gojo had seen it too.

---

The second rescue wasn’t clean.

It wasn’t heroic.

Shoko showed up bleeding.

Shot, maybe. Knife wound. You didn’t know.

Her breathing was shallow.

Her stance, off.

But she still smiled.

“You look like shit,” she rasped, eyes locking on you.

Gojo barely glanced her way. His eyes were still on you. “I told you,” he said softly. “You’ll regret staying with her.”

Shoko’s laugh, delirious and sharp, echoed off the concrete walls. “I regret a lot of things, Satoru. But not her.”

Then everything cracked open.

---

Later, in pieces, you’d remember:

Gojo’s cursed energy erupting, wild and fractured.

Shoko stepping between you and him, swaying.

The explosion—

The collapse of the warehouse.

The way she never once looked away from you.

When you clawed your way out of the rubble, alone, the only sound was rain hitting metal.

You found Gojo first.

Face-down.

Dead.

Not from the blast.

A knife through the heart.

Shoko’s knife.

And then you saw her.

Pinned under concrete.

Breathing—barely.

Her hand lifted, reaching for you.

No words.

Just a look.

Soft.

Like she was apologizing.

Like she was promising.

Like she was loving you, even here, at the end.

You held her hand until it went cold.

---

Weeks later, the news spun stories.

The explosion was blamed on cursed spirits.

Gojo died saving civilians.

Shoko died fighting.

Heroes, both.

No one asked about you.

Not really.

Except for Megumi.

Except for Nobara.

Except for the girls who watched you stare out the window of Shoko’s old office, wearing her jacket like armor.

All Works Masterlist

100 notes · View notes

tiramisuc0ffee · 11 months ago

Text

Cold Nights.

☆~~~~☆~~~~☆ pairing: Gojo Satoru x F!reader

Summary: Suguru defected. Satoru comes to you for comfort.

warnings/tags: Takes place before "The Ghost of You" (which you can read here), and takes place after Warm Afternoons (which you can read here). Mentions events during the Hidden Inventory Arc, reader, and Satoru are close friends, but it's clear there is something more, ANGST, ANGST, ANGST, not a lot of comfort tbh- like a sprinkle of fluff? slight OOC!Gojo, imo teehee

word count: 3.2k (I KEEP GOING OVERBOARD WHEN IT COMES TO THIS MAN)

☆~~~~☆~~~~☆

It was an incredibly rare day off. Classes had been canceled and no missions had been assigned to you. The only flimsy explanation you were given by Yaga was that some form of internal investigation needed to be done within the school and it was in everyone's best interests to keep most of the students away from the main campus.

The news had been a shock and you certainly had several questions—the suddenness, the complete lack of clarity—it simply didn't sit right with you. A part of you wanted to attempt and pry for more details but, truthfully, the allure of finally having a day to just take it easy and potentially indulge in some hobbies you've fallen out of touch with was so tempting that you simply nodded with a smile before heading back to your dorm.

The sun shone brightly when you left Yaga's office, the day couldn't be more perfect. You capitalized on this, taking the time to finally visit that cafe you had been eyeing for a while, bringing along that fiction book that had been doing nothing but collecting dust on the shelf. You even did some shopping, treating yourself to a new outfit that you hoped to find an excuse to wear sometime soon.

But as evening approached, dark clouds rolled in and rain began to fall. Your eyes watched how the raindrops splattered across the window of your room, creating a repetitive pattern as you held a cup of tea close to your chest, sitting upright, your knees to your chest on your bean bag.

Finally a day off... God knew how badly you and everyone else needed it.

Especially Satoru and Suguru.

You couldn't help the frown that tugged at your lips as you thought of the two men. Of course, you only heard stories of what they went through. Stories of a young girl by the name of Anamai who they couldn't protect, how Suguru had to watch her life being taken right before his very eyes, watching as the blood poured from her head, Satoru who came face-to-face with death and essentially lost his touch with reality, resorting to killing a man, though an assassin, in such a brutal manner.

You hadn't been there to witness any of it, but you saw the evident repercussions and how deeply the events affected them both.

With each passing day, you could see Suguru was looking worse for wear. Deep and dark circles contrasted heavily against pale skin, his hair growing long and unruly, and his body slimming, losing the definition it once had. And even though Satoru and Shoko would seemingly take his lazy excuses at face value when they asked, you were certain that you all knew how the raven-haired boy had something eating away at him.

Then Haibara died, and a hefty state of mourning took over the campus.

You watched as Nanami would have these flashes of anger, seeing several moments of barely contained rage and sadness. You understood his emotions deeply. You felt gutted. There was a part of you that always felt like you built a family within Jujutsu Tech, that these were your people and you cared deeply for each and every single one of them.

You remember the tears you shed silently in your room the night you found out. Remembering the handful of outings you, Suguru, Shoko, Satoru, Nanami, and Haibara went on. Several afternoons and evenings were filled with goofing off... just living life, feeling like normal high schoolers.

He was so young...

You didn't have it in you to go to the morgue to see his body, you weren't sure you could stomach the sight of it all. You knew Suguru went with Nanami, the two of them didn't talk much that day.

You tried to be as supportive as you could. You couldn't stomach the thought of seeing another one of your beloved friends fall, so you tried to be there. There were times you tried talking to Suguru, during the one-off chances you got to be alone with him for a brief couple of moments, but he would brush you off gently, giving you reassurances that you knew were nothing more than poorly constructed lies.

You wanted to be there. But what could you do? As much as it pained you to see him struggle, it's hard to help someone who wasn't ready for it.

You sighed softly.

But Satoru on the other hand of it all, his response was exactly what you expected, and if you were an outsider you would honestly have thought that he was completely unaffected by it all.

His normal demeanor was the same as always, carrying himself around with a lax and carefree attitude.

But, you second-years knew better.

Suddenly Satoru was pushing himself more and more, so much more than he normally did. You saw his determination tenfold and how there was this prominent need to push himself further to master his technique. You watched on as he managed to figure out how to manipulate his Infinity to discern levels of danger, automatically at that. His struggle to use Red was no more, mastering it to a tee and now proudly showing off the fact he was able to utilize the Reverse Cursed Technique as well.

He rose above everyone else so quickly, at such an alarming rate, it left many of you in the dust when it came to strength-

He truly had become the strongest.

But you knew, this all developed from deep-rooted frustration.

You could see as plain as day that he took what happened to Amanai and himself as a hard-hitting failure and a sign of weakness. And he wanted to make sure that it would never happen again.

But as a direct result of his intensive training and remarkable improvements, you got to accompany him on missions less and less, meaning he was away a lot more often than he usually was.

He often went alone returning with an earful of stories the moment he reunited with you, talking about what weak first grade he had to obliterate that day. Talking with exaggerated hand gestures and dramatic delivery as you would laugh at his antics, munching on whatever sweet treat he picked up on his way back to share with you.

At least they had today to take it easy, you thought to yourself. You hoped that they would utilize this opportunity to do something fun to add some color to their life. Especially for Suguru, maybe Satoru or Shoko decided to drag him out somewhere, the thought made you smile for a moment as you took a sip of your tea.

Yeah, a day off for both of them was definitely needed. They deserved to feel like normal people again... even if it was just for a day.

BANG BANG BANG

A loud banging on your door had you jolting and letting out a soft squeak as you nearly spilled your half-cold tea all over your lap. You scramble to set the mug aside on your coffee table at you hurriedly rise to your feet, sliding on your slippers as the knocking begins to grow a bit more restless.

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG "Coming!" you called out, hoping the knocking would finally cease. You swallowed your annoyance, trying to find it within you not to curse out whoever was at the door for giving you a scare as just a few gentle knocks would have sufficed.

You approach your front door and your fingers reach out and wrap around the doorknob, twisting and pulling.

"Satoru?" you blinked, your voice laced with surprise when you opened the door and were greeted with the sight of him.

It wasn't that strange for him to show up unannounced, he did it all the time and you were more than accustomed to the habit. No, what confused you was the fact that he was soaked as if he had been caught in the rain. His hair was matted down, his clothes clinging to his body as waterdrops dripped from his skin.

He didn't have his Infinity activated. Something was clearly wrong.

“Hey—are you okay—” you started, cutting yourself off with a gentle 'hmph!' when Satoru suddenly pulled you into him wordlessly. Your clothes dampened from his own soaked ones and normally you would curse the life out of him for something like this, but you made sure to hold your tongue, knowing very well now wasn't the time for that.

He held you tightly in his arms, and you could feel the shivering of his body against your own, likely from the cold wind nipping at his body from being out in the rain for who knows how long.

You frown, letting him hold you for a few seconds longer before gently patting his back, indicating for him to ease up his hold. You can feel him hesitate, giving you one last gentle squeeze before pulling away. You take the opportunity to close the door behind him, locking it and glancing up at him wordlessly before walking further into your apartment, inviting him further in.

"You're going to catch a cold..." you sigh out loud, moving hurriedly to your dresser, first fetching a towel and tossing it to him, which he catches with ease. He still doesn't speak and it bothers you deeply. The Satoru you were used to had no off switch, he could talk aimlessly for hours without a care. But this unnerving silence, the way it was so blatantly evident that something was bothering him and he wasn't even trying to cover it up— it was strange.

You open up one of your drawers, fetching out one of his shirts and joggers that the two of you agreed to keep in your room given how often he decided to stay over. Closing your drawer, you hold them delicately and make your way back over to Satoru, watching as he dried his hair, his gaze lowered to your floorboards.

"When you're done drying yourself, change into these... I'll get you something warm to drink and then we'll talk, okay?" You murmur softly, handing him the change of clothes, a gentle sympathetic smile on your face as you place a reassuring hand on his arm.

He nodded simply, leaving your side and heading into your bathroom, sliding the door shut behind him. You sigh softly, allowing your smile to drop to a frown as you immediately busy yourself by putting together a cup of hot chocolate. You grabbed a mug from your cupboard, poured in the hot chocolate powder as you heated up some milk, and reluctantly dropped two sugar cubes into the mug, knowing that Satoru would comment on it if you didn't.

As you are pouring in the milk, you hear the sound of your bathroom door sliding open once more, causing your eyes to flicker away. Satoru emerges, looking a little more put together than before, his hair was a ruffled mess but at least he was wearing dry clothes.

"You can hang them by the heater..." you say to him softly, eyes flickering down to the damp clothes that were in his hands while you stirred together the milk, sugar, and hot chocolate powder.

He does just that, gently laying out his clothes before sauntering over to your bed and sitting on top of the plush covers. You follow suit, fingers gently holding the handle of the mug, you walk over to him, leaning down to hand him the warm drink.

He musters up what looks like a weak smile, and you whisper a soft 'you're welcome' before pulling away and moving to go sit back in your beanbag—

But a gentle hand grabs your wrist.

And you meet his gaze.

His normally bright cerulean eyes are dulled down. He looks tired, and there's this specific look on his face— you don't like it—he looks so worn down.

He gently tugs on your arm and you immediately understand. Wordlessly, you sit down next to him on the bed. His free hand laces with yours and you give him a gentle squeeze, watching as he takes a sip of the hot chocolate, a soft sigh leaving his lips from the warmth.

He's running his thumb along your knuckles, lips tugging down into a frown as his eyebrows furrow.

A moment of silence passes.

"Suguru's defected" Satoru finally speaks, his voice devoid of any emotion, it's light, quiet in volume but the words have a sharp edge to them. They hang in the hair for a second, five, then ten—

"What?" you say incredulously, sounding more like a statement rather than a question. It's the only word your mind can conjure, your eyebrows furrowing, wondering if you heard him correctly, wondering if this was one of Satoru's sick pranks that simply went too far.

"He killed an entire village, he killed his parents— I went and saw him, there was this look of indifference on his face like it was nothing to him..." Words started to spill from his lips the more he spoke, not being able to stop since he started, "I wanted to stop him, I knew I had to, he would kill more, I could see it in his eyes but I—" "Satoru please slow down—" you tried to interject watching as he was getting more and more worked up with each word he spoke. His leg was bouncing rapidly and the hold he had on your hand was starting to become a little painful. His gaze was straight ahead, boring into the wall with this thousand-yard stare. He look petrified.

"But I couldn't, and he knew I wouldn't, he taunted me the bastard essentially telling me to go ahead and just pull the fucking trigger but I-" His voice broke and his eyes screwed shut, his head swinging down as his lips began to tremble. "I couldn't, (Y/N), I couldn't do it"

Then you see it.

Cascading down his cheek...

...along his pale skin...

...collecting at his jaw...

...dripping onto his freshly changed shirt...

A tear.

Your heart broke.

"I mean how could I...?" he laughs bitterly, "I'm not that heartless, am I?" he continues to laugh, a sorrowful sight as more tears begin to leave his eyes.

"I knew- we all knew something was wrong. And I tried... I swear I tried. But the fucker just wouldn't talk to me" his smile is wobbly, his bottom lip continuing to tremble and he bites down on it, a huff of air leaving his nose as he tries to still himself.

You truly didn't know what to say.

This simply was too much. You had never seen Satoru so vulnerable before. You had never seen him cry. And beyond that, you were still reeling from the news he brought to you. Your mind was running at a million miles per hour, searching for something, anything to say. Begging that somehow the right words that would heal everything would appear and leave your mouth.

But you drew a blank. So silently, you remove the mug from his hand, setting it on the coffee table next to your long-forgotten cup of tea, and slowly, you wrap your arms around him and hold him close. Hoping that maybe something as childish and as simple as a hug would provide some measly sense of comfort for him.

He breaks.

He's pulling you into his lap, arms tight around your waist and he shoves his face into your neck, stifling his emotions. His breathing is ragged and he's stuttering out nonsense as he tries to find his voice again but fails pathetically.

You felt your entire being shatter at the sight of your best friend being so broken, "This is not your fault, Satoru" you finally whisper, your own voice cracking, wondering if what you said was the right thing to say. "Like you said... you tried, we all tried- we wanted to help him, we really did-" A soft sob leaves your lips at the end of your sentence and the two of you just hold onto each other tighter.

"We can't save those who don't want to be helped.." you resolve, your hand gently running up and down the expanse of his clothed back.

You didn't know what more to say, what could you say at a time like this? Were there any right words? You were still reeling from your own emotions, you didn't know what to make of it all, and you simply felt devastated.

So the two of you sit there, silently crying in each other's arms, mourning over the fact that you lost another one of your friends. Wondering what you both could have done differently, wondering how you could have let Suguru fall so low?

"Stay with me tonight..?" he suddenly speaks again, his voice slightly hoarse as he continues to cling to you tightly.

"Of course..." You whisper back to him, not missing a beat as you attempt to wipe away your tears.

Eventually, the two of you move, making your way underneath the covers of your bed, lying on your side and facing each other. He brought you back to his chest, engulfing you in his arms wordlessly, allowing the two of you to fall into silence for just a few moments.

"Do you remember that mission we had together a couple months ago? The one where we thought we'd be going up against Grade Two Curses" he starts, voice nothing more than a hushed whisper that if you hadn't been so close to him, you may not have heard him. "Yeah, and it turned out to be Grade One's instead..." you whisper back, briefly recalling your annoyance over the misinformation that you and Satoru were given at the time.

He lets out a soft chuckle and you feel you've earned yourself a small victory. "That's the one..." he trailed off, letting out a shaky breath before continuing to speak, "we decided to wander about for a bit afterward... and we just- watched the sunset together and talked," he said, his hands trailing up your back to begin playing with the ends of your hair and a soft smile graces your lips at the action.

"Yeah, I remember that" you murmur, recalling the fond memory as you leaned into his chest a little more.

"So-" he begins, cutting himself with a shaky sigh, "...You don't plan on going anywhere, right?" his voice breaks again, and your ears perk up, realizing he was mimicking those exact words he spoke to you that day.

And you're unsure if this is a narrative you're creating in your head, but you realize at that moment that Satoru was just as terrified as you were.

As selfish as it felt, you realized that he also was afraid of losing more people. That there was a part of him that also didn't know if he could stand to watch as another person slipped through his fingers.

That maybe, he was afraid of potentially losing you just as you were scared shitless of losing him.

You felt something stir within you, an emotion that you couldn't quite place as you processed your own thoughts.

"I promise you... you're stuck with me" you say with teary eyes, mimicking your exact answer to him from that evening. You feel his body tremble and he just holds you tighter, the next few words he speaks coming out shaky and strained.

"...Thank you..."

☆~~~~☆~~~~☆

A/N: well if you read "Ghost of You" - if you know- you know :P But that is the 2nd and final prequel/addition to the Ghost of You story. I wanted to write these two parts as I thought it would help bring more meaning to the story and that it would also offer a bit more of a deep dive into the dynamic that Satoru and the Reader had, and it'll help sort of justify Satoru's reactions and emotions during the story. But thank you guys for the love and support on this fic! It did so much better than I ever thought it would! I have a few drafts of drabbles that I have been preparing to post but I hope you guys will stick around and see some of the new works I will be posting. Thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed it!!

Taglist: @hyori2 @kalulakunundrum @smolbeanzzz @numblytemporary @satxoru

#gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jjk gojo #gojo satoru #gojou satoru x reader #jjk x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #gojo #satoru gojo #gojo x y/n #gojo x you #jujustsu kaisen x reader

164 notes · View notes

miss-fanfictions · 1 year ago

Text

Sundays at the Library | Part Two

Part One

Pairing] Spencer Reader x glasses wearing! shy! librarian! fem!Reader

Synopsis] Despite Spencer's best efforts to keep you his Sunday solace, you become all he can think about.

Warnings] Gruesome descriptions of typical CM gore, references to sex, Spencer's POV, insecure/anxious reader, poetry excerpts, like 3k of Spencer pining over reader (sorry not sorry), tech stuff I know nothing about

Word Count] 14.1k

Author's Note] These are links to the poetry from this part: "Your laughter", "The Insect", "And because love battles". Though I use important excerpts, I would highly recommend reading these because I reference them throughout. Sorry to make you do homework but I promise it's cute bc Spencer is falling in love through poetryyyy.

Spencer spent four days in Seattle, but he would be lying if he said that was the only reason he didn’t get to finish all ten of his library books by Sunday.

He read one book last Sunday evening while sipping tea on his couch and then he read two of them a day from Monday to Wednesday in between his work hours. Early Thursday morning Penelope rallied the troops to the conference room to explain that they were going to Seattle because four women had been found butchered. No case was easy exactly, but this one was especially hard. The women were found in horrific states, cannibalism was suspected, and Spencer was in charge of doing the geographic profile. The problem was the unsub was very criminally sophisticated and it seemed like he had no comfort zone, so Spencer was struggling. To top it all off, one of the victims' mothers had broken down wailing in the police station, right in front of Spencer’s map, begging for someone to find her daughter's killer. . . and the rest of her remains.

Spencer had nothing he could say to the poor mother. JJ ended up trying to comfort her, old instincts from her liaison days kicking in. He went back to his hotel room that night and cried. It’d been a while since he cried on a case, a few months or so, but it happened every so often with bad ones, mostly children. So he let himself cry on the loveseat in the corner for a few minutes before taking a shower, putting on some soft PJs, and crawling under the covers of his double bed. For a while he stared into the ceiling picturing the map, the circles he drew, and the pins he placed on it. Half the pins marked an abduction site and the other half signified where a body was found. If he concentrated too hard, he could see the bodies in the morgue: their blue lips, sheet like skin, the carved out flesh.

Most people would assume there was no downside to an eidetic memory, but Spencer knew there was. He could remember every horrendous, gruesome detail of a crime scene, a victim's injuries, an unsub’s taunts. It all haunted him, swimming around in his vision and fogging his brain when he wanted peace. Reading helped because it kept his brain busy and his head clear. When he couldn’t take the horror anymore, Spencer leaned over the side of the bed to his go-bag on the floor.

Inside was a couple outfits, sleepwear, his usual toiletries, and a few of his library books. He wasn’t sure how much time he would have, so he brought all three of his unread ones. When Spencer unzipped the bag, he remembered he brought four borrowed books. The Poetry of Pablo Neruda sat atop the rest of his clothes and books. It must have floated to the top as Spencer rooted through the bag for his comfiest pajamas. He hesitated to bring it up onto the bed, thumbing the curling corners, but eventually took it into his lap.

Spencer wanted to read the book as soon as he got home from the library. He actually almost blew a stop sign he was in such a rush, which Spencer never did because he was a very careful driver. Some—Derek—would call him too careful, but there wasn’t such a thing as too careful. However because he was so reckless and excited, Spencer couldn’t bring himself to read the book. It was too distracting, too enticing—he couldn’t allow himself the pleasure of it because it would consume him. Already you were nagging his thoughts, distracting him from his day, his job, and he had to curb it somehow. He certainly couldn’t feed into it by reading the book you gave him. So, he decided he would wait until Saturday to read it so you would continue to just be his solace on Sundays.

But Spencer wanted a distraction, he needed one really, and he wanted it to be you. He opened the book and immediately smiled as he was met with your handwritten notes in pink pen ink. He couldn’t explain why the loops and lines were so you, but they were, and it only made it easier for him to hear them in your gentle whisper.

Spencer read 20,000 words per minute, but he read close to three per minute as he combed through the poems and your little comments and analyses. He savored them as much as he could, because he could only read them for the first time once and never again would they be so fresh and sweet. Every other line his heart would flutter and his breath would pause as he searched between the stanzas and in the margins for your own reactions.

Pablo Neruda wrote some powerful political poetry in support of the Communist Party in Chile, but it was only a sliver of the book's poems. The rest of the pages consisted of beautiful and heartbreaking romance poems. As he read them, he thought of you. Because you’d given him the book, of course, and it was your thoughts scrawled out on the page right alongside Neruda’s. In his drowsy head, the words merged, printed black and scribbled pink swirling, and suddenly the woman Neruda was talking about was you. You were the woman he longed to forget, but would forever plague him. You were the woman made for his arms, his kisses, his soul. Your body was the journey his hands itched to make.

But Spencer couldn’t think that of you. When his eyes would glaze and your image would appear on paper, he blinked quickly and rubbed his eyes raw. It was wrong to think of you like that because you were an acquaintance—a friend at best. He had no right, even if you’d given him the book. He thought then about why you’d given him the book. Sure, it was because he reached his check out limit and could always read more, but why had you given him this book? It was clearly a favorite by how worn and full of notes it was, but the notes were your deepest thoughts on love. Obviously he would consider you as he read them.

He tried not to though, he really did, until he came across “Your Laughter.” Upon its title alone your giggle echoed in his ears and he leaned closer to the lamp light to read it unobstructed.

“My struggle is harsh and I come back with eyes tired at times from having seen the unchanging earth, but when your laughter enters it rises to the sky seeking me and it opens for me all the doors of life.”

Perhaps he had imagined those other women Neruda wrote about as you, but this was you. Your laughter gave him life, comfort, and he was starting to think he couldn’t be without it. Every stanza solidified it in his mind that he loved your laugh, that he would take it over bread or air, because in the dim library it stole him away from the world and relieved his burdens, if just for a moment. He finally fell asleep in the early hours of the morning with the page open on his chest.

—

On Friday morning Spencer woke with you on his mind, and that couldn’t happen. He had to banish you from his head, lock your memory away in a deep, dark vault just to get his work done, because every time he saw a flower, or a book, or even heard a laugh, he was thinking of a line from The Poetry of Pablo Neruda and you were that poetry. He had to stuff the book at the bottom of his go bag and swear off it until the case was finished—and he did. He redirected his entire focus back to his map, pins, and circles.

But every night when he went back to the hotel, depressed and exhausted, he sought the book out and found comfort in your words. He fell asleep to them and dreamt your thoughts, then woke up in the morning to you clouding his mind and he had to lock you away again to stay focused.

He was successfully able to rid you from his thoughts at work until Sunday when he woke up antsy at the idea you were in a different state. He tried again to concentrate solely on the case, but when his watch rolled over to 11 he got stuck staring at it, thinking about what you were doing on the other side of the country. It was already 2pm in Virginia due to the different time zones. He wondered what you were thinking. Did you stand at the desk, perched over it for the best view of the front doors? Were you also sad when the hour hand crept slowly passed 11 on the grand clock above the door and he did not walk in? Maybe you didn’t care and the day continued as normal. Or maybe you were only upset he was not promptly returning your book. He thought if only he solved the case faster he wouldn’t have to wonder.

He shook his head, shaking you away, then focused back on the map. Not more than 20 minutes later he solved it thanks to a call from Garcia about a fifth missing woman fitting the victimology. When he added a pin to her abduction site, he found the pattern, the comfort zone, and the unsub. He gathered up the map to present his findings to Hotch, to show him where he knew the secondary location had to be, and just like that the police station was bustling with a new vigor.

They wrapped up the case late Sunday evening. They put away a monster and were able to give that grieving mother and three others closure on what happened to their daughters. That night, a woman went home to her family and Spencer returned to his hotel room, gathered his belongings, and rushed to the jet. He’d never been more ready to get back to Virginia because as exhausted and relieved as he was, he was also sad. He shouldn’t have been, but he was, because 11am came and went in a police station and not in the library ten minutes from his apartment. You’d called him so reliable and he missed it. He should have warned you about his unpredictable hours, he realized, but now he was just anxious to explain himself. He didn’t want to be the unreliable man leaving a trail of disappointment and broken promises, it was so much like his father the thought made him shiver.

He was so quick to the jet he beat Hotch and JJ, who were always prompt to get back to their kids. She eyed him as he bounced on his heels, checking his watch. It was nearly 9:30pm which meant they would arrive in the early morning anyway. He would return to his apartment and sleep, hopefully for a while, because the library wouldn’t be open for hours. But Spencer bounced with anxiety because he was late and he hated being late. All he did was think and he was overthinking. He hoped you weren’t.

“Spence?” He realized JJ’s eyes were on him. She had her usual concerned expression, knitted brows and tilted head. “You okay?”

He nodded because he was okay, technically. There was nothing really wrong. “Yeah, of course.”

She didn’t look entirely convinced, and by now Hotch was watching their exchange. “Are you sure? You look a little. . . stressed.”

She wouldn’t give it up then. “No, I just sort of had plans today I missed. I had to return some library books and I don’t like to be late,” he explained, hoping it would soothe her worries. It wasn’t a lie. . . maybe a bit of a half truth, but his weekends were meant to be his and he wasn’t obligated to talk at length about his personal life.

JJ scoffed, checking her phone as she relaxed, calmed by his explanation. Hotch’s eyes swept back across the street, waiting for the others to arrive. “Well, you know better than to make plans. I missed date night with Will again.”

“That sucks,” Spencer hummed absentmindedly, eyes also watching down the road for the rest of the team.

It was approximately seven minutes later when their SUV pulled up and the six of them boarded the jet. The team took their usual seats, mostly in silence as Hotch did paperwork, Morgan listened to music, and the rest of the team tried to get some sleep. Spencer took the familiar couch at the back of the jet, but he didn’t curl up to sleep just yet. Instead he opened his go bag to the book he had packed away right at the top to ensure he brought it. A smile spread across his face unbeknownst to him as he took it into his hands. He brought his legs up onto the seat and leaned with his arm on the armrest and his head tucked into his elbow as he got comfortable. Unfortunately, he was used to folding himself up on the small couch, long limbs and all, but it was a good enough position to read in.

Spencer picked up where he left off reading slowly again, tasting the words as he mouthed them to himself alone. Every so often his silent recitation was interrupted by a quiet chuckle or a snort, because not only was your commentary deep but it was witty. Your takes on Neruda’s physical interest in love was so intriguingly sardonic he couldn’t hold back a laugh.

Spencer found one particular poem, “The Insect,” sensual until he spotted your jokes scrawled along the bottom near the page number.

“From your hips down to your feet I want to make a long journey. I am smaller than an insect. Over these hills I pass, hills the colour of oats, crossed with faint tracks that only I know, scorched centimetres, pale perspectives."

In your hasty, sloppy handwriting you responded:

“He better be adept at licking between those hills if he is smaller than an insect”

Spencer cracked a wide grin, stifling his laugh in his collar. Your humor, tucked between the pages of an unassuming book, was uninhibited by your meekness. He couldn’t help but think you would never say such a crude thing aloud, or maybe you would, and he only needed to know you longer to hear it from your lips. Neruda’s next stanza was even more lewd.

“Now here is a mountain. I shall never leave this. What a giant growth of moss! And a crater, a rose of moist fire!”

He followed a loopy arrow from the section of lines to your reply.

“Crater??? I suppose my razor bumps must be the stinging rocks that tearing out the moss uncovered”

Spencer snorted, wondering if you remembered writing those quips when you generously handed him the book. They weren’t abundant, most of your responses were scholarly thoughts or opinions on love, but he could see your mood ebb and flow throughout the poems, crossed out thoughts and new additions from when you reread and re-examine with fresh eyes and new ideas. When he got to the end of the poem, he could see how your tone had shifted.

“Sliding down to your feet I reach the eight slits of your pointed, slow, peninsular toes, and from them I fall down to the white emptiness of the sheet, seeking blindly and hungrily the form of your fiery crucible!”

Another arrow from the last word guided him to the next page where he assumed you added more thoughts after going back over the poem again.

“Neruda is only a man, so his metaphors of the body have to be expected. But his unrestrained desire and dedication is the important subtext. To make the journey long and slow and appreciate it all with unparalleled reverence? A girl might just have time to fall in love.”

Your interpretation of the poetry spoke volumes about your outlook on love. How you searched between the lines for the words unsaid, that between the carnal romance, you found desire and dedication. That was what you valued, as well as “time to fall in love.” The sentiment gave him pause because Spencer had a habit of. . . fixation. Spencer cared fast and deeply, and maybe that was too much for you. He would have to cool off, give you space, even if he was starting to want everyday to be Sunday.

“What’s so funny over here?”

Spencer looked up, tucking the book into his chest, startled by Derek suddenly standing right in front of him. “Nothing. Just. . . reading.”

Derek leaned down his head to see the title, eyebrows rising with a scoff. “The Poetry of Pablo Neruda?” He shook his head as he continued behind the curtain to the bathroom. “Only you would be laughing at poetry, pretty boy.”

Derek would laugh too if he took a look at your writings, but Spencer didn’t feel like sharing you. He went back to his reading and it took him about an hour to finish the book. The feeling of turning over the last page was hollow. Of course, he could remember every single word, could recite it backwards if he wanted to, he studied it so intently, but the feeling of reading it, of getting inside your head was over. He drifted to sleep with the book tucked into his arm, trying to hold onto that feeling just a little longer.

Rossi shook him awake when they landed. The sun wasn’t up yet and a glance at his watch told him it was only 5:30 in the morning. The team wasn’t expected back until Wednesday, so Spencer only dipped into the office to grab paperwork before he got into his car and drove back home to his apartment. Blasting the radio was the only thing that kept him awake while driving. He didn’t realize it when he first got on the jet, but his body and mind were exhausted. His limbs ached and his head was foggy. Once he got in the door he dropped his bag on the floor and slumped into his bed, drifting back off into deep sleep.

—

From the way the light filtered in through the blinds, the sun was arching high in the sky when Spencer finally woke up again. His eyes were practically crusted shut and his mouth was dry, all the moisture leaking out onto his face and bedspread. He rubbed a hand over his face as he sat up and stretched. The rest did him good. He had more energy, at least, and he didn’t feel like weights were attached to him. He sat there for a minute, just adjusting to the world, then his eyes drifted to his alarm clock. It was 12:43pm.

At once he jumped up from his bed, raiding his closet for a fresh pair of clothes. He didn’t mean to sleep in, he meant to be at the library early to explain himself. All he bothered to put on was a clean button up and slacks before he slipped on his converse and grabbed his keys. He stopped himself at the door when he remembered he was going to the library to return his books, so he swung back around to pick up the basket on his coffee table and grab The Poetry of Pablo Neruda from his go bag.

He jogged down the stairs to his car, breezing past his neighbor Mrs. Cavanaugh who greeted him kindly. Of course, he drove just as carefully as he normally did, using his turn signal, completely stopping at each stop sign, and maintaining the speed limit, all the while his fingers rapped the steering wheel. His parking job in the library lot wasn’t great, though if he was being honest it never really was, but he didn’t hang around long to admire its crookedness as he grabbed his basket and speed walked into the library.

It was comforting to be met with the familiar chill and paper air. A hand thoughtless combed through his hair as he took his time to walk down the rug to the front desk. He realized he didn’t put a comb through his hair before he left which meant it was definitely wild. He would have spent time being embarrassed about it if he looked over the counter and saw you, but he didn’t. In your chair was an elderly woman who squinted through her own glasses as she read a thick book she clutched in her wrinkly hands. She looked up and saw Spencer standing there, an unamused look on her face.

“Checking something in?” She asked in a smoker's voice.

“Oh, uh, yes,” Spencer floundered, surprised you weren’t there. He took your book from the top of the basket and then brought the rest up to the counter. The woman watched him as he pulled the books from the basket, an over plucked eyebrow raised. He had to dig around in his wallet for his library card too, but eventually set it on the counter to avoid the talons at her fingertips. She let out a sigh as she began scanning them.

Spencer tapped his fingers against the countertop, eyes roaming around the library. Was Monday your off day? He never asked. He actually didn’t know much about your personal life besides that you were in graduate school. Maybe you had classes today? He could come in again tomorrow. . . but was that weird? He wouldn’t have any books to check in, so he didn’t have any actual reason for coming in besides seeing you. Would you find that odd? That he sought you out? He didn’t want to wait until next Sunday to talk to you again.

Spencer looked back at the librarian as she cleared her throat. She finished checking in the books and slid back over his library card, but he was still just standing there. “Is there something else you need?” She asked and he whispered your name. “What?”

“I–I mean, is she working today?” Spencer clarified quickly. “The girl who is at this desk on Sundays?”

She blinked at him, leaning back in her chair and picking back up her book, a sharp finger turning the page. “She’s working.”

He nodded, gathering up his library card and basket and briskly walking away from the desk. With no additional clues as to where you were, he went to the second floor and began walking around. You had to be around there somewhere, eventually he would find you. He scanned the shelves as he walked, looking in the sciences for books that interested him, but he was too preoccupied looking over his shoulder for you walking by. Eventually he was fed up waiting for you to walk by and roamed the library just looking for you.

It took going to the fiction section to find you. He rounded the corner of a bookcase and saw you up on a ladder, arm full of books, the other busy nestling them into their places on the shelves. Your hair was done up and you wore a long, patterned skirt, but also a fitted long sleeve shirt. It hugged you like you hugged the books, and Spencer’s eyes trailed the outline of your figure illuminated by a gold halo from the window behind you. In over a week of not seeing you, Spencer didn’t forget a single detail of how you looked, but the feeling he got when he looked at you was new and invigorating.

He saw you in a new light, literally and figuratively. He knew some of your inner thoughts; each poem he read felt like a conversation. Maybe it was one way, but you read the book so many times perhaps it wasn’t. He hoped maybe you knew exactly what you were doing when you gave it to him, as if, in your own shy way, you were saying all those words to him.

A quiet gasp broke his train of thought and suddenly you were looking at him, turned on the ladder to see him at the end of the bookcase. “Spencer?” You looked surprised, caught off guard, and when you tried to scramble down the ladder clinging onto the books and nothing else, you tripped on your skirt and teetered on the foothold.

Spencer was next to you instantly, the basket sliding up his arm as he steadied you with a hand on your waist. You took hold of his other hand, delicate fingers wrapping tight around his palm, and slowly came down off the ladder. He let you go once you were on the floor again, unsure of what to do with his hands warmed by the feel of you.

“Thank you, I was really trying not to twist my ankle falling off that again,” You smiled nervously, embarrassed, and looked down at the books you held against yourself.

“Again?” Spencer asked, brows quirking up, lips twisting into a smile. Not only were you shy, but you were klutzy. He wasn’t sure which made you more endearing.

“Oh yeah. I was laid up for a week after falling off a three foot ladder. Now I don’t reach so far out,” you explained, finally chancing a look up at him and finding his eyes already on you.

“I got shot in the knee once. I was on crutches for five months, two weeks, and five days and I hated pretty much every second of it,” he blurted out, and to his delight you breathed out a quiet laugh.

“Well you’ve got my twisted ankle beat,” You shrugged at him. He chuckled in reply, and slowly the conversation faded away. He had so much to say to you, to explain, but it disappeared from his mouth when he stood in front of you. Suddenly he felt self-conscious. He wondered if you thought about him even half as much as he thought about you. Finally, your voice came out in the softest whisper. “I didn’t know if you were going to come back. . .”

“I was in Seattle,” like a dam burst, at last his words came rushing out. “I travel for work a lot and I’ve been in Seattle since Thursday. I only got back this morning.”

He searched your face for your reaction but your eyes were unreadable. “You just got back from a four day work trip across the country and the first thing you do is go to the library?” He couldn’t tell whether you were weirded out or not. Normally your emotions were all over your face and he read it just like a book, but suddenly you snapped it shut.

“No. Well—yes, kind of. . .” When you only continued to look at him, he felt the need to keep talking. “I had to return the books, y’know? And. . .” He searched your eyes for an indication to stop or keep going, but they were only pools of hope with borders of acetate. “You called me reliable—before, I mean—and I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t. I didn’t have any way to contact you either to let you know I wasn’t going to come in so I just. . . came here as soon as I could.”

The meekest of smiles lifted the corners of your lips and Spencer nearly let out a sigh of relief. “I guess it’s silly, but I was a little sad when you didn’t come in. I thought I really messed it up, and that sucked because it gets kind of boring in here without a genius FBI agent to be surprised by,” you shrugged, finger tapping along a hardcover book in your arms. Spencer opened his mouth to reassure you that you didn’t do anything wrong, but you continued. “I think it’d be better for both of us if we had a way to contact each other—so you can warn me of course! When work has you too busy to come in.”

Spencer stood in front of you for a few seconds, processing what you were saying. Then you inclined your brows at him and he scrambled to get his phone from his pocket. “Oh, right. You can just put your number in and I will, uh, text you.”

You struggled to adjust the books in your arms to get a free hand, so Spencer set the basket down and offered his help to take them. “Oh, thank you,” you mumbled, passing the books into his long arms and taking his phone. As you thumbed in the numbers, Spencer turned to the shelves and began putting the books in their rightful places. You furrowed your brows at him, mouth falling open. “Oh, Spencer, you don’t have to do that.”

“I’d like to help.” He gave you a smile over his shoulder and went back to fingering over the spines to find the correct placement.

“Thank you then. Just. . .” Your head craned outside the end of the bookcases, glancing either way before walking back to the trolley that carried the books that needed reshelving. “Don’t let Mrs. Wilson see you. I think she’d actually fire me.”

“Mrs. Wilson?” Spencer questioned, brows creasing. “The woman at the desk today?”

You just gathered another armful of books from the trolley when your head snapped back to Spencer, then glanced between him and then the nearly empty basket on the floor, worried. “Oh my God, she checked your books back in. She didn’t say anything mean to you, did she? Nasty little comments are her specialty.”

Spencer took more books from the cart, his eyes glued to you as you scaled the ladder again. “No. She wasn’t exactly friendly either, but she didn’t say anything mean.” You wiped fake sweat off your brow. “Is she your boss?”

“Kinda, yeah. Technically I’m a library aid, but I do pretty much everything she does as the librarian,” you said, voice dry and tired with annoyance. “Actually I do everything she’s supposed to do besides berate people for late books, that’s her favorite pastime. Most of the day she manages the desk while I do everything else. I only work the desk Sunday because that’s her off day. I’m pretty sure she spends it at church because she’s always telling me I should be going.”

He glanced at you as you talked, continuing to organize the books. It was the most he ever heard you talk, and he was starting to hear the same voice he heard on the margins of The Poetry of Pablo Neruda. “I’m glad I came in on Sunday then,” he said. He likely never would have met you if he didn’t come in on Sunday, what with you rushing around doing all the other day to day library duties. That meant there was a 1/7, or 14% chance of him meeting you at the library the way he did. He didn’t even want to think about how slim the chance of him meeting you was after also factoring in the other libraries in the area he could have visited.

“I’m glad you did too.” You smiled over at him, shelving your last book and carefully heading back down the ladder. “She never would have let you check out all those books at once.”

He quickly placed the remaining book in his hand on the shelf, joining you at the trolley as you divided up the last of the books left. “So, if she’s so mean and awful at her job, why don’t you report her?”

You paused, eyes going distant and your shoulders slighting curling in on yourself. “I could report her to the director I guess, but. . .” You only considered it for a moment before collecting the books and spinning away down the bookcase with a shake of your head. “I don’t see the point. She’s just a grouchy old woman. It’s not like I can’t handle it. I think the reason she hates me so much is because she thinks I’m going to replace her.”

Spencer eyed your body language and shift in tone. It was the confrontation that scared you, he realized. He saw it before with Todd and now with Mrs. Wilson and the director. You didn’t stand up to her or advocate for yourself because of some self conscious doubt or fear of rejection. Sure, Mrs. Wilson might be mean and a bit scary, but that shouldn’t mean you have to deal with her blatant disrespect. He wanted to give you some encouragement, but seeing your reaction to his question—the way you curled in on yourself to protect yourself from the discomfort just considering reporting her gave you—made him not want to push you, so he finished putting the books in the bookcase.

“If you say so. I'm just sorry you don’t get along with your coworker. I feel like my team at the BAU is my family and I couldn’t imagine it any other way,” he confessed. His only real family was his mom, but he felt it wasn’t appropriate to talk about her just yet. Although he did feel like the team was also his family, so it felt right to talk about them.

You hummed, a dreamy look on your face. “That’s nice. It makes sense too, since you all have to trust each other with your lives, don’t you?” You brought your bottom lip between your teeth suddenly, hesitating to look at Spencer. “I um, I looked up what the BAU was the other day because I wanted to know what you did exactly. It just said you created “profiles” of serial killers, but it didn’t mention field work.” You slotted onto a shelf the last book in your hands, fidgeting with your fingers as they became idle, eyes wandering back and forth between him and the floor. “I was just thinking if. . . are you in danger often? You didn’t seem very scared of that guy the other day—obviously he’s not nearly as scary as a serial killer, but you also said you got shot in the knee?”

Spencer held back a smile because you seemed upset, but the fact that you took the time to look up what he did and worried about him made his stomach swirl in a way which was more pleasing than nauseating. “Field work is a part of my job, yes. We profile serial killers and other criminals, but we also help the local police catch them. I’ve had other injuries besides getting shot in the knee, too. So, yes, often it can be a very dangerous job.” It also felt wrong to bring up Tobias Hinkel, the trauma Spencer experienced, and the path it led him down. Maybe at a later time he could bring it up, but now he was more comfortable recounting exactly the amount of times he’d been shot at and every injury he’d gotten on the job from being punched to poisoned. Spencer did none of that though, because your face became sickly and your brows knitted so tight with concern he thought they might merge together. “I’m always okay though! I trust my team and we all keep each other safe. I wear a bulletproof vest to protect my vital organs and I carry a gun, so I’m kind of hard to kill.”

You crossed your arms, nodding as you calmed down from the worry. Spencer wondered if you were also an anxious person, it would make sense since you were so concerned about him and his job. It was a dangerous job, sometimes in the moment Spencer dismissed the probabilities that he could actually die, but it was always possible despite his experience, knowledge, and skills. Unlikely, but possible. “It’s a really good thing your coworkers have your back then,” you joked, but it was weak and Spencer could tell you were still unsettled.

He wanted to calm you down, because there wasn’t anything to be worried about. He was good at his job, safe, and he always ran all the probabilities and took the best course of action. Most importantly, he always had a thorough and accurate profile, which Gideon always said was the deadliest weapon he could have. You didn’t need to worry about him despite the danger. “‘What more can they tell you? I am neither good nor bad but a man, and they will then associate the danger of my life, which you know and which with your passion you shared,’” he recited. Your head tilted as you took in his words, an excitement of realization slowly filling up your face. “‘And good, this danger is danger of love, of complete love for all life, for all lives.’”

“‘And because love battles’, Pablo Neruda,” you named it. Spencer was right when he assumed you read it several times because you had it memorized enough to spot it. “That poem is about fighting for and defending his love despite his past and what others have to say about it—not the danger of having standoffs with murderers.”

“Yes, but I can repurpose it. I do this job despite the danger because I love people. I love helping them, saving them. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. If I don’t catch the murderers, who will?” He explained, trying to show you that this job was just a part of him, however dangerous it was, he could handle it. “I know it can be scary, but trust me when I tell you that I’m good at what I do. There aren't any people out there better at this job than my team. You don’t have to worry.”

You plucked at the ends of your sleeves, thinking on what he told you. The seconds ticked by and he resorted to examining your body language, how your shoulders were even and between them your chest rose and fell at a steady pace. Your face was placid too, until it warped with a playful smile and you stepped closer to him. The breath left his lungs in an exhale. “So. . . you did finish The Poetry of Pablo Neruda?” He took air in again with a chuckle. Teasing him must have meant you felt reassured. “You must have been distracted being so good at your job that your interpretation was off, because that’s not at all what that quote means.”

Spencer took a step towards you, his long legs almost closing the gap of space between your bodies before you scrambled back a step. “Oh, I know what you think of that poem. I know exactly what you think of all Neruda’s poems, since you spelled it out for me.”

Your hands came back to the front of you, fidgeting with your fingers as you avoided the intensity of his eyes, face warming with embarrassment. “You read all my notes?” How could he not? Surely, you must have known he would.

“Of course I did. I thought it was all very insightful,” he said, and because he couldn’t help himself, he continued. “Especially all your little jokes. What did you have to say about ‘The Insect’? ‘He better be adept at licking—’”

“Spencer!” You squealed, certainly disturbing anyone who was in the surrounding rows of bookcases. Your hands rushed to cover your face. “I didn’t—You weren’t—oh my God!”

Spencer laughed at your suffering, taking sadistic pleasure in it only for a few moments before he gently pulled your hands from your face by your arms. “It’s okay. I thought they were all very funny. You’re very funny.”

It was harder for you to shake off the embarrassment. You carefully removed your wrists from his hands to wring them. “I didn’t think you were even actually going to read it.”

Spencer’s brows twitched into a furrow, puzzled as to why you thought he wouldn’t read the book you gave him. “Why not? I like poetry.”

You shrugged. “I–I don’t know, I just definitely didn’t expect for you to memorize it and everything I said.”

“I have an eidetic memory,” he countered, knowing he would remember everything you ever wrote and said to him. “And some of that stuff is pretty hard to forget anyway.”

You whined, mortified. “Yeah, I’m starting to realize what that means.”

There was a pause between you and Spencer, because you were embarrassed and he wasn’t sure why. Having someone read your private thoughts is vulnerable and flustering, but you gave him the book. You must have known he would agonize over your every word, but your reaction said you didn’t. Spencer couldn’t help but feel he was reading too far into things, his obsessive, addictive personality sending him spiraling down a hole of a relationship he dug all on his own. You didn’t think about him as much as he did you; you didn’t read into the things he did and search for more meaning.

“Do you need more books?”

“Huh?”

He was staring into your face thinking hard, but you snapped him back out of it. “You finished reading all your books right?” You repeated.

“No, I only read seven of them,” he thought aloud.

“What? What happened to Mr. 20,000 words per minute?” The shyness fled you slowly as you turned again to teasing him. It was cute, but it also flustered Spencer, because he definitely couldn’t tell you he didn’t finish his other books because he spent all his time scrutinizing every word both you and Pablo Neruda wrote.

“I–I told you I was in Seattle for four days. I didn’t have time to finish them because I was busy.” It was a lame excuse because he definitely did have enough time, he just spent it reading the book you gave him because it comforted him better than any other book could.

You hummed, tapping your fingers along your forearm. “Okay, well, you should look for some more books. I have to get back to work or the library’s going to collapse without me. So, um, text me?”

He got whiplash from your sudden goodbye. “Y–Yeah, of course. I’ll see you next week right?”

“Of course,” you repeated, throwing him a wave as you grabbed the handle of the trolley and started pushing it out of the aisle.

“Wait, don’t forget this.” Spencer stopped you as he picked his basket back up from the floor, plucking The Poetry of Pablo Neruda out of it to hand to you.

You took it with a grateful smile, setting it on the trolley. “Thank you, Spencer, I’ll have to give you more poetry book recommendations since clearly you liked this one so much.”

He watched you disappear around the corner and was immediately hit with everything he wanted to say to you, what he should have said, all the conversations he wanted to have had. It wasn’t enough. You’d taken a decent chunk of time out of your busy day to chat with him but it still didn’t satisfy him. Spencer wondered if there would ever be enough of you, or if he was now forever craving you, needing your words, your laugh, you entirely.

He resigned himself to looking around the library for new books to read. Every time he entered a new aisle, he looked for you, having hope you’d be there but you never were. Still, he took his time finding books, but once he had seven in his basket he made his way down to the front desk.

Of course, Mrs. Wilson was sitting there and she was just as pleased as she was before to see Spencer standing in front of her. She stood up as he began unloading the books onto the countertop.

“Seven books?” She croaked.

“Yes? I only have three out and the check out limit is ten,” he justified, pausing as he rummaged his wallet for his library card.

“I know the checkout limit. You can’t check out more than five books at once,” she hissed, clawing two books off the top of the stack and dropping them onto the cart behind her. Without missing a beat, she turned back and snatched up his library card from the counter and began scanning.

“Okay. . .” he mumbled, unsure how to respond. Obviously that wasn’t library policy, but he wasn’t interested in fighting with your coworker. All he needed was for her to dislike him. Well, dislike him more than the disdain she seemed to have for everyone.

When she finished scanning and checking the books out, she slapped his library card on top of the stack and sat back in her seat, picking up her book again without a word. Spencer took that as his sign to get lost and quickly gathered up his books in his basket and made for the exit. He looked back once more as he opened the double doors and turned back around as they shut behind him.

Spencer wiped down the books and his basket in his car, setting them both up snug in his passenger seat. He sat there for a moment, looking back at the library, then pulled out his phone. Like you said, your name had been added to his contacts, your full name. He bounced his leg as he considered sending you a message, but finally gave in and typed a simple one out.

- Hey, it's Spencer Reid.

Again, his leg bounced viciously as his fingers hovered over the buttons, sporadically typing out letters before deleting them. He even set it down before he picked it back up and hurriedly sent another message.

- Mrs. Wilson only let me check out five books.

He tossed his phone over into his passenger seat with a sigh. Spencer Reid did not text. It was strange, embarrassing, and not at all something he was used to. He felt the urge to call Garcia and even ask if he was doing it right. Was there even a right way to text? There had to be and he had no clue what it was. Constantly Garcia was bringing up internet language Spencer did not understand. What if you knew it and he didn’t? He almost went back into the library to research it on the computer.

But he had to go home. He hadn’t eaten yet and his stomach was starting to rumble and growl. There was a chinese place on the way home, he could stop by there and get takeout. It wasn’t the healthiest plan, but there wasn’t much at the apartment besides pasta. That meant he also had to go grocery shopping tomorrow. He sighed through his nose as he put the car in drive, only to immediately throw it back in park when he heard his phone chime. He lunged over the console to the passenger seat so quickly the seat belt locked up and he choked himself momentarily before he could unfasten it and snap up his phone from the seat. There was a text from you.

- When do you go back to work?

His brows creased, but he responded swiftly nonetheless.

- Wednesday. Why?

- That means you have to come in tomorrow at 11, that's her lunch break. I can check you out.:)

He was even more confused by the punctuation at the end of your sentence. He reread it thrice for any clues to the meaning before he tilted his head and saw a smiley face staring back at him. A laugh burst from him, shaking his chest. He could put off grocery shopping until later in the day tomorrow.

—

Spencer came into the library Tuesday at 11am promptly. You escorted him around the library as he found two more books, then you let him pick an additional two more to check out on your own library account. After picking out the books, sneaking to check him out at the front desk became the best covert op mission Spencer had ever done, and he actually had done quite a few. As you talked, Spencer recounted cases he worked on and taught you the lingo they used in the field. When you slunk behind the front desk, you actually whisper-screamed “Clear!” at him with a face so serious Spencer had to slap a hand over his mouth so he didn’t blow the whole operation by laughing in your face. Your head bobbed constantly for any sight of Mrs. Wilson, even though you told him she ate lunch at the diner down the street. Then you slid him the two extra books like the scandal was DEA investigation worthy. All the while, you and Spencer giggled like children.

You were a lot less worried now when he told you about the cases he worked on, he tended to leave out the really scary parts, but the idea of him chasing after armed murders didn’t terrify you as much anymore. You seemed to trust him and his skills more, likely because of his excellent performance during “Operation Paperback,” which was the code name you lovingly bestowed upon your mission to check Spencer out more books while Mrs. Wilson took what was most definitely not a smoke break. (You told him you were going to launch your own investigation into the cigarette butts you kept finding in the parking lot when he left now that you were a pro at “FBI stuff.”)

Spencer left the library with a giant grin on his face and it stuck with him even as he picked out his next week's worth of meals at the grocery store. He also planned when he would see you again and thought about all the things he wanted to talk to you about. Of course, he wanted to tell you about all the great things he did: his successes as an FBI agent, how he earned his PhDs, the time he hit the ball and ran the winning homerun for Derek’s baseball team. But he also wanted to tell you the darker parts of his life: his mother’s illness, how the job had traumatized him, his struggle with addiction. And he wanted to know so much more about you in kind.

Swiftly, it was no longer just Sundays he was visiting the library. He was dropping in after work and on the odd days he had off due to prolonged cases in other states. It took him less than a week to memorize your schedule. You had off on Fridays and Saturdays, and on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays you had classes. Of course, your classes were late after work on Monday and Wednesday, however they were early in the morning on Friday. The library hours were something he also saved in his mental rolodex. It had open hours all seven days of the week: 10am to 4pm on weekends and 11am to 7pm on weekdays. Spencer was leaving work on time for the first time in years to make it to the library before close.

Over the next couple weeks as he went to the library, he realized you spent a lot of time troubleshooting the computers. So when he came in he would either find a book to read or set himself up at an open computer near the one you were working on. He told you he was “researching” things for cases, but he didn’t really have to because anything he wanted to know he could have asked Garcia with her masterful skills and FBI grade software. He came to chat with you, listen to you complain about having to fix the computers so often because the local teens kept breaking them. Still, you were too timid to reprimand them or threaten to kick them out. In his job everyday there was always confrontation, everyone had to do it, so it was both confusing and sweet to him that you lacked the nerve to address people. He only wished you would stand up for yourself, because when you avoided confronting the problems it only ever gave you more labor.

You became much more comfortable with him though. You shared more thoughts openly, met his eyes more, and even shared things about yourself that seemed very personal. You told him about your parents, your friends, your quaint apartment, and some embarrassing stories of your childhood. As close as you both were becoming over the weeks, you refused to let him read any of the poems you wrote because “it's different when you read it than when strangers read it.” He couldn’t dream of it being bad. He wouldn’t even give criticism or comment on it, but still you wouldn’t let him. You did, however, let him read your interpretations and analyses of poetry and literature you were reading for your classes. He would finish scanning the texts in minutes, which you would whine and complain about taking hours doing as a slow reader, and then read your writings and give you his critiques. At first you were nervous and fidgety about it, would go quiet when he didn’t necessarily agree. Then, slowly, you became more argumentative, fighting him on whose perspective was correct. Spencer loved arguing with you, the way your face lit up when you thought you had him, and the pout of your lip when you conceded the genius maybe knew what he was talking about.

He handled five cases over the weeks he got to know you, during which he never used his phone more. He would be away for days at time and not be able to visit the library, so he resorted to texting you during the day and calling you from his hotel room in the evenings after you got home from classes, or just before you tucked yourself in for bed. Sometimes he talked about the cases, only giving you bits of information and keeping out the truly horrific things. Other times, he talked about his life. It was hard at first, telling you about the darkest parts of him, how he was far more complex than he originally led you to believe, then it became easy. You took it in stride, showing him an empathy he never knew he craved so deeply. You comforted him over the phone, or in the library, and assured him you didn’t see him any differently than before. Told him you were still his friend.

His friend. Of all the things you said to him while he was vulnerable, that one was the only one that wounded him. You were a great friend, truly, but Spencer was closer to the realization everyday he didn’t want to just be your friend. On the nights he wasn’t away on a case, when he entered his empty apartment and prepared himself dinner alone, he missed your voice. He wanted you there always, more than someone should want a friend. He never thought about Derek, or Penelope, or JJ the way he thought about you. His team was his family and he loved them, but the way he felt about you was another thing entirely. You consumed him at times. When he should be thinking about a case or chatting with one of the team, something reminds him of you and suddenly he’s stuck in a loop of thinking about what you were doing, thinking, feeling. He was distracted, and the worse part of it all was that his team was starting to notice.

Spencer tried to be discreet, but sometimes as he sent a text under his desk or hidden alone in a room Derek would catch him and he’d have to come up with a fast excuse. It always sounded defensive and not quite convincing because Spencer was not a very good liar. The rest of the team was catching him lost in thought, which wouldn’t be as damning if it didn’t happen so often. He cared for you so much he couldn’t help but think of you all day. He likely would never stop talking about either if he wasn’t hiding your existence from his team. At first it was because he tried to keep you very separate from his work life, like his job at the FBI didn’t have to exist when he was with you and therefore you did not exist when he was at work. But now you’d infiltrated his life completely and there was no possible way to keep you separate. He hid you now because well. . . he was embarrassed. Clearly he was obsessed with you, he couldn’t deny it anymore, but you didn’t feel the same way.

You were caring, kind, generous, empathetic, yes, but in love with him? Well you gave no indication you were. Often you would call him your friend, mention you were scared of relationships, and when he tried showing you he was interested in being more than your friend—getting closer to you, complimenting you, flirting with you—you got quiet and shied away, so he backed off. He wanted to be with you so desperately he put to use all the tips Derek had given him—the PG-13 ones at least—but none of it worked. Perhaps he wasn’t doing it right, or you just didn’t like him. He was trying hard to just settle with being just your friend.

“Oh my God, I hate this thing!” You hissed, slapping your hands over your face and groaning quietly into them.

“I’m guessing you tried turning it off and on again?” Spencer grinned. He pulled out the seat to the computer next to you, hanging the strap of his messenger bag on the chair behind him. Your eyes glared at him between your fingers.

“Don’t make me hate you too, Spencer. That never works.” Well then the problem went beyond his ability to fix. “I just don’t understand how they can get so many viruses on a computer? Everyday I’m blocking new websites.”

Computer six, which conveniently was the computer with the least visibility from the front desk, was almost always in need of fixing. Mainly because of a group of teens who would come in on the weekends or after school to play around on it. Constantly you were blocking the unsecure, often dangerous or pornographic websites they frequented. How they found them all, you could not fathom. You were fairly good at fixing the computer with all the time you’d spent doing it and all the tutorials you had to research, but were truly stuck. It was almost a week of the computer being down and you had no luck repairing it.

“You tried everything?” He asked, his smile dropping into a frown at your distress.

“Yes. I don’t know what to do anymore. Mrs. Wilson is on my ass about fixing it and she’ll never call the director to send someone to fix it because that costs money. And I’d have a better chance at winning the lottery than getting a new computer and I don’t even play.” You drug your hands down your face, shoulders slumped in defeat.

“I could get it fixed.”

You let out an unstifled laugh, which he would be happy to hear if you weren’t laughing at him. “Spencer, you suggested turning it off and on.”

“No, I mean I could ask someone to fix it. A member of my team, Penelope, is a technical analyst. She’s very good with computers and she could fix it.” He didn’t want to ask Garcia, actually the last thing he wanted to do was get his team involved, but he hated even more to see you so upset and stressed. He was just your friend and that was all Garcia would see.

Your mouth fell open and you waved your hand dismissively. “Oh no, I couldn’t bother her with this. She's probably so busy. I–I can handle it.”

Spencer smiled. You were so sweet, always determined on dealing with things so you didn’t have to put the weight onto others. It only made him want to help more. “She’d be doing me a favor. I’m sure she’ll be happy to help.”

“Are you sure?” Beyond the apprehension, he saw how hopeful you were.

“Yeah, of course. I’ll let you know when she can come fix it,” he said, watching the smile spread across your face. You were so elated, you reached over the space between the chairs to give him a hug, letting out a deep sigh of relief.

“Thank you so much, Spencer,” you mumbled into his shoulder. He awkwardly patted your back, unsure exactly what to do with his gangly arms. He wasn’t too much of a hugger, neither were you, so it was the first time you’d ever hugged him. His cheeks warmed at the thought.

Unfortunately, he had to follow through on his promises. So the next day when he went into work he hung around the door to Garcia’s lair, repeating over and over in his head how he was going to ask. He opened the door with a knock and she swirled around in her chair to look at him, a megawatt smile beaming.

“Hey handsome, what can I do ya for?” She greeted, spinning a fuzzy orange pen between her fingers.

Spencer wrung his hands in the doorway, halfway between coming in and running away. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor?”

“Of course! What did you need me to look up?” She spun back in her chair, hands at the ready.

“It’s not that, it's a personal favor. A–A tech problem. Do you think you could help me with it this Sunday?”

Slowly, Garcia tapped her heels on the floor to turn her spinny chair back towards Spencer, eyebrow quirked. “Okay, technophobe. What’s this tech problem because I didn’t think you owned a computer?”

“It’s a computer at the library I go to. It’s been out of order for a week now and they can’t seem to get it fixed,” he explained, continuing to fidget.

She pursed her lips and tilted her head, gesturing at him with her fuzzy pen. “Is there not more than one computer at the library? Or are libraries really that popular still? I think you should just get a computer, Reid. I promise it’s not that scary and I’ll pick you a good one! The kind even old people know how to use—no offense. We can go—”

“Garcia,” he interrupted her rambling with a wince. Clearly he wasn’t going to get away with asking for her help so vaguely. “The library can’t afford to pay someone to fix it so I told the librarian I’d ask if you could. If you’re too busy, it’s alright.”

She seemed skeptical, mouth bobbing open and closed like she had more to say, but finally closed it with a simple nod. “I can fix it, of course I can fix it. JJ canceled our brunch plans Sunday so I can be there at 11:30.”

Spencer gave her a tight lipped smile and a nod. “Okay, I’ll send you the address. Thank you, Garcia.” He wanted to add that she probably shouldn’t mention it to the rest of the team, but knowing Garcia’s lack of subtlety and habit of being just a tad nosey, he figured that would only make it more suspicious and odd.

So he gave her a farewell and speed walked back to his desk, taking his seat with a heavy sigh of relief. Garcia may not be a profiler, but she knew him well and she had a bloodhound like nose for gossip. If he wasn’t careful, she would sniff out just how much he liked the librarian he mentioned so briefly. Then it would spread like wildfire around the office and Spencer would be safe from no one’s prying and teasing.

It was the first Sunday he was nervous to go to the library. His palms were sweaty as he waited at the computer with you, you none the wiser. He tried to focus on you to calm down because you were always his source of comfort. His eyes trailed over your long skirt and t-shirt combo, making note of the way you kept touching your arms as if you were cold. No doubt you’d slip on the cardigan you kept behind the desk soon, but he assumed you wanted to look nice to meet Penelope, because you did look very nice. Your hair was out of its updo and if he looked hard enough at your face, which he did, he could tell you were wearing lipgloss and some other little bits of makeup.

“You okay?” You asked him softly, eyes looking over his own face.

“I’m fine,” he blurted maybe a little too quickly because you looked unconvinced. Slowly you were learning his tells and he wasn’t sure how long it would be before you found out how fixated he was on you and you didn’t want to be his friend anymore. “I just. . . I hope Penelope can fix it for you.”

You smiled sweetly, looking away at the entrance. “I bet she can, but even if she can’t, it's okay. It was nice of you and her to try.”

He wanted to reassure you that he would always try for you, but Penelope came through the double doors, absolutely glowing like the sun. In mood, but also in outfit. Or maybe it was more like a sunflower? All Spencer knew was that it was very yellow and vibrant. She came rushing over when she saw him and you stand up to greet her.

“Hi, you must be Penelope. Spencer told me so much about you,” You greeted and immediately Spencer realized he messed up.

Garcia’s eyes ran over you, then went back and forth between you and Spencer. He could see the gears turning in her head. “Oh, hello!” She chirped, friendly as always but awkward because she heard nothing about you.

Quickly, Spencer introduced you to Penelope and both you and her shook hands before she put him out of his misery and asked what the problem with the computer was. She took a seat at computer six and you stood next to her, pointing out things on the screen.

“I have some kids that keep coming in and going on all these sketchy websites. I keep blocking them, but they keep finding new ones and it’s loading the computer up with viruses. Then it runs slow and freezes so often it’s unusable,” You shook your head as you explained, exasperated by it all. “Sorry, I know it’s a lot, but do you think you could fix it?”

“Oh, please. Those are some easy fixes! I’ll just remove the viruses and add some more blocking software not even tech savvy kids can get around.” Garcia was already typing at the computer, doing things on the screen Spencer didn’t bother to try and comprehend. He was looking at you as the grin yanked up your lips.

“Really? Thank you so much. I’ve been fighting with this damn thing for weeks. I’m not great with computers.”

“I think you’ve done pretty good so far. You’re much better than Reid, that’s for sure. Sorry fellow genius, but it's true,” she glanced back at him, almost remorseful but still carrying a smile.

You laughed, always eager to tease him. “When he’s on a computer I think he lied to me about having an IQ of 187. He needs my help finding research databases, pulling up old articles, everything but logging in, really.”

“Huh,” Garcia glanced back at him again, only to find his eyes averted and his hands stuffed into his pockets to stop their incessant fidgeting. He was caught and he knew it. He maybe. . . exaggerated how bad he was with computers to you at first, just to get you to come over and talk to him when he first started coming to the library after work, but unfortunately he didn’t know how to end the ruse. Garcia called him a certified technophobe, but even she knew he had those basic skills, especially since she’d seen him do it on his own before.

“How long do you think it will take?” You asked, glancing over the rest of the computers to the desk. “I just have to get back to managing the front desk.”

“Only about a half hour. I’m going to do the other computers as well to save you some time blocking websites. You can go though, I got this.” She gave you a smile, gesturing for you to leave.

“Thank you again, Penelope. I’ll be back before you’re done,” you promised, fluttering away from the table swiftly to help someone standing at the front desk.

“So…” Garcia was looking up at Spencer impishly.

“So?” He asked, though he had a good idea of what was coming.

“Do you like her?” Her eyes were hopeful, lips spread into a grin.

“Garcia. . .” he warned, pleading for her not to go any further. He didn’t want to have to lie, but he couldn’t tell her that he was hopelessly falling in love with you.

But that only sold it for her, her hands reaching off the keys to fan her face. “OMG. You do like her!”

He glanced around to see if you heard her exclamation, but you were busy talking to the man standing at the front desk. “Penelope, she’s my friend,” he tried to be firm in his assertion, but even to his own ears it sounded more like a whine.

“A very cute friend! Who seems like the sweetest person on earth. Oh, and she works in a library. So adorable—y'know—because you’re always reading? Are you sure she’s just a friend?” She launched into a ramble, too clouded by the idea that he may be interested in someone to recognize the hurt on his face.

“I’m sure. She’s… she doesn’t like me like that,” he sounded sad, he didn’t mean to, but he was. He had a very hard time hiding his feelings, and now Penelope heard it and was looking at him like he was a kicked puppy.

“Oh, well, I—really? She seemed so. . .” She was at a loss for words, watching as you walked past guiding the man from the desk over to the staircase, likely showing him where to find a specific genre. Penelope shook her head as you disappeared from view, redirecting her focus back to the screen and letting her hands fly back to the keyboard. “I should mind my business. Right. Bad Garcia.”

Spencer frowned, eyes lingering on where you vanished up the stairs. He pulled back out the chair beside her and slumped in it, avoiding her eyes. “Thank you, Garcia.”

He didn’t have to thank her for long though.

She fixed the computer and you were so incredibly grateful you hugged her. Or rather, you hugged her back after Garcia enveloped you into her arms, so overwhelmed with your praise, but you seemed glad to let it happen. Even after she left, and a few days later the teens returned, they were upset to find the new restrictions on the computer they couldn’t bypass, much to your delight. Spencer was thankful for that, but he was much less grateful when only a week and a half later Garcia slipped up and mentioned you to the team.

He was wrapping up his paperwork fast, reading through documents at lightning speed and filling them out so quickly his handwriting was nearly illegible. But he promised he’d come to the library to see you after work because he was away on a case the past couple days including last Sunday. He was so invested in completing his paperwork he didn’t even notice Derek and Penelope passing him with cups of coffee.

“Whoa kid, got a date you're running late for?” Derek joked, perching at Spencer’s desk to grin down at him with a teasing smile.

“Oooo, I bet it's that cute—” As the words came tumbling from Garcia’s pink lips, Spencer’s face ripped away from his paperwork to look at her, and with a look of horror she quickly cut herself off to sip from her mug.

Derek’s brows creased, looking between Spencer and Garcia with an amused bewilderment. “That cute what?” When Garcia avoided his eyes, drowning in her coffee, and Spencer’s cheeks turned pink, realization covered Derek’s face. “Oh, okay pretty boy, I see you! That must be why you’ve been on your phone so much. What cute girl have you been talking to?”

Spencer cleared his throat, turning back to his papers as he consolidated them from the cluttered mess into a neat pile. “No one.”

Derek laughed, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “No, no, no. Don’t get all shy now, playa, spill.”

When Spencer refused to respond, continuing to shuffle about his papers, Derek narrowed his gaze onto Garcia, who could drink from her cup no longer and began coughing. It gathered the attention of a few other pairs of eyes in the office just in time for her to finish her choking and begin spilling.

“Okay! She’s this absolutely adorable librarian! She’s the sweetest thing and her style is so cute and I wanted to ask her where she got her glasses from, but I was too distracted because Reid totally likes her and thinks that she doesn’t like him, but I was trying to get all profiler on her because I thought ‘there’s no way she couldn’t like boy genius because he’s just as cute and they are so made for each other’ and—like you guys know, I’m no profiler—but I’m pretty sure she likes him!” Finally she took in a breath, practically hyperventilating and fanning her face.

Spencer gawked at her, wide eyed. “Penelope!”

She looked at him sympathetically, but it was Derek’s face that he focused on. His brows were high on his forehead, mouth gaping as he took all of her words in. “Okay, first of all: wow. Second of all: why do you think she doesn’t like you?”

Spencer chewed on his lip. He didn’t really want to explain himself to Derek and Penelope, two people known for their confidence and dating escapades, but he was cornered. Not only that, but he was becoming so desperate he found himself wanting their advice. “I–I don’t know. Whenever I try to show her I’m. . . interested, she gets quiet and awkward.”

“How have you been showing her you’re ‘interested?’”

He shrugged, leg bouncing under the table. “Flirting with her I guess?”

Derek scoffed. “You guess?” When Spencer could do nothing but look away with a heavy sigh, Derek continued. “Look man, she could just be shy. I know it’s scary, but you have to just ask her out on a date. That's the only way you’re really going to know if she likes you.”

Spencer picked at a loose thread on his cardigan, voice quiet. “But what if she says no? I just. . .” He licked his lips, playing over the words in his head and wondering if he wanted to be so vulnerable to Derek and Penelope. “I like her so much. . .” he whispered.

Garcia cooed, tottering around the desk in her heels to wrap her free arm around Spencer. “Who could ever say no to you, handsome? I’m positive, she’ll say yes, I know that girl likes you!”

“Hey,” Derek said, getting Spencer to look up at him as Garcia released him. “You got nothing to worry about, pretty boy. Now you go to that library and ask her out to a nice fancy restaurant—which no pretty girl can refuse—and I’ll worry about this paperwork.”

“Are you sure?” Spencer asked meekly, but Derek and Penelope only reassured him and ushered him out of his seat. He was out of the office less than ten minutes later, getting into his car. He flipped down the sun visor to look at himself in the tiny mirror, frowning at his reflection. His hair was always a mess and he needed to shave.

He flipped the visor back up with a sigh, putting his car in drive and taking himself to the library before he sat in the parking lot all night stressing. He didn’t have to ask you out, but he did have to go because he promised you he’d be there. . . and he missed you dearly.

The library was empty when entered. There were sometimes a few stranglers this late, but on a random Tuesday night the library was clear of everyone but you, bent over wiping down the tables for the night. His eyes roamed over you, breath catching in his chest like it always did when he first laid his gaze on you again.

“Good evening,” he greeted, trying not to startle you with his presence.

You turned quickly, a smile taking over your bored face when you spotted him standing by the front desk. “Spencer! How was your flight this morning?”

“Fine. I finished the book on biological regulations and development, but I mostly just slept because we had a whole day of paperwork to catch up on.”

“And work today?” You asked, throwing a wet wipe in the trash and plucking out another as you moved to clean the next table.

“Like I said, paperwork. Very boring.” He untucked his hands from his pockets, setting his messenger bag down at the front desk and grabbing a wet wipe from the container to help you wipe down tables. He often helped you with your closing work when he arrived so late, especially on nights you had classes after work. “How about you?”

You shrugged, gesturing around the room with your hands. “It’s the library. Same thing everyday here.”

“That’s not true. What about the clown?”

A laugh burst from you as you remembered the story you told him the other day on the phone, you curled up in bed and him sitting on a couch in a hotel room five states away. You stayed up late until he got back from the police station just to tell him about the man who came in dressed in a full clown get-up to print out coloring book pages for a birthday party he was running late to. It made your whole week and you just had to tell him, howling particularly hard about how Mrs. Wilson, after thoroughly wiping down the printer, printed out a notice to put on the front door instating a library dress code of no costumes.

“The clown was probably the most interesting thing to ever happen in this library. That says something about how boring it is.”

“Is the FBI showing up everyday not interesting?” He mocked confused.

You gave him a playful glare over your shoulder. “Okay. I guess you can be the second most interesting thing to ever happen in this library. Right below the clown.”

Spencer chuckled. “I should be offended by that, shouldn’t I?”

“Feel how you want to feel, Spencer. But Bo-Bo is the only one who’s given me coloring book sheets.” You shrugged, playing nonchalance.

“Oh, because I print those out so often at my job? If I did, there wouldn’t be enough crayons at the dollar store for you to color them all.” Maybe he was in a fake competition with a clown for your favor. Either way, when you ducked your head with a breathy giggle, he knew he won it.

When you both finished wiping down the tables, he took out the trash while you set about turning off the lights, shutting down the computers, and other small tasks. He met you at the front desk as you collected your bag and jacket, pulling his messenger bag back over his own head. He held the door open for you as you both left the library and stood by your side as you locked the doors.

“Thank you for helping me close,” you smiled at him as you tucked the keys into your bag.

“Of course.” He wanted to say it should have been Mrs. Wilson helping you, because the old bat usually took off an hour or so before close, but you brushed him off every time he suggested reporting her and he didn’t want to sour your mood. He also liked walking you to your car, especially when it was this late and dark, because the thought of anything happening to you was so devastating he couldn’t stand to think about it.

So he walked with you down the staircase and across the lot to where you parked your car early this morning and he pulled in next to you a little while ago. It was already dark, but the street lamp you parked your car under illuminated you and him as you stood under it, arms wrapped around yourself. You searched for something to say, he could see it in the way your lips twitched and your eyes roamed his face. For a moment, the sound of crickets and the eerie hum of night faded, and Derek’s words were thunder in his ears. He would never know unless he asked you, and he couldn’t live looking at your sweet face knowing he never even tried.

“Would you want to go on a date with me?”

Your eyes nearly as big as planets amplified by your glasses, which glinted off them as you nodded rapidly, lips parting to take in a sharp breath. “Yes!”

Spencer was taken aback. His ears buzzed and a tingling sensation filled his extremities. He was elated, but thrown off by your complete enthusiasm. “Wha–really?”

You shook your head at him, laughing breathily as if he stole the wind from you. “Yes, of course I do, Spencer. I–I’ve wanted. . .” Your eyes looked between his nervously.

“You wanted what?” He insisted, leaning in because he had to know what you’ve been thinking, what you’ve been wanting from him that he missed.

You looked down shyly, picking at your nails despite how your fingers shook. “I wanted to ask you out when I first met you. When you were just some guy in the library, and I thought you were obviously flirting by trying to impress me but. . . then you were telling the truth and I–I was so embarrassed I was wrong and I thought you didn’t like me like that. . . and soon enough you weren’t just some guy, you were Spencer, and I–um, I couldn’t let myself ruin it.”

His hands gently took yours, stopping their anxious picking. His pupils were blown wide as he looked at you, heart so full and beating so fast he heard it thrumming in his ears. “You couldn’t ruin anything. You’re so. . . perfect,” he mumbled, close enough to taste your air. “I haven’t been able to get you off my mind since you gave me that book. I saw you in every poem and reading your thoughts made me feel like I was in your head, feeling what you were feeling. I needed it after every case, I–I needed you. All I wanted was to ask you out but. . .”

He was at a loss for words, but you shook your hand, squeezing his hand in yours. “It’s okay, Spencer. . .” His eyes glanced down to your lips, but just as he considered leaning down to capture them with his, you ducked your head nervously again, softly letting go of his hands. Spencer reeled with disappointment he didn’t kiss you, stuffing his hands back into his pockets. “Um, I did give you that book on purpose. I think the most romantic thing on this Earth is poetry and. . . I hoped it was enough of a sign.”

He recovered quickly, excited just to know you returned his feelings. He sighed into the new open air between the two of you. “I knew it. You bewitched me.”

You giggled, a sweet sound that picked up as you met his eyes again, swatting at him with a hand. “No I didn’t!”

Your laugh dissipated and the two of you were standing in the parking lot, looking at each other under a streetlamp. “Saturday at seven?”

“What?”

“Our date? Is Saturday at seven okay?” He reiterated.

“Oh. Oh, yes. That’s a good time,” you stuttered, snatched from whatever daze you stared at him in. He smiled.

“Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow and we’ll figure out the details?” He offered. You needed time to process it, he thought, because he knew he did. He would get home and sit on his couch, replaying every word from your lips and flutter of your lash in his head. Maybe that was the best part of an eidetic memory.

“Okay.” You nodded. He opened your car door for you and you climbed inside. “Good night, Spencer,” you hummed at him before closing the door.

He watched you leaving the parking lot before he got into his own car because he had to sit there for a minute, calming his pounding heart before he got out on the road. For the first time in a while, he was most excited for Saturday over Sunday.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #Spencer Reid x y/n #criminal minds x reader #Spencer Reid imagine #Spencer Reid fluff #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds imagine #Spencer reader x fem!reader #Spencer Reid x you #Spencer Reid x shy!reader

351 notes · View notes

doctorbitchcrxft · 1 year ago

Text

Bugs | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (Eventual)

Warnings: BUGS lol, canon violence, canon gore

Word Count: 7012

Mobile Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Playlist

You and Dean decided that after your last job, you deserved a break. You went to a bar to play that eight-ball game you’d talked about back in Ankeny. The two of you were pretty evenly matched; you had to admit. He would win a game, then you would win a game, and that pattern continued for quite a bit. Then you’d swapped to nine-ball. The two of you walked away from the pool tables and found a table when you’d grown tired of playing with each other.

“I’ll admit, you’re pretty good, Winchester,” you told him.

“You too, sweetheart,” he responded, chuckling.

“You’re never gonna stop calling me that, are you?” you asked.

“Nope.”

You pretended to be annoyed and rolled your eyes. “You suck.”

“You, too.”

You playfully glared at him.

“You hustle?” he asked you.

“Duh,” you responded, taking a swig of your beer.

He chuckled. “How ‘bout it? I’m low on cash after I paid off that morgue tech.”

“Hey, you did that on your own volition,” you joked back. “Nobody forced you to pay him off. And maybe you lost even more cash after you lost that poker game to me yesterday.”

He glared back at you. “I’ll get you next time.”

“Sure. So who’re you hustlin’?” you asked.

He scanned the room for a moment. “Them.” He subtly nodded in the direction of a group of guys who looked around your and Dean’s age. They seemed kind of douchey, and you’d love to watch Dean kick their asses if you were being honest.

“Eight or nine ball?” you asked him.

“Nine.”

“Ooh, good luck,” you told him.

“I won’t need it,” he answered arrogantly and began heading over to the group.

Your newfound friendship with Dean was slightly difficult for you due to your unbelievable attraction to him. The more you got to know him the more you began to like him for more than just his beautiful face. But you knew neither of you had the time for anything more than friendship, especially considering you knew you’d be hitting the road as soon as they found their dad. You chose not to focus on the finite amount of time you had with the Winchester boys and just enjoy it while it lasted.

As much as you tried to push the thought away, you couldn’t deny that watching him hustle pool made you even more attracted to him.

“Cute,” you told Dean sarcastically when he walked back over to your table waving a wad of cash in the air. “But I betcha I can get us double the money.” You snatched his money out of his hands.

“Hey!” he said. “I earned that.”

“And I’ll earn it back,” you smirked over your shoulder.

He quirked a brow at you as you “drunkenly” walked away, watching you head over to a pool table surrounded by another group of young guys.

You wore a black tank top that showed off your cleavage, and stuck Dean’s money in the top of your bra while you sauntered over to the pool table. A tall blonde guy holding a cue stick was surrounded by his frat-boy posse hollering about how good the blonde guy played.

“Fifty dollars to play!” One of the boys yelled.

“I’ll play,” you piped up, looking down at the table set for nine-ball.

You pulled some cash out of the top of your bra and placed it on the rim of the pool table.

“Uh, sweetheart,” the blond began, “That’s only twenty.”

“Oh, sorry,” you snorted out a laugh, putting thirty dollars on the table.

“She’s hammered, dude,” one of the blond’s friends told him.

The blond waved him off, still looking over you. He handed you a pool cue with a smirk.

“You break.”

You fumbled with the cue before lining up your shot. After you hit the cue ball, you allowed the wooden stick to slip clumsily out of your hands. The balls flew all over the table in different directions because you had struck them so hard. However, you had not managed to pocket a single one.

The blond lined up his shot. Managing to keep the dopey look on your face, you mentally smirked at his amateur hand bridge. This guy would be easy to beat. With his friends cheering him on, he pocketed the yellow one-ball but missed the shot he took at the nine-ball. The nine-ball was in the perfect position for you to win on your next two shots, but you were not going for the big bucks just yet.

“Your turn, baby,” the blond told you.

You resisted the urge to cringe at the nickname. You had never liked being called “baby.”

Instead, you gave him a wide smile, walking up to the cue ball. You went to aim for the four-ball, but the blond stopped you.

“What are you doing?”

“Aiming for the pretty purple ball,” you replied innocently. “Am I doing something wrong?”

“You have to aim for the two-ball. You ever even played before?” he asked jokingly.

“No,” you smiled.

He was not expecting that answer to his jest, his face dropping out of the smile. “Then why are you playing for money?”

“I thought you were cute and wanted to play with you.”

The blond smirked down at you.

Before he could respond, you said, “C’mon! I wanna keep playing. This is fun.” You lined up and hit the two ball, knocking it only a little bit closer to the pocket than the blond had gotten it.

He ended up sinking the two-ball and then the nine-ball after that, his friends cheering for him. He took the money off the table. “Maybe next time.”

“Ooh, can we play again? Please?” you whined.

He looked around at his friends. They all shrugged.

You took all of the money out of your bra, including fifty dollars of your own to compensate for the fifty you just lost. You did promise Dean you would double the amount he had earned, after all.

The blond laughed nervously. “Uh, that’s a lot more than fifty dollars.”

“Is it?” you pretended you were surprised. “Oh, well. We’ll just play for whatever this is, then.”

One of the blond’s friends, a brunet, was already counting the money. “This is three-hundred dollars, man.”

“Look, you’re really drunk. That’s a lot of money,” the blond said. “Let’s just stop.”

“No,” you begged, “please? It’ll be fine!”

He finally conceded, collecting a total of three hundred dollars between himself and his friends.

On the break, he hit the one-ball and the five-ball ended up falling into the left side pocket. However, on the shot he took at the nine-ball, he missed.

You hit the two-ball, sank it, and clapped excitedly. You aimed for the three-ball next, hitting it between the right side and back pockets. The ball hit the wall and stopped only two inches off of it, giving the blond no shot at sinking it on his next turn.

He ended up pushing the three-ball and the cue ball into the perfect position for you to hit the red ball into the hole. Once you sank the three-ball, you lined up the cue behind the cue ball and hit the nine-ball into one of the pockets. Blondie and his friends stood there slack-jawed.

“I won!” you cheered, giggling. You gave Blondie a kiss on the cheek when you took your money.

You walked back over to Dean with your hips swishing confidently. Smirking, you held up your winnings.

He took them from your hands, counting the money. “Damn. I’m impressed.”

You feigned shock. “Dean Winchester? Impressed by something I did?”

“Can it, (Y/N).”

You walked outside of the bar with Dean at your side. You waved the money in your hand back and forth triumphantly as you approached the Impala that Sam sat atop flipping through newspapers. He looked disapproving. “Y’know, we could get day jobs once in a while.”

"Hunting's our day job,” you countered.

“Yeah, and the pay is crap,” Dean added.

“Amen.”

“Yeah, but hustling pool? Credit card scams? It's not the most honest thing in the world, guys,” the younger brother argued.

“Well, let's see, honest—” Dean began, and you held out one hand palm-up for “honest,” “—Fun and easy,” he finished.

You held out the other hand, representing a scale, tipping it to the side of “fun and easy.”

“It's no contest,” you shrugged.

“Besides, we're good at it. It's what we were raised to do,” Dean added.

Sam was still not convinced. “Yeah, well, how we were raised was jacked.”

“Yeah, says you,” sassed Dean. “We got a new gig or what?”

“Maybe. Oasis Plains, Oklahoma— not far from here. A gas company employee, Dustin Burwash, supposedly died from Creutzfeldt-Jakob.”

“Gesundheit,” you commented.

“Human mad cow disease.” Sam shot you a playful glare.

“Mad cow. Wasn't that on Oprah?” Dean asked.

“You watch Oprah?” you responded.

The older brother looked embarrassed and couldn’t think of anything to say. He decided to change the subject. “So this guy eats a bad burger. Why is it our kind of thing?”

“Mad cow disease causes massive brain degeneration. It takes months, even years, for the damage to appear. But this guy, Dustin? Sounds like his brain disintegrated in about an hour. Maybe less,” Sam stated.

You nodded slowly. “Oh-kay, that is weird.”

“Yeah. Now, it could be a disease. Or it could be somethin' much nastier,” Sam told you.

“Alright. Oklahoma,” Dean said, beginning to get in the car. You and Sam followed suit. “Man. Work, work, work,” the older Winchester sighed. “No time to spend my money.”

“You mean our money,” you said, handing him three hundred. You kept the other three.

“Right.” He put the money in his wallet and began driving off.

***

Dean had driven you to the gas and power company the deceased had worked at. You approached a man with shaggy hair and a scruffy chin who you had learned from another employee was the man who discovered Dustin’s dead body.

“Travis Weaver?” Sam called.

“Yeah, that's right.” The man turned to you.

“Are you the Travis who worked with Uncle Dusty?” Dean asked.

“Dustin never mentioned nephews. Or a niece,” he responded.

“Really? Well, he sure mentioned you. He said you were the greatest.”

You nodded, affirming Dean’s lie.

Travis smiled sadly. “Oh, he did? Huh.”

“I hate to ask you, but… what exactly happened out there?” you asked.

“I'm not sure. He fell in a sinkhole, I went to the truck to get some rope, and, uh... by the time I got back…” he trailed off, face contorting in discomfort.

“What did you see?” Dean questioned.

Travis shook his head. “Nothin'. Just Dustin.”

“No wounds or anything?” Sam chimed in.

“Well, he was bleeding... from his eyes and his ears, his nose. But that's it.”

“So you think it could be this whole mad cow thing?” Dean asked.

“I don't know. That's what the doctors are sayin'.”

“I don’t know, it just doesn’t feel right to me,” you added. “Uncle Dusty just never acted like that to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if it was, he would’ve acted like he had dementia, a loss of motor control, you ever notice anything like that?” you asked.

“No. No way. But then again, if it wasn't some disease, what the hell was it?”

“That's a good question,” Dean responded.

“You know, can you tell us where this happened?” Sam asked.

Travis nodded. He instructed Dean the path to follow in order to find the scene of the incident. Surrounding the sinkhole he had fallen in was police tape, but the neighborhood it was in seemed mostly uninhabited except for a few construction workers milling about.

“Huh.” Dean looked down into the hole. “What do you think?”

“I don't know. But if that guy, Travis, was right, it happened pretty damn fast,” Sam responded.

You ducked under the tape and looked down into the hole with a flashlight.

“So, what? Some sort of creature chewed on his brain?” Dean’s face scrunched up in confusion.

You shook your head. “No, there'd be an entry wound. Sounds like this thing worked from the inside.”

“Looks like there's only room for one,” Dean commented. “Hate to say it, sweetheart, you’re gonna have to get down there.”

You flinched back. “What? No. We have no idea what’s down there.”

He picked up a nearby coil of rope. “Alright, I'll go if you're scared. You scared?”

“No. Dick.” Your stubbornness would not let you back down despite the genuine fear clawing at your throat. When you were younger, your father would often starve you to ensure you could fit into small spaces such as the hole you were about to journey down. You had no doubt you would’ve grown taller than 5’6” had he not done this. Even still, you mustered your courage. “I'm going.”

“I said I'd go,” Dean argued.

“I'm going,” you pressed, taking the end of the rope from him. You tied it around your waist. “Don’t drop me.”

“I won’t.”

“Sam, don’t let him drop me.”

Sam chuckled.

“What?” Dean sounded offended. “You don’t trust me?”

“Nope,” you smiled, clambering down into the hole. It took a moment for your eyes to adjust, but when they did, you were surprised by what you’d found.

Dean drove, and Sam was examining the dead beetle you’d found in the sinkhole. Some bugs you could handle, but beetles were not one you could spend prolonged periods of time looking at.

“So you found some beetles. In a hole, in the ground. That's shocking, (Y/N),” Dean quipped.

You shook your head. “Dude, no. There were no tunnels, no tracks, nothing. No evidence of any other creature down there.”

“You know,” Sam added, “some beetles do eat meat. Now, it's usually dead meat, but…”

“How many did you find down there?” Dean asked you.

“Ten.”

“It'd take a whole lot more than that to eat out some dude's brain, Sam.”

“Well, maybe there were more,” his brother argued.

“I don't know, it sounds like a stretch to me,” Dean responded.

“Well, we need more information on the area, the neighborhood. Whether something like this has ever happened before,” you added. A sign advertising an open house decorated with red balloons caught your eye.

Sam was looking back at you. “What?”

“There.” You pointed to the sign.

You passed another that read, “Models Open. New Buyers' BBQ Today!"

“I'm kinda hungry for a little barbeque, how 'bout you?” Dean remarked.

Sam gave him a look.

“What, we can't talk to the locals?”

You snickered. “And the free food's got nothin' to do with it?”

“Of course not. I'm a professional.”

His brother rolled his eyes. “Right.”

Dean pulled over and the three of you got out of the car to walk toward the open house.

“Growin' up in a place like this would freak me out,” Dean remarked.

“Ditto,” you said.

“Why?” Sam looked at the two of you like you were crazy.

“Manicured lawns, ‘How was your day, honey?’ I'd blow my brains out,” Dean chuckled.

“White picket fence,” you sing-songed, “private school, stay-at-home moms with three snotty children— no thanks.”

“There's nothing wrong with ‘normal,’ “ Sam rebutted.

“I'd take our family over normal any day,” the older Winchester said. He approached the house and knocked on the door.

A man in a steamed collared shirt opened the door. “Welcome,” he said.

“This the barbeque?” Dean asked.

“Yeah, not the best weather,” he replied, referencing the gray sky, “but... I'm Larry Pike, the developer here. And you are... ?”

“Dean. This is Sam and (Y/N).” He shook Larry’s hand.

“Sam, Dean, (Y/N), good to meet you. So, you three are interested in Oasis Plains?”

“Yes, sir,” the older brother responded.

“Let me just say—” You had no idea where Larry was going with this— “we accept homeowners of any race, religion, color, or... sexual orientation.”

You realized what he was trying to say. “They’re brothers. I’m just a friend.”

Larry nodded and seemed slightly embarrassed.

“Our father is getting on in years,” Sam explained, “and we're just lookin' for a place for him.”

Larry laughed awkwardly “Great, great. Well, seniors are welcome, too. Come on in.” He guided you to the backyard where dozens of people were chatting and eating. “Eighteen months ago, I was walking this valley with my survey team. There was nothing here but scrub brush and squirrels. And you know what, we built such a nice place to live that I actually bought into it myself. This is our house. We're the first family in Oasis Plains.” He brought you over to a woman around his age. “This is my wife, Joanie.”

“Hi there,” she smiled.

Larry introduced the three of you to her before saying, “Tell them how much you love the place, honey. And lie if you have to because I need to sell some houses.”

She laughed. “Right.”

This painfully fake interaction you were having reeked of Middle America. It was making you sick.

Larry left you alone with Joanie who said, “Don't let his salesman routine scare you. This really is a great place to live.”

A very energetic woman with bright, Ariel-red hair pulled back in a tight bun approached your group. “Hi, I'm Lynda Bloome, head of sales,” she grinned.

“And Lynda was second to move in,” Joanie went on. “She's a very noisy neighbor, though.”

Even Lynda’s laugh was obnoxious. “She's kidding, of course. I take it you three are interested in becoming homeowners.”

Before any of you could answer, she said, “Well, let me just say that we accept homeowners of any race, religion, color, or... sexual orientation.”

Dean chuckled. “Right. Um... I'm gonna go talk to Larry.” Dean began walking away. “Okay, honeys?” He smacked you on your ass as he left.

You nearly yelped in surprise. The rest of your interaction with Lynda became very awkward. You were barely interested in what she was saying about the various features of the home. “Who can say "no" to a steam shower? I use mine everyday.”

You nodded, forcing a smile. “Sounds great.”

Sam noticed something just beyond her, saying, “Excuse me,” and pushing her out of the way. What he had picked up off the picnic table was a large tarantula. You noticed a snickering boy with shaggy brown hair a few feet behind where Lynda had been standing.

Sam walked over to the boy. “Is this yours?”

The boy took the spider from him. “You gonna tell my dad?”

“I don't know. Who's your dad?”

The teen scoffed. “Yeah, Larry usually skips me in the family introductions.”

You sucked air in through your teeth. “Ouch. First name basis with your dad— sounds pretty grim.”

“Well, I'm not exactly brochure material,” the kid remarked.

“Well, hang in there. It gets better, all right? I promise,” Sam said.

The kid didn’t seem convinced. “When?”

You heard Larry call the name, “Matthew!” You turned to see the older man and Dean walking toward you.

“I am so sorry about my son and his... pet.”

‘Clearly there’s some issues there.’

You shook your head. “No big.”

“Excuse us.” Larry’s face was set and hardened, pulling his son away from you and the boys.

“Remind you of somebody?” Sam asked his brother. He was gesturing toward the arguing father and son. “Dad?”

“Dad never treated us like that,” Dean argued.

“Well, Dad never treated you like that. You were perfect. He was all over my case. You don't remember?”

“Well, maybe he had to raise his voice, but sometimes, you were out of line.”

Sam scoffed. “Right. Right, like when I said I'd rather play soccer than learn bowhunting.”

“Bowhunting's an important skill,” Dean replied. You agreed with him, but chose to say out of the brotherly debate.

“Whatever. How was your tour?” Sam asked.

Dean turned on the sarcasm. “Oh, it was excellent. I'm ready to buy. So you might be onto somethin'. Looks like Dustin Burwash wasn't the first strange death around here.”

“What happened?” you questioned.

“About a year ago, before they broke ground, one of Larry's surveyors dropped dead while on the job. Get this severe allergic reaction to bee stings.”

You nodded. “More bugs.”

***

Later that evening, Sam was driving you and Dean through the neighborhood. You put your head on Dean’s shoulder over the back of the front seat as he flipped through his father’s journal. He had looked at you strangely and tensed up when you’d first rested your head on him, but you just shrugged in response. To your surprise, he allowed you to stay there.

“You know, I've heard of killer bees, but killer beetles?” Dean shook his head. “What is it that could make different bugs attack?”

“Well, hauntings sometimes include bug manifestations,” Sam replied.

“Yeah, but I didn't see any evidence of ghost activity,” the older brother said, referring to his house tour.

“Me neither,” you added.

“Maybe they're being controlled somehow. You know, by something or someone,” Dean stated.

“You mean, like Willard?” Sam chuckled.

“Yeah, bugs instead of rats.”

“There are cases of psychic connections between people and animals - elementals, telepaths,” Sam continued.

“Yeah, that whole Lassie thing,” you commented. You were thoughtful for a moment. “Larry's kid— he's got bugs for pets.”

“Matt?” Sam seemed unconvinced. “He did try to scare the realtor with a tarantula.”

“You think he's our Willard?”

“I don't know. Anything's possible, I guess.”

Something caught Dean’s attention. “Ooh, hey. Pull over here.”

Your head perked up.

Sam pulled into the empty driveway of one of the Oasis Plains homes. “What are we doing here?”

Dean got out of the car and began pulling the garage door up and open. “It's too late to talk to anybody else.”

Sam scoffed. “We're gonna squat in an empty house?”

“I wanna try the steam shower. Come on,” his brother responded simply.

Sam didn’t move.

“Come on!” Dean urged.

Sam rolled his eyes but complied and pulled into the driveway. Dean closed it behind him.

To your surprise, the home was fully furnished. You assumed it was for staging house tours. You and the boys were thankful to find three beds within the home, avoiding the awkward task of deciding who was going to have to sleep with who. And for the first time in quite a while, you slept incredibly well on the soft mattress and plush pillows.

***

The next morning, you found Sam remaking the bed he had slept in down the hall from yours. He had the police scanner quietly droning on in the background.

“How’d you sleep?” you asked, yawning.

“How do you think,” he replied dryly.

“That’s what I was worried about.”

Sam sighed.

“Dude, we gotta get you right,” you told him. “You’re gonna end up really hurt.”

Before he could respond, the static of the police scanner coming alight with conversation caught your attention. Male voices spoke back and forth about a death that happened in what you recognized as the Oasis Plains area.

“You finish cleaning up; I’ll get Dean,” you told Sam, who nodded. Dean had been serious about indulging in the steam shower. He’d been in the guest bathroom since you woke up that morning.

“You ever comin' out of there?” you called through the door.

“What?” he responded.

You could still hear the water running. “A call came in on the scanner.”

“Hold on.”

“Someone was found dead three blocks from here. Come on.”

The door opened a bit to reveal Dean and his towel-wrapped head. Steam poured out into the hallway. “This shower is awesome,” he smiled.

You laughed in response. “Come on.” You walked away to finish helping Sam gather your things and hide the fact that someone had been here.

When you arrived at the crime scene, a body bag was being wheeled out on a stretcher. You found out from a visibly upset Larry that the realtor, Lynda Bloome, had been the one to pass away. The three of you discovered about a dozen dead spiders underneath a towel near where the outline of her body had been mapped out, and decided to pay Matt a visit.

It took a few hours, but you discovered where Matt went to school and followed his bus route. You watched when he got off the bus.

“Isn't his house that way?” Dean pointed in the opposite direction of where Matt was walking.

You nodded. “Yup. So where’s he goin’?”

The three of you began following the teenager from a bit of a distance. Unfortunately for you, he headed into the woods.

“Seriously, kid?” you muttered. “Always the fucking woods.”

Dean chuckled at your discomfort.

“Shut up, asshole,” you quipped.

Sam approached Matt first. “Hey, Matt. Remember me?”

“What are you doin' out here?” he asked, surprised.

“Well, we wanna talk to you,” Dean responded.

“You're not here to buy a house, are you?”

You shook your head.

“W-wait. You're not serial killers?” Matt began backing away from you.

“No. I think you’re safe,” you smiled.

“So, Matt... you sure know a lot about insects,” Sam began.

“So?” he shrugged.

“Did you hear what happened to Lynda, the realtor?” Dean asked.

“I hear she died this morning,” Matt responded.

“Mm, that's right. Spider bites.”

“Matt... you tried to scare her with a spider.” Sam’s tone was accusatory without being harsh.

“Wait. You think I had something to do with that?”

“You tell us,” you responded.

Matt scoffed humorlessly. “That tarantula was a joke. Anyway, that wouldn't explain the bee attack or the gas company guy.”

“You know about those?” Now you were the one being accusatory.

“There is somethin' going on here. I don't know what... but something's happening with the insects. Let me show you something.” Matt shouldered his bag and led you deeper into the woods. You hoped he knew where the hell he was going and how the hell to get back.

“So, if you knew about all this bug stuff, why not tell your dad? Maybe he could clear everybody out,” Sam suggested.

“Believe me, I've tried. But, uh, Larry doesn't listen to me.”

“Why not?”

“Mostly? He's too disappointed in his freak son.”

Sam scoffed. “I hear you.”

Dean seemed surprised. “You do?”

Sam gave him a look before turning back to Matt. “Matt, how old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Well, don't sweat it, because in two years, something great's gonna happen.”

“What?”

“College. You'll be able to get out of that house and away from your dad.”

Dean was upset. “What kind of advice is that? Kid should stick with his family.”

Sam sighed and glared at his brother.

You tried to break the tension. “How much further, Matt?”

You knew Matt felt awkward, too. “We're close.”

Sam glared at Dean once more before continuing walking. Moments later, you reached a large clearing. As you’d been approaching, the sound of insects buzzing had gotten louder and louder. Hundreds of them flew about the clearing.

“I've been keeping track of insect populations. It's, um, part of an AP science class,” the teen explained.

“You two are like peas in a pod,” Dean remarked.

Sam ignored him. “What's been happening?”

“A lot. I mean, from bees to earthworms, beetles... you name it. It's like they're congregating here,” Matt went on.

“Why?” Dean’s brows knitted together.

“I don't know,” he responded.

You caught sight of a dark, bumpy patch of grass a few feet away. “What’s that?”

Matt looked at you and seemed curious as well. He led you once more over to the pile. Your skin began to crawl at the sight of hundreds of wriggling earthworms. Dean accidently stepped on a pile of them and it sank into the ground. You pulled him back by the arm to avoid him falling, too. You let him go, and he crouched to the ground. He used a stick to poke around. He then dropped the stick and stuck his hand straight into the hole. When his hand came back up, he was holding a human skull covered in dirt and worms.

“Gnarley,” you said.

***

Sam suggested bringing the remains to the department of anthropology at a local university. “So, a bunch of skeletons in an unmarked grave,” he said as you approached the building.

“Maybe it is a haunting,” you added. “Pissed off spirits? Unfinished business?”

“Yeah, maybe. Question is, why bugs? And why now?”

The older brother quipped, “That's two questions.”

Sam ignored him.

Dean continued. “Yeah, so with that kid back there... why'd you tell him to just ditch his family like that?”

“Just, uh... I know what the kid's goin' through,” his brother shrugged.

“How 'bout tellin' him to respect his old man, how's that for advice?” Dean’s tone was sharp.

“Dean, come on.” Sam stopped walking, and you and Dean followed suit. “This isn't about his old man. You think I didn't respect Dad. That's what this is about.”

“Just forget it, all right? Sorry I brought it up.” Dean shook his head.

“I respected him. But no matter what I did, it was never good enough.”

“So what are you sayin'? That Dad was disappointed in you?”

“Was? Is. Always has been,” Sam bit back.

“Why would you think that?”

“Because I didn't wanna bowhunt or hustle pool— because I wanted to go to school and live my life, which, to our whacked-out family, made me the freak.”

“Yeah, you were kind of like the blonde chick in The Munsters,” Dean grunted.

“Dean, you know what most dads are when their kids score a full ride? Proud. Most dads don't toss their kids out of the house.”

You were accustomed to their normal sibling spats, but this was different.

Dean kept pushing. “I remember that fight. In fact, I seem to recall a few choice phrases comin' out of your mouth.”

“You know, truth is, when we finally do find Dad... I don't know if he's even gonna wanna see me.” The brunet sounded sad.

“Sam, Dad was never disappointed in you. Never. He was scared.”

“What are you talkin' about?”

“He was afraid of what could've happened to you if he wasn't around. But even when you two weren't talkin'... he used to swing by Stanford whenever he could.”

Sam’s smirk faded.

“Keep an eye on you. Make sure you were safe,” Dean finished.

“What?” Sam’s puppy dog eyes were back.

“Yeah.”

“Why didn't you tell me any of that?” the younger brother asked.

“Well, it's a two-way street, dude. You could've picked up the phone.”

Sam stared at him sadly.

“Come on, we're gonna be late for our appointment,” Dean grumbled.

***

The professor you’d gone to see at the college informed you of a Euchee tribe outside of Sapulpa that the bones Dean had found might have belonged to. The three of you now headed over to a diner one of the local Native Americans had directed you to. He had told you how to find Joe White tree, a bit of a patriarch of their group.

You found him playing cards at his table in the diner.

“Joe White Tree?” Sam asked.

The man nodded.

“We'd like to ask you a few questions, if that's all right.”

Dean continued for his brother, saying, “We're students from the university—”

The man cut him off. “No, you're not. You're lying.”

Dean seemed taken aback. “Well, truth is—”

“You know who starts sentence with ‘truth is’? Liars,” Joe responded.

Dean looked at you and Sam strangely.

“Have you heard of Oasis Plains?” you asked. “It's a housing development near the Atoka Valley.”

“I like her,” Joe told Dean. “She's not a liar.”

You smiled.

Joe turned back to you. “I know the area.”

“What can you tell us about the history there?”

“Why do you wanna know?”

You considered for a moment. “Something bad is happening in Oasis Plains. I think it may have something to do with a Native American grave we found there.”

“I'll tell you what my grandfather told me, what his grandfather told him,” Joe began. “Two hundred years ago, a band of my ancestors lived in that valley. One day, the American cavalry came to relocate them. They were resistant, the cavalry impatient. As my grandfather put it, on the night the moon and the sun share the sky as equals, the cavalry first raided our village. They murdered, raped. The next day, the cavalry came again, and the next, and the next. And on the sixth night, the cavalry came one last time. And by the time the sun rose, every man, woman, and child still in the village was dead. They say on the sixth night, as the chief of the village lay dying, he whispered to the heavens that no white man would ever tarnish this land again. Nature would rise up and protect the valley. And it would bring as many days of misery and death to the white man as the cavalry had brought upon his people.”

“Insects. Sounds like nature to me. Six days,” Dean stated.

“And on the night of the sixth day, none would survive,” Joe finished his story.

Sam and Dean exchanged a worried look with you.

“Thank you, sir,” you said.

Joe nodded at you before you and the boys headed off.

“When did the gas company man die?” Sam asked after you had made it outside.

“Uh, let's see, we got here Tuesday, so, Friday the twentieth,” Dean responded.

“March twentieth?” You thought for a moment. “That's the spring equinox.”

“The night the sun and the moon share the sky as equals,” Sam finished. “So, every year about this time, anybody in Oasis Plains is in danger. Larry built this neighborhood on cursed land.”

“And on the sixth night— that's tonight,” Dean finished.

“If we don't do something, Larry's family will be dead by sunrise. So how do we break the curse?”

“You don't break a curse. You get out of its way. We've gotta get those people out now,” Dean said sharply.

The three of you got in the car and sped away.

***

Dean drove while he spoke with Larry on the phone. “Yes, Mr. Pike, there's a mainline gas leak in your neighborhood… Well, it's fairly extensive. I don't want to alarm you, but we need your family out of the vicinity for at least twelve hours or so, just to be safe… Travis Weaver. I work for Oklahoma Gas and Power… Uh…” He panicked and quickly hung up.

Sam gestured for the phone. He learned from Matt that his backyard was crawling with cockroaches. He urged him to get his family out of the house, and Dean told him he needed to, under no circumstances, tell his father the truth about what was happening.

When you arrived at the Pike residence, Larry rushed out of the house. “Get off my property before I call the cops.”

“Mr. Pike, listen,” Sam urged.

“Dad, they're just tryin' to help,” Matt pleaded from the doorway.

“Get in the house!” Larry ordered.

Matt addressed you and the boys. “I'm sorry. I told him the truth.”

“We had a plan, Matt, what happened to the plan?” Dean grunted through his teeth.

“Look, it's 12:00 AM. They are coming any minute now. You need to leave now, before it's too late,” you told Larry.

“Yeah, you mean before the biblical swarm,” he replied humorlessly.

“Larry, what do you think really happened to that realtor, huh? And the gas company guy? You don't think somethin' weird's goin' on here?” Dean questioned.

“Look, I don't know who you are, but you're crazy. You come near my boy or my family again, and we're gonna have a problem,” Larry told you.

“Well, I hate to be a downer, but we've got a problem right now,” the older brother responded.

“Dad, they're right, okay? We're in danger.”

“Matt, get inside! Now!”

Matt stepped further out onto the porch. “No! Why won't you listen to me?!”

“Because this is crazy! It doesn't make any sense!” Larry yelled back.

“Look, this land is cursed! People have died here. Now, are you gonna really take that risk with your family?”

“Wait!” you shushed the group.

Everyone went silent.

“You hear it?”

From a distance away, there was a faint buzzing that got louder and louder rapidly.

“What the hell?” Larry muttered.

The fluorescent bug light on the porch began overheating; killing several bugs at a time. The buzzing got even louder. Millions of bugs blanketed the sky, heading straight to you.

“Oh my God.” Your breath quickened. “Everybody in the house, now!”

You and Dean held up the rear of the group, and you felt his hand on your back guiding you inside. You locked the door behind Dean.

“Okay, is there anybody else in the neighborhood?” Sam asked Larry.

“No, it's just us.”

Joanie entered the room. “Honey, what's happening? What's that noise?”

“Call 911,” Larry instructed her. “Joanie!”

She seemed caught off-guard. “Okay.” She picked up the phone and began to dial.

“I need towels,” Dean told Larry.

“Uh, in the closet.”

Sam and Matt went upstairs while you and Dean packed the base of the front door with the towels you found.

“Phones are dead,” Joanie informed you.

“They must have chewed through the phone lines.” Dean shook his head as the lights went out.

“And the power lines,” you grumbled.

Larry tried his cell phone only to get no signal.

“You won't get one. They're blanketing the house.” Dean looked towards the windows that were beginning to darken from the thousands of bugs collecting on them.

“So what do we do now?” Larry asked.

Sam had come back downstairs with Matt. “We try to outlast it. Hopefully, the curse will end at sunrise.”

“Hopefully?” Larry’s eyebrows raised in shock.

You looked to Dean. “You have your zippo lighter?”

He seemed to catch on to what you were suggesting and nodded. The two of you broke off to the kitchen and found bug spray under one of the cabinets.

Joanie seemed unimpressed when you returned with the can.

“Just trust us,” you told her.

A creaking sound from the fireplace caught your attention.

“What is that?” Matt’s voice was higher pitched than normal.

“The flue,” Sam answered.

“Alright, I think everybody needs to get upstairs,” Dean ordered.

Suddenly, thousands of bugs poured into the living room from the fireplace, swarming all around you. Dean used his zippo to light the can of bug spray. “Alright, everybody upstairs! Now! Go, go, go!”

You covered your ears and ran upstairs to the attic with Sam and Dean close by you. You could hear bugs thumping against the attic hatch door; trying desperately to get in. There was only a few moments reprieve before you heard gnawing above you.

“Oh, God, what's that?” Joanie cried.

“Something's eating through the wood,” Dean replied.

“Termites,” Matt added.

Dean ordered the family to get back from the spot where sawdust was beginning to descend and bits of moonlight were coming through. Moments later, bugs began to fill the room through the chewed in spot. You and the boys frantically tried to patch the hole, swatting bugs away from you like a madwoman. You were able to shove a board of wood with another under it to hold it up, but that only worked for a second. Two other holes were chewed through the roof, raining bugs down on you. You covered your ear with one hand and swatted bugs away with the other. You and the boys backed up into the Pikes, who were huddled in the corner. Dean tried his best to light the bugs up, but nothing was working. Then, miraculously, the sun began to rise. Thankfully, all of the bugs began to fly out of the holes they’d chewed through the roof. You watched through the same holes as they flew up toward the sun. You breathed a sigh of relief.

***

The next morning, you and the boys were about to head out of town but stopped by the Pike residence on the way. You approached the moving van that Larry was loading boxes into.

“What, no goodbye?” Dean joked.

“Good timing. Another hour and we'd have been gone,” Larry answered. He shook your hand.

“For good?” you asked.

“Yeah. The development's been put on hold while the government investigates those bones you found. But I'm gonna make damn sure no one lives here again,” Larry explained.

“You don't seem too upset about it.”

“Well, this has been the biggest financial disaster of my career, but…” He looked over to Matt, who was carrying a box in the garage. “...somehow, I really don't care.”

You smiled at him.

Sam walked over to Matt, who was throwing away all of his insect paraphernalia. You looked on fondly as the two smiled and laughed. You bid Larry goodbye and went over to the car with Dean. Seconds later, Sam joined you.

“I wanna find Dad,” the brunet said.

“Yeah, me too,” Dean nodded.

“Yeah, but I just... I want to apologize to him.”

“For what?”

“All the things I said to him. He was just doin' the best he could.”

“Well, don't worry, we'll find him. And then you'll apologize. And then within five minutes, you guys will be at each other's throats.”

You laughed. “I wanna find him, too.”

The boys looked at you strangely.

“I wanna kick his ass to hell and back for leaving you two alone.”

Dean shook his head. “I’m sure he had his reasons.”

“Well, whatever they are, they aren’t good enough,” you quipped. “And I wanna thank him. If it weren’t for him, I never would’ve met you two.”

Sam smiled at you fondly at y0u. Dean had a look on his face you couldn’t quite read.

“I thought we agreed on no chick flick moments, (Y/N),” Dean remarked. “C’mon, let’s hit the road.”

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @iloveshawn @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @davina-clairee @chervbs @thepocketverse @simpingdeadcharacters @elqsiian

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester x you #dean x reader #dean x y/n #dean x you #dean winchester #supernatural #spn #supernatural series rewrite #spn series rewrite

350 notes · View notes

nightlyrequiem · 8 months ago

Note

HI HIHI i hope ur well!!! I would LOVEEE to make a very self indulgent Valeria request, so basically I am an autopsy tech and embalmer/mortician and I think it would be a cool plot like Valeria’s gf works with her and helps her out with all the bodies that she has to deal with basically. Id love for her to have a very feminine personality like a lil bimbo wife that is lowkey covered in blood 90% of the time lmao. And for the plot itself im not very creative ill sorta take anything fluff or smut mostly 😼 but its my birthday in like a week so ill leave it in your hands hehehe

HIIIIIII! I'm doing well, hope you're doing well too!! It's actually kind of funny that you request this because I have a thing in progress where Reader works in a morgue! Such a cool job btw

I enjoyed writing this, I did a little research but there might still be some inaccuracies I hope there aren't too many 🥲

Happy early birthday, too! I hope it's an amazing day <3

Tags/Warnings: WLW, Very Minor Graphic Depiction of a Corpse, Fluff, Suggestive Themes, Smut, Pre-Established Relationship

Embalming and Bows

You hum to yourself as you prepare the cavity embalming fluid. Trocars connecting to a man's hollow organs doing the work to suction out unwanted fluids. A cheery song with questionably sexual lyrics plays quietly while you work. The man on your table hasn't been handled with the usual respect you'd award corpses. You haven't even closed his eyes. He crossed Valeria. Stole drugs, or something. You aren't actually sure. Doesn't really matter. You're embalming him for her so she can display him outside as a warning. Slowing down the decomposition process long enough for the point to get across. You've done this for her a few times. Happy to support your partner's hobbies.

Your pink apron has a few stains. Blood as well as other things. Hands grip your hips, startling you into dropping the scalpel you just picked up.

"You've been down here for hours." Valeria murmurs into your ear. You smile and turn your head to look at her over your shoulder.

"I'm working." You reply. No bite to your voice. Valeria is always welcome to come interrupt you.

"Yeah?" Valeria hums, glancing at the man. "How's that going for you?"

You pull away gently and bend down to pick up your scalpel. Intentionally giving Valeria an eyeful of your panties. A short skirt isn't ideal to work in. But you're not technically on the clock and you felt like dressing cute today. "It's going fine." You reply, looking at the corpse. "I'm almost done. Just need to finish the cavity embalming and then he's good to go."

Valeria nods approvingly. There's a gleam in her eyes as she watches you move around. You're done draining him, so you begin to pump in the embalming fluid.

"Quite the lengthy process, you should walk me through it sometime." Valeria says.

"I'd love to." You grin, eager to share your career with her. "It's a bit of a long process, even more when you're preening them."

Valeria moves closer and presses against you. "Oh yeah?" She hums.

"You're going to get all gross." You warn. Some of those stains aren't stains yet. Valeria lowers her head and presses a small kiss against your throat.

"A little blood never hurt anyone, in fact I like it when you're covered in it." She replies, voice dropping an octave. "Tell me more about the preening, sounds sexy."

"Not at all." You shake your head, slapping her shoulder playfully. "I have to shave off the peach fuzz on their faces, wire their jaws shut, clean them, close their eyes, and sometimes do their hair and makeup."

Valeria peppers your throat in kisses.

"I'm sure the makeup bit is enjoyable for you."

You carefully peel off you gloves and chuck them at the trashcan. Missing terribly. "hm. You should let me do your makeup sometime." You say. Valeria grabs the backs of your thighs and hoists you onto the counter. It's cold under your bare skin. She steps between your thighs and sucks a bruise into the skin of your throat.

"You can do my makeup whatever way you want when I die." She offers. She's making a joke, but you don't find it very funny.

"I don't like to think about you dying." You scold. "Nobody wants to embalm their own girlfriend."

"Have me stuffed then, my other girlfriend is a taxidermist. She'll give you a discount."

You don't find those jokes very funny either. You gently push her away and hop off the counter.

"Not funny. Just for that you're not getting any tonight." You check on the body, making sure everything is going smoothly - that there are no leaks in the tubes. It was a nightmare to clean them the last time there was. The smell lingered for a week.

"I'm kidding Mi pequeña tanatorio." Valeria says. "That skirt looks very good on you." She very tactfully changes the subject. You beam at her from over your shoulder.

"Thank you, I bought it yesterday, along with a bunch of other things." You say. Turning to face her. "I found this new, super cute store full of the most beautiful dresses I've ever seen."

"And how much did that cost you?"

You begin to start putting your tools away. "It costed you nine hundred-fifty."

Valeria quirks a brow.

"I don't recall you asking to spend my money." She says. You blink at her innocently.

"Oh, whoops!" You grin. "I guess I'll just have to take back all those low cut, form fitting dresses... shame, they did wonders for my tits." You turn back around, filling up a tub with bleach to clean some of the incision tools.

"You don't need to do all of that, Corazón." Valeria dismisses. "You'll just have to repay me."

"Yeah?" You reply with a sultry tone. "How would you like me to repay you, hm?"

"You'll see soon."

A week passes by. Your efforts have kept the man decently fresh, but nature's will is stronger than any embalming fluid and soon the man begins to rot. You and Valeria pass under the bridge he's hanged from as you walk back to her car. You're fed, full, and content. Valeria treated you to a very nice restaurant for your birthday. Presenting you with gift after gift in a secluded corner. smiling at your girlish gasps. Valeria is of course carrying the bags and boxes they came in. You're limping slightly, your heels having chewed blisters into your heels, but you ignore the pain. Excited by the gifts and dinner, and what's going to be occurring when you get home. Dinner, gifts, and sweet sex to end your night.

Back in the bedroom, you shed your heels and sigh in relief. Freeing your feet from their pretty, arched prisons. You sit back on the bed while Valeria lights a few candles and sets your presents on the floor beside the closet. She approaches you while loosening her tie, it's enough to flood the silk of your panties. She crawls onto the bed toward you.

"Had fun?" She murmurs. Grabbing your thighs and pulling you towards her.

"I did." You reply quietly. Wrapping your arms around her shoulders.

Valeria's lips curl into a small smirk.

"Good. Lay back."

You comply, laying back against the feathery pillows. Heat pools into your lower stomach as Valeria sits up and removes her pants, chucking them off the bed. Her belt clatters against the floor. You watch her reach into the nightstand, grabbing a harness. You snake a hand between your legs to lightly tease yourself. She straps it to her hips and moves over you, reverently running her hands over your arms.

"You're so beautiful." She whispers. Hands gravitating towards your breasts. Valeria gives them a gentle squeeze as she kisses you. One hand slowly moving down between your bodies. She grabs ahold of her silicone cock and aligns it with your entrance. Knowing you're already worked up enough to not need that much preparation. She buries her face into your neck as she slowly pushes in. Sinking herself into your wet heat. Your inner walls work to pull her in deeper, sheathing her to the hilt.

Valeria pumps herself into you. You moan into her ear without shame as the head repeatedly bumps into that one sweet spot inside of you. Your legs lock around her hips and pull her closer. Your own hips canting up for a deeper angle. Valeria fucks you sweetly. taking her time with you. One of her hands has found its way to your clit. Fingers toying with the sensitive bundle of nerves expertly.

"I should fuck you in the morgue someday." She growls.

"That's a weird thing to want." You moan, barely getting the words out. Valeria pulls you up into her lap. Thrusting up into you, she can't feel anything but clearly, it's doing something to her anyway. Her panting breaths puff against your neck, her hands digging into your lower back.

"Why? There's something so erotic about doing you somewhere I shouldn't."

"Like when we-" You cut yourself off with a whine. "When we fucked in that bar bathroom?"

The coil in your lower abdomen grows tighter and tighter. You rut against her, chasing that release, your slick trickling down the shaft.

"Exactly like it." She replies. "Are you close?"

You nod, nosing along her neck. You can feel your mascara running. "Mhm."

"Good, that's good." Valeria coos, her strong arms keeping you close to her. Black hairs tickle your face and you reach up and lightly tug them. "I want you to come for me."

With her permission you thrust your hips down, mind clearing of everything but the big pink strap currently penetrating you. You shut your eyes and let out a guttural groan, creaming around Valeria's cock.

She pumps it into you a few more times before going still. Sweat coating her neck and back. You slump against her and she slowly lays you down. quickly detaching the harness. You relax into the soft blankets of the bed while Valeria shuffles around with her pants. The bed dips as Valeria lays beside you, lovingly touching your jaw.

"Happy birthday." She whispers, kissing your forehead. You mumble back at her. Soaking in that post-sex high. "You still need to repay me for that money you spent, though."

You furrow your brows. "What?" You mutter. Not bothering to open your eyes.

"You can't just spend that much without giving me something in return." She replies, a smile in her voice.

"I embalm people for you." You mumble defensively. "How else am I supposed to repay you?"

When Valeria doesn't reply you open your eyes. Stunned into a momentary silence. She has a small velvety box presented to you. A seven-carat diamond ring glittering in the candlelight. You shoot up, mouth agape.

"You can repay me by agreeing to be mine forever."

Your hands fly to your mouth. "You're proposing?"

Your question wins you a dry look from Valeria. Yes, she's proposing. You had always imagined this moment. You in a carefully put together outfit, perfect hair and makeup, Valeria down on one knee. It's not exactly the same as your fantasies but you're happy, nonetheless.

You smile gleefully and kiss her.

"Yes!" You say excitedly, voice bordering on a squeal. Valeria chuckles and slides the ring onto your finger. Watching you immediately start inspecting it. Turning your hand this way and that to watch the diamond sparkle. "It's gorgeous." You gush.

Valeria pulls you back down beside her. Sighing tiredly as she rests her chin on the top of your head. "I'm glad you like it, happy birthday Corazón, I love you."

#cod mw2 #valeria garza x reader #valeria garza #valeria garza x fem!reader #modern warefare ii

115 notes · View notes

vodika-vibes · 1 year ago

Text

Do It For Me

Summary: You are a Forensic Scientist who has been put in charge of the lab for Coruscant in spite of your youth and your relative inexperience. Due to budget cuts and the fact that there's so much crime on Coruscant, you are severely overworked. Hound takes an issue with that.

Pairing: Pre-ARF Trooper Hound x F!Reader

Word Count: 1837

Warnings: None

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni

A/N: I was writing a Fives fic and it was turning into hot garbage, so I wrote something else instead. And I'm in a Hound mood for some reason. AND I made a new divider for this story specifically.

You are severely overworked.

You know this. You’ve known this for years. And yet no one seems all that interested in making it better.

You thought, hoped, prayed, that the creation of the Coruscant Guard was going to lessen your workload.

It didn’t. In fact, it just made you busier.

Now there are a lot more men out there investigating crimes, and sending their evidence to your lab, and the same number of techs trying to analyze the evidence.

The turnover rate at your lab is, frankly, embarrassing.

You’re the employee who’s been here the longest, and you’ve only been here for two years. The fact that you’re now in charge of the lab, at barely 24 years old, is horrifying.

But none of the people who trained you were willing to stay.

And you can’t even keep new hires around for longer than a couple of months.

In fact, you once had a recent graduate that you interviewed and hired, who took one look at her to-do stack, and resigned. She worked less than an hour. You hadn’t even had time to finish filing her paperwork before she resigned.

It was impressive.

But as impressive as it was, it didn’t help with the fact that you’re one person doing the job of five.

You haven’t seen your apartment in a week.

You haven’t had a vacation since you were hired.

You haven’t slept more than 6 hours a night in over six months.

And still, still, the work keeps piling up.

At this point, every time you close your eyes, you see blood splatter and blaster round trajectory and dead bodies. Every night for the last week, you’ve had nightmares about the morgue-

You need a break.

Desperately.

But, in the end, it doesn’t matter what you need. Because crimes keep happening, people keep dying, and the evidence keeps piling up, and there aren’t enough employees for anyone to even take a day off, let alone a vacation.

You push your fingers through your hair, pulling it out of the tail only long enough to use your fingers as a brush, and then you pull your hair into a messy knot, and focus your exhausted eyes back on the file in front of you.

30 year old Nautolan Male, found murdered in the lower level. Coroner's report indicates that he was executed, two bolts to the back of the head. Victim was a known member of the Justic-

The words start blurring on the page, and you sigh and press the palms of your hands over your eyes.

You are so kriffing tired.

There’s a sharp knock on your door, and you lift your head as someone clad in gray and white armor walks in. The locations of the colors indicate that he’s a member of the Coruscant Guard, and the colors themselves indicate that he’s an ARF Trooper.

Not for the first time, you curse the fact that the Guard doesn’t allow for more unique body armor paint.

You squint at him for a moment, waiting for your eyes to agree with you so you can focus better on the man standing in front of you. “What’s wrong, Sen’ika, can’t recognize me?”

You recognize the light tone, and familiar nickname, before you recognize the man, and you send up a silent prayer of thanks that the clones only have identical faces, and not identical personalities.

“Hound,” You even sound tired to your own ears, and as he comes closer to you, you see a concerned expression on his face, “Ah, sorry. Sergeant.” You correct hastily.

“You don’t have to use my rank, Sen’ika.” He crouches next to your desk, his sharp eyes taking in the bags under your eyes, the way your hands are trembling, and the blanket and pillow on your couch. “When was the last time you went home and slept?” He asks, his voice gentle.

“Does it look like I have time for that?” You ask as you rub your tired eyes, “I dunno, it’s been a week, I think.”

“Sen’ika,” Hound frowns at you, “This isn’t healthy.”

“It’s not like crime stops because I need to sleep,” You grouch, “And the evidence keeps piling up, and I can’t get anyone to stay longer than a few months and-” You trail off, “And you have another case for me, don’t you?” Your voice becomes dull and almost lifeless.

Hound stares at you for a moment, and then he flashes a small smile. “I don’t, actually. I just wanted to come and see you.”

You squint at him, “Come and see me? Why?”

“Do I need a reason?”

“...I guess not?” You ask, bewildered.

“Exactly!” Hound smoothly slides something onto your desk while you watching him, bewildered, and then he takes your hands and lightly pulls you to your feet, “We’re taking a trip.”

“I can’t! I have-”

“You have a legal requirement to take an hour break every 6 hours.” Hound interrupts, “How many hours have you been working? More than 6 I’m guessing.”

“...Yeah, maybe.” You don’t fight him as he draps an arm over your shoulder and he guides you out of your office, and down the hall, and then outside, to where Grizzer is waiting.

The large massiff immediately bounces around your feet, and you duck slightly to give her a scratch. You’re a familiar person to her, likely because of how often you bump into Hound at various crime scenes.

“You never did tell me where we’re going.” You say to Hound once you straighten back up.

“Trust me.” Hound offers as he takes Grizzer’s leash and then tugs you against his side.

You’re a little confused at the way he’s being so comfortable with touching you, but you’re also not too bothered. Hound is Hound, after all. He’s always been safe.

So, as he leads you down the street, you don’t offer any complaint outside of a very weak argument that you needed your purse and your comm. And, with a laugh, Hound disagrees.

Hound doesn’t have an office, per se, but he does have his own space where he’s able to do his own paperwork, and where he can take Grizzer when she gets overwhelmed.

And apparently, where he brings overworked and underpaid civil servants who are working themselves to death.

His sen’ika is sitting on the old, worn couch he got from somewhere, her arms draped over Grizzer who is asleep on her lap. She looks exhausted. The kind of exhausted that he’s only seen on Fox before.

In a word, he’s worried.

“Sen’ika,” He coos the familiar nickname, and she lifts her gaze to look at him through hazy and exhausted eyes, and even then she’s the most stunning woman he’s ever met, “You can lay down and take a nap, I won’t judge you.”

She’s already shaking her head, “I have to get back eventually.”

“But if you get up, you’ll disturb Grizzer.” Hound points out.

She looks down at Grizzer, and she must be more tired than he thought because she just looks puzzled, like she can’t quite figure out the best way to get free. His worry increases.

“Just a short nap, sen’ika.” Hound encourages, “You’re not going to be able to finish your work with how fuzzy you are right now.”

For a moment she looks like she’s about to agree, but then she presses her lips into a thin line, “I have to get back, Hound.”

Hound leans back in his seat, his mind racing. He can’t let her go back. Not in this state. And using Grizzer as an excuse isn’t going to work anymore, he already knows.

“Alright,” He says slowly, thoughtfully.

He gets to his feet and carefully moves Grizzer, and then helps his sen’ika to her feet. Hound isn’t the least bit surprised when she stumbles into him, though he is glad that he thought ahead and removed the majority of his armor.

“...m’sorry.” She says quietly.

Hound closes his eyes for a moment and then, very gently presses his hand against the back of her neck, holding her against him. “You haven’t done anything wrong.” His voice is soft, soothing.

Her hands come up to press against his chest, and for a moment, Hound thinks she’s going to push away, worries that he pushed too hard. But, instead, she curls her fingers into the thin material of his blacks. “I’m so tired,” She whispers, and her voice cracks.

And that’s what Hound was waiting for.

His free arm wraps firmly around her, holding her tight, “You don’t have to go back to work. You need to take a break.”

He feels her tears soaking into his top and Hound turns his head to press a light kiss to the side of her head, “Someone has to do it-” She whispers, her voice thick with tears.

“That someone doesn’t have to be you.” Hound murmurs in reply as he slowly, and carefully, walks her back towards the couch. He readjusts her, and then sits on the couch, while holding her close. “We can reach out to the Jedi, they can help you.”

“The Senate-”

“Kriff the senate,” Hound’s voice holds no heat as he gently offers what comfort he can, “You’re working yourself to death, and I’m not going to tolerate it anymore.”

She pulls away from his shoulder and looks up at him through miserable, watery eyes, “Why do you care?”

“Because you’re my friend. Because I care about you.” Hound brushes his fingers against her cheek, “because I love you more than anything in this galaxy. Take your pick.”

She blinks at him, and then drops her head on his shoulder. She doesn’t say anything positive, but she also doesn’t say anything negative, which is good enough for now.

It’s not fair to spring love on her when she’s so exhausted. The fact that she’s not running away is good enough for now.

“Will you stay here and take a nap?” Hound asks as he strokes her back lovingly, “For me?”

“Every time I try to sleep, I have nightmares,” She admits quietly.

“Then you can sleep on me. I’ll wake you if you look like you’re having a nightmare. I promise.” Hound offers. “What do you think?”

She sighs, soft and quiet, “I suppose I can agree to that.” His sen’ika’s eyes drift shut, and Hound carefully adjusts her so that she’s leaning against him comfortably.

Fox is going to blow a gasket, but if he words his request properly, maybe then the Guard and the Forensics unit can get Jedi oversight. That can only help with his poor Sen’ika’s problem, and it’ll keep Fox from working himself to death.

Hound glances at the woman in his lap, and his gaze softens, before he presses a light kiss to the top of her head. That’s a problem for later, for now, he has the love of his life asleep in his arms, and he’s going to just enjoy it while he can.

#star wars #tcw #arf trooper hound x reader #hound x reader #star wars fanfiction #x reader fanfiction #f!reader fic

149 notes · View notes

anundyingfidelity · 1 year ago

Text

SUPERNATURAL MASTERLIST

☆ (angst). ♡ (fluff). ★ (smut).

〰・DEAN・〰

BLIND COLORS / one shot. ♡

Dean finally makes a confession, but you don't feel the same way.

SENSE OF DOUBT / one shot. ♡☆

Dean is gone, but one day he shows up at your door to see you one last time before it's over.

〰・SAM・〰

FREE PASS / one shot. ★

Two men appear at your office to inspect a body from a lady who died under mysterious conditions. As a forensic, you are not letting strangers inside the morgue, but one of them is going too far to get your permission.

〰・DEAN x READER x SAM・〰

DEVOTION / one shot. ★

You get into the path of the Winchester brothers, and since then, nothing is the same once a bond strictly agreed for pleasure is created between you and them. When they want, they follow you, and you know they always follow.

YES MA’AM / short series. (slow updates).

Sam is the new tech support guy at Sandover Bridge & Iron Inc., and he thinks you, his supervisor, are related to him in ways more than professional. He not only dreams of ghosts and Dean Smith, the sales and marketing director, but you, the pretty boss who seems very fond of him, maybe a little too much. Chapter I | Chapter II

#supernatural masterlist #another one

111 notes · View notes

loverslantern · 2 years ago

Text

The Hunter and The Witch: Dean Winchester x Fem! reader

Description: A small town where dark secrets unfold isn’t anything new to these seasoned hunters, except when it has something to do with urban legends…apparently.

Warnings: cannon violence, mentions/talk of suicide, mentions of gruesome death, eye bleeding, Blood Mary (idk if this would be a warning but like 🤷🏼‍♀️), mentions of murder, witchy stuff

Tag list: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld , @okayiamkassandra ,@fablesrose

A/N: I’m so sorry this took so long to get out again my AP class is really AP-ing and has taken up literally all my time. I spent four days working on a 20 pages packet that took forever meaning I had zero time for this. Again so so sorry.

Word count: 7,719

Bloody Mary

(Masterlist, Previous Chapter, Next Chapter)

“Sam, wake up.” Dean nudges the man in question, the car in park.

Sam wakes, confused, he sits up and looks around. “I take it I was having a nightmare.”

“Yeah, another one.” Dean confirms, and I nod too a frown on my face.

“Hey, at least I got some sleep.” Sam offers

“Sam” I stretch out his name, “that cannot be your positive to this.”

“You know, sooner or later we're gonna have to talk about this.” Dean adds.

But Sam ignores us, avoids the whole conversation, “Are we here?”

Dean lets him avoid the whole ordeal and I have to wonder how long he will let his brother lie. Though I guess I'm no better. “Yup. Welcome to Toledo, Ohio.”

Sam picks up a newspaper that sat on the console of the car, the obituary of Steven Shoemaker circled.

‘The Shoemaker family is sad to announce the sudden death of their beloved husband and father Steven Shoemarker. Steven was 46. A short service will be held on Wednesday, [...] 31 at 2:00 p.m. at the Toledo [...] and cherish you [...] Your [...]’ The article read.

“So what do you think really happened to this guy?” Sam asks us.

“That's what we're gonna find out.” Dean answers, turning off the car. “Let's go.”

We exit the car, entering the large hospital building that stood in front of us walking up to the two desks that lie in the room. One of them is empty with a name tag that reads, ‘Dr. D. Feiklowicz.’ The other one however was occupied by a Morgue technician in blue scrubs, “Hey” the man greets us as we approach.

“Hey.” Dean answers back.

“Can I help you?” The technician asks, looking between the three of us.

“Yeah. We're the, uh...med students.” Dean lies.

“Sorry?” The man asks back.

“Oh, Doctor—“ Dean stammers over the name, “—Figlavitch didn't tell you? We talked to him on the phone. He, uh, we're from Ohio State. He's supposed to show us the Shoemarker corpse. It's for our paper.”

“Well, I'm sorry, he's at lunch.” The tech informs us.

“Oh well he said, uh—“ Dean sighs, “—oh, well, you know, it doesn't matter. You don't mind just showing us the body, do you?”

“Sorry, I can't. Doc will be back in an hour. You can wait for him if you want.” He tells us, gesturing to the seats on the side of the room.

“An hour? Ooh. We gotta be heading back to Columbus by then.” Dean looks at me and Sam as if queuing us to lie with him.

“Yeah.” Sam and I say at the same time, “Jinx” I mumble underneath my breath just loud enough for Sam to hear me who in return gives me a scrunched face.

“Uh, look, man, this paper's like half our grade, so if you don't mind helping us out—“ Dena explains getting cut off by the man in scrubs, “Uh, look, man...no.”

Dean laughs a little. He turns around to face us, mumbling, “I'm gonna hit him in his face I swear.”

But I mean we can’t really blame the guy he’s just doing his job.

Sam hits his brother on the arm, taking a step in front of him he opens his wallet and pulls out some twenties. He lays a few of them, at least five, down on the desk. The Morgue Tech picks up the money, “Follow me.”

The technician gets up and leaves. I go to follow, seeing in the corner of my eye Dean grabbing Sam when he too tries to follow, forcing me to stop and go back a step to see what they are on about.

“Dude, I earned that money.” Dean complains.

“You won it in a poker game.” Sam clarifies.

“Yeah.” Dean answers.

Sam rolls his eyes, pulling away from his brother to follow the technician.

“You’ll make it back” I say, patting Dean on the back shortly to go follow the morgue man.

Dean stays back a half a second before following after us.

“Now the newspaper said his daughter found him. She said his eyes were bleeding.” Sam said as the Morgue Tech pulled back the sheet over Steven’s face. Revealing a pale, long faced man with dark hair, blood stained on his cheeks below his eyes as if he had cried them.

“More than that. They practically liquefied.” The tech scuffs.

“Any sign of a struggle? Maybe somebody did it to him?” Dean asks him.

“Nope. Besides the daughter, he was all alone.” He answers.

“What's the official cause of death?” Sam questioned.

“Ah, Doc's not sure. He's thinking massive stroke, maybe an aneurysm? Something burst up in there, that's for sure.” He replied.

“You mean like cerebral bleeding?” I ask, wanting to clarify.

“Yeah. This guy had more blood in his skull than anyone I've ever seen.” He responded.

“The eyes & mash;what would cause something like that?” Sam asked.

“Capillaries can burst. See a lot of bloodshot eyes with stroke victims.” The technician explains.

“Yeah? You ever see exploding eyeballs?” Dean scuffs.

“That's a first for me, but hey, I'm not the doctor.” The tech shrugs.

“Hey, think we could take a look at that police report? You know for, uh...our paper.” Dean requests.

“I'm not really supposed to show you that.” He answers, stretching out ‘that.’

Sam sighs clearly annoyed, as he pulls out his wallet.

Now leaving the hospital, walking down the stairs Sam suggests, “Might not be one of ours. Might just be some freak medical thing.”

“How many times in Dad's long and varied career has it actually been a freak medical thing and not some sign of an awful supernatural death?” Dean points out.

“Uh, almost never.” Sam answers.

“Exactly.”

“Well then, let's go talk to the daughter.” I announce”

We walk into Steven’s funeral, a picture of him on the desk.

All the men in the room are wearing black suits and the women adorned in black dresses, everyone except us. Dean points this very fact out, “Feel like we're underdressed.” I nod in agreement, my lips in a tight line, the guilt of interrupting these people’s mourning with not only us being undressed but also for not having a reasonable explanation of us being here.

But no one stops us as we keep walking through the house, all the way towards the back and outside to the backyard.

A man points us towards Donna and Lily Shoemarker, the daughters of the man we had seen on a metal table only moments before, who are standing near two people whom I can only assume is a friend or family member.

“You must be Donna, right?” Dean greets the eldest daughter as we approach the group of people.

“Yeah.” She answers sadly brushing her short brunette hair out of her face.

“Hi, uh—we're really sorry.” Sam says.

“Thank you.” She replies, and I know she must have heard that same phrase of ‘i’m sorry’ and must have answered the same ‘thank you’ over and over to each person here. As if the death of her father hadn’t broken what’s inside her enough.

“I'm Sam, this is Dean, and that’s Y/N. We worked with your dad.” He explains.

She looks at one of the adults near her and then back at us, “You did?” And I feel bad for lying to her about this to give her a connection to her father that had never existed.

“Yeah. This whole thing. I mean, a stroke.” Dean goes on.

“I don't think she really wants to talk about this right now” One of the men with her say, stepping in.

“It's okay. I'm okay.” Donna says, with a sharp nod.

“Were there any symptoms? Dizziness? Migraines?” Dean asks, listing out various options.

“No.” She says simply.

Lily, the youngest daughter, turns around, “That's because it wasn't a stroke.”

“Lily, don’t say that.” Donna snaps.

“What?” Sam asks.

“I'm sorry, she's just upset.” Donna explains.

“No, it happened because of me.” Lily speaks up.

“Sweetie, it didn't.” Donna tries to convince.

“Oh Lily”, I say sadly crouching down to be closer to her eye level, “What makes you think that?” I knew what it felt like to blame yourself for someone else’s death, especially your parents, especially when it happens twice and you're too young to understand why this would happen to you. I feel the eyes of the people around me bore into me, especially from the brothers behind me.

“Right before he died, I said it.” Lily answers.

“Said what?” I ask her.

“Bloody Mary, three times in the bathroom mirror.” She explains, pausing, “She took his eyes, that's what she does.” My eyes go wide, not exactly expecting that answer.

“That's not why Dad died. This isn't your fault.” Donna reasons.

“I think your sister's right, Lily. There's no way it could have been Bloody Mary. Your dad didn't say it, did he?” Dean offers, giving the kid some logic to combat what she believes.

“No, I don't think so.” Lily answers. But I know it will take her years to really believe it wasn’t her fault, if ever.

Saying ‘bye’ to the grief rickened family we head back inside the house, but instead of truly leaving we sneak upstairs, approaching the bathroom.

Sam pushes the door open, dried blood stained to the white tiled floor, “The Bloody Mary legend...Dad ever find any evidence that it was a real thing?”

“Not that I know of.” Dean answers, him and I trailing in after Sam who stoops to the floor touching the dried blood, “I mean, everywhere else all over the country, kids will play Bloody Mary, and as far as we know, nobody dies from it.”

I grimace, why would he touch the blood?

“Yeah, well, maybe everywhere it's just a story, but here it's actually happening.” Dean offers.

“The place where the legend began?” Sam asks and we both shrug, Dean opening the medicine cabinet.

“But according to the legend, the person who says B—“ Sam looks at the medicine cabinet mirror, it now facing him, he closes it before continuing, “The person who says you know what gets it. But here—“

“Mr.Shoemaker gets it instead” I finish his sentence.

“Right.”

“Never heard anything like that before. Still, the guy did die right in front of the mirror, and the daughter's right. The way the legend goes, you know who scratches your eyes out.” Dean adds.

“It's worth checking in to.” Sam concludes, as we leave the bathroom.

“What are you doing up here?” A blonde woman stops us, the same woman who was comforting the daughters outside.

“We—we, had to go to the bathroom.” Dean lies, poorly, because it makes perfect sense for three people to be using a private bathroom all at once.

“Who are you?” She asks us, naturally not accepting the poorly down lie.

“Like we said downstairs, we worked with Donna's dad.” Dean confirms.

“He was a day trader or something. He worked by himself.” She counters, and we should really start researching these people before we make up lies of how we know them.

Dean tries to cover, “No, I know, I meant—“

“And all those weird questions downstairs, what was that? So you tell me what's going on, or I start screaming.” She tells us, leaving no more room for any nonsense.

“All right, all right. We think something happened to Donna's dad.” Sam begins.

“Yeah, a stroke.” She answers.

“But it isn’t a typical sign of stroke, it might be something else.” I say softly, ashamed for suggesting such a thing to someone who has no knowledge of our world. These people are going through so much the last thing they need is some random people questioning what they know, I wouldn’t blame her if she did scream.

“Like what?” She scoffs, crossing her arms in front of her.

Sam explains this time probably sensing my unease with all this, “Honestly? We don't know yet. But we don't want it to happen to anyone else. That's the truth.”

Dean tilts his head, “So, if you're gonna scream, go right ahead.” My eyes widened, snapping to look at him, and suddenly that unease I felt vanished, replaced by a burning hot feeling that rushed through my veins and brought a flush to my face. I gulped, trying to push down the feeling a simple sentence that wasn’t even directed towards me made me feel. The cockiness it held as well as the allowance in his voice…it shouldn’t have affected me, and really shouldn’t have created a burning-longing in my gut.

“Who are you, cops?” The woman questions us, but my eyes haven’t left Dean as if he was light and I a moth.

I catch Sam and Dean looking at each other, speaking without words, in my peripheral vision. “Something like that” Dean answers.

It’s then that Dean must have felt my gaze on him, my lips slightly agape as I looked at him through my lashes. His attention turned to me as Sam continued the conversation that I had long blanked out of. Dean looked me over, eyes trailing over my very being, only worsening the burning I had felt within. His eyes met mine again giving me that devilish smirk of his, I swallowed again my eyes falling to his lips.

Sam clears his throat, nudging his brothers hard enough that he knocks into me slightly. Effectively catching our attention.

“Let’s go” He tells us, the woman still in front of us this time her attention to a small piece of white paper that I assume has some sort of contact information on it.

“All right, say Bloody Mary really is haunting this town. There's gonna be some sort of proof—Like a local woman who died nasty.” Dean begins as we walk into the oddly dark library, the stale smell of cleaning products surrounding us.

“Yeah but Blood Mary is a widespread legend with tons of versions of who she actually is, with no clear answer. There’s the mutilated bride, a spirit conjured to tell the future, a witch, and a whole lot more” I answer.

“All right so what are we supposed to be looking for?” Dean asks.

“Well in every version's got a few things in common. It's always a woman named Mary, and she always dies right in front of a mirror. So we've gotta search local newspapers—public records as far back as they go. See if we can find a Mary who fits the bill.” Sam adds, answering.

“Well that sounds annoying” Dean admits.

“No it won't be so bad, as long as we…” Sam trails off looking over to the table lined with computers all that say ‘Out of Order’, he chuckles “I take it back. This will be very annoying.”

We quickly turned around, heading back to the motel we were staying at to do our research there. Dean sat leaning with his head on his hand on the small table in the room on his brother's laptop. The younger brother in question had fallen asleep on one of the beds, the rustling of the sheets giving away the fact he was tossing and turning. I however sat crisscrossed on the other bed Deans to be specific, not like he cared anyways, researching on my laptop trying to find any relevant info on a Mary in this town or deaths relating to mirrors.

“Why'd you let me fall asleep?” Sam suddenly speaks up, voice evident with sleep.

“Cause I'm an awesome brother” Dean scoffs, he’d never admit it was really because Sam hadn’t been able to sleep or at least sleep long for the last couple of weeks.

“And what’s your excuse Y/N?” Sam questions me, leaning on his side with one arm propped up.

“You were sleepy!” I admit simply, smiling at him. He rolls his eyes, huffing a laugh.

“So what did you dream about?” Dean asks him, though what he was really asking was ‘did you have another nightmare?’

“Lollipops and candy canes.” He answers sarcastically. So sassy and for what?

“Yum” I reply, my eyes going back to my laptop.

“Did you find anything?” Sam asks us.

“Oh besides a whole new level of frustration?” Dean huffs, making Sam sit up, “No. We’ve looked at everything. A few local women, a Laura and a Catherine committed suicide in front of a mirror, and a giant mirror fell on a guy named Dave, but uh, no Mary.”

Sam falls back on the bed, the crisp sheets making a ‘whoosh’ noise beneath him, “Maybe we just haven't found it yet.”

“Thing is, there’s also been no strange deaths in the area, no other eyeball bleeding. Nothing. Which you know is good in hindsight but not quite helpful for us.” I explain.

Dean adds on, “Whatever's happening here, maybe it just ain't Mary.”

Almost as if on cue Sam’s phone rings, he answers, still laying down. “Hello?”

Charlie, the blonde woman who questioned us before, sat on the park bench slightly hunched. I sat next to her to offer some comfort, while Dean sat on the back on the bench, his leg nearly brushing my back.

“And they found her on the bathroom floor. And her—her eyes. They were gone.” Charlie nearly sobbed, having explained everything that happened with her friend Jill.

Jill, who had wanted to tease the blonde women about believing in such a legend, saying the name in the mirror and winding up dead. Her death being in the same manner as Mr. Shoemaker.

“I'm sorry.” Sam answered, eyebrows scrunched together.

“And she said it. I heard her say it. But it couldn't be because of that. I'm insane, right?” She whimpered, using the back of her hands to clear the wetness from her cheeks.

“You aren’t insane” I tell her clearly.

“Oh God, that makes me feel so much worse.” She whines and I try to not let it hurt me, because she's griefing, even though it does.

“Look. We think something's happening here. Something that can't be explained” Sam explains. Dean adding, “And we're gonna stop it but we could use your help.”

Dean lifts me up again, this time to reach an elevated first floor window rather than a fence. His hands sliding from tight around my hips, to brushing down my thighs as he lifts me in reach of the window sill. The window wasn’t that high to reach in the first place but with my height, amidtely being shorter than both the boys, it wasn’t exactly comfortable or super easy to reach the window and pull myself up and in.

My hands grasp the cold white window sill, my rings clinking against the surface as I pull my body up. I swiftly slide my hips sideways making my butt land on the sill, in the same sort of movements you would use when you lift yourself out of a pool.

I move my legs inside the carpeted room, ducking slightly as to not hit my head on the open window. The room belonged to Jill, and as my feet hit the soft gray carpet I officially feel the disgust of intrusion creep up on me.

I slide off the windowsill moving into the room more, Sam quickly taking my place near the window to pick up the duffle Dean threw up at him. He catches it, putting it on the bed and immediately digging through it.

“So what did you tell Jill’s mom?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest, the uncomfortability of being in someone’s bedroom let alone a dead girls bedroom crawling up my skin and in my bones.

“Just that I needed some time alone with Jill's pictures and things.” Charlie answers looking between us and the door nervously. Dean climbs through the window shutting the curtain behind and Sam pulls something out of the bag. “I hate lying to her” Charlie adds.

“Trust us, this is for the greater good. Hit the lights” Dean orders.

She goes over to the lights, “”What are you guys looking for?

“We'll let you know as soon as we find it.” Dean hums.

Sam hands him a camcorder on and ready, the object he got from the duffel, “Hey, night vision.” He recalls prompting the older brother to do so, his face scrunched with focus as he finds the button.

“Perfect.” Sam smiles.

The little screen of the camcorder is facing Dean, in a ‘selfie’ like mode, “Do I look like Paris Hilton?” He smiles.

I laugh, slapping a hand to his upper arm on instinct, “Sure you do, baby” I joke, the pet name not something I ever use slipping from my tongue before I could realize. His head turns to give me an amused and smug smirk. In his distractment Sam takes the camera back, going over to the closet door filming around the mirror.

“So I don't get it. I mean...the first victim didn't summon Mary, and the second victim did. How's she choosing them?” Sam asks out loud.

“Beats me.” Dean answers, focusing back on the situation at hand. “I want to know why Jill said it in the first place.”

“It was just a joke.” Charlie reasons.

“Yeah well somebody's gonna say it again, it's just a matter of time.” Dean replies.

Sam wandered into the bathroom now, looking at the mirror there. “Hey!” He calls out, getting us to turn and look at him. “There's a black light in the trunk, right?”

Dean immediately went off to go get it coming back rather swiftly, just as Sam placed the mirror on Jill’s bed laying it upside down after having carried it from the bathroom. With the black light now in hand, he peels off the brown paper that’s on the back of the mirror, shining the purple light on its back revealing a handprint and the name ‘Gary Bryman.’

“Gary Bryman?” Charlie reads out loud both as an acknowledgment and also a question.

“Do you know who that is?” I ask her.

“No.” She answers simply.

Back on the bench, in nearly the same positions, Sam recalls his findings. “So, Gary Bryman was an 8-year-old boy. Two years ago he was killed in a hit and run. The car was described as a black Toyota Camry. But nobody got the plates or saw the driver.”

“Oh my God.” Charlie gasps, horror in her eyes as she covers her mouth.

“What?” I ask the question we’re all thinking.

“Jill drove that car” She answers. Without looking for confirmation I know the boy's eyes are wide too, but there’s no room for the talking that comes after shock.

“We need to get back to your friend Donna’s house.

Somehow, with the help of Charlie, we convinced our way into Donna’s house back up to the bathroom we were in only hours before.

Hunched over the mirror with the black light, our suspicions were correct. There’s a handprint, one I have to say looks like the one in Jill’s bathroom, but I'm no criminologist. This time the name ‘Linda Shoemaker’ is written on it.

We all look at each other, knowing it’s likely that Steven killed his wife hence why Bloody Mary went for him and not the young girl who chanted her name. But the only way to have any idea of this theory is correct is to ask the brunette teenager downstairs.

“Why are you asking me this?” Donna asks us.

“I’m really sorry, Donna, but this is important.” I try to explain, but I know it won’t make sense to her. I mean we are total strangers asking her uncomfortable questions about her dead mother.

“Yeah. Linda's my mom okay? She overdosed on sleeping pills, it was an accident, and that's it.” She fumes, eyebrows scrunched together in fury, “I think you should leave.”

“Now Donna, just listen.” Dean reaches a hand up, as if to motion ‘calm down.’ But it doesn't work. Teary eyed and a little red in the face she yells, “Get out of my house!” Swiftly she runs up the stairs, not giving us another option.

“Oh my God. Do you really think her dad could've killed her mom?” Charlie asks, finally picking up on our theory.

“Maybe.” Sam shrugs.

“I think I should stick around” Charlie announces, referring to staying with Donna, which is probably a good idea.

“All right. Whatever you do, don't—“ Dean tries to warn getting cut off, “Believe me, I won't say it.”

The crisp smell of old books and, oddly, cinnamon fill my nose as I take a deep breath, flexing my hand as I work out the cramping from writing a little too intensely in my small journal.

Dean sits next to me on the cold metal chairs in the library we decided to research in (different to the original one we were at), he’s typing away on the clunky computer the library has. Sam’s staring off at a bulletin board behind us with all sorts of things on it.

“Wait, wait, wait, you're doing a nationwide search?” He asks Dean, alerting us of him coming back to his seat on the other side of his brother.

“Yep. The NCIC, the FBI database—at this point any Mary who died in front of a mirror is good enough for me.” Dean answers.

“But if she's haunting the town, she should have died in the town.” Sam points out.

“I'm telling you there's nothing local, I've checked. So unless you got a better idea—“ Dean explains and as much as I love him I cut him off.

“Well, Mary’s victims have a pattern, which I know you guys already know so I'll just cut to the good part. Both victims had secrets relating to where people died and, here’s the good part, there’s a lot of folklore on mirrors, specifically that mirrors are a reflection of your soul. And with that your secrets and lies are revealed to the mirror.

Fun Fact! It was the Romans who believed that the soul would regenerate every seven years, so if you broke a mirror then you’d have to wait seven years until your soul was cleansed of the bad luck and misfortune.

And while I have more fun facts about mirrors I will end it there.” I smiled, satisfied with my information vomit as well as my fun fact because fun facts are wonderful.

Both boys look at me strangely, a mix of confusion and what I think is amazement (they should be amazed cause that was a really great fun fact). Dean seems to shake it off, “Right. So if you've got a secret, I mean like a really nasty one where someone died, then Mary sees it, and punishes you for it.”

Sam adding, “Whether you're the one that summoned her or not.”

“Correcto!” I answer, and by correct I mean that’s what I was thinking for our working theory.

“Then take a look at this.” Dean announces, clicking a few buttons on the computer before leaning over to the nearby printer, pulling out and handing us the paper. It’s a picture of a woman lying by a mirror in a puddle of blood. He prints out another picture, this time of a handprint and the letters “Tre.”

“Looks like the same handprint.” Sam points out and I nod in agreement.

“Her name was Mary Worthington—an unsolved murder in Fort Wayne, Indiana.”

“I was on the job for 35 years-detective for most of that. Now everybody packs it in with a few loose ends, but the Mary Worthington murder—that one still gets me.” The detective states, unfortunately I immediately forgot his name. It's not the nicest thing to happen but I was also really focused on his country accent that’s just a little too funny.

“What exactly happened?” Dean asked, leaning forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees.

“You boys and girl said you were reporters?” Mr. Detective questioned.

“We know Mary was 19, lived by herself. We know she won a few local beauty contests, dreamt of getting out of Indiana, being an actress. And we know the night of March 29th someone broke into her apartment and murdered her, cut out her eyes with a knife.” Sam recalls the gruesome story.

“That's right.” He confirms.

“See sir, when we asked you what happened, we wanted to know what you think happened.” Sam clarifies for him, somewhere between a curious and condescending tone.

Mr. Detective eyes us over as if he’s contemplating something. He spins his wheely chair around swiftly getting up and going to a large file cabinet. “Technically I'm not supposed to have a copy of this” He huffs, pulling out a file and then a picture, the same picture Dean had already found on the computer. “Now see that there? T-R-E?” Detective reads out, even though unbeknownst to him it’s old news to us.

“Yeah” Dean answers.

“I think Mary was trying to spell out the name of her killer.” He theorizes.

“Do you know who it was, or any theories?” I ask, trying to get any sort of new answers.

“Not for sure. But there was a local man, a surgeon-Trevor Sampson.” He pulls out another photo, this time of this Trevor guy, he has an oval face with curly short hair definitely on the darker side but I can’t say exactly what color due to the black and white photo. He’s also wearing some sunglasses.

“And I think he cut her up good.” He finishes, his accent thick.

“Why do you think it’s him?” I question further.

“Her diary mentioned a man that she was seeing. She called him by his initial, ‘T’. Well, her last entry, she was gonna tell ‘T’'s wife about their affair.” He answers, and for a detective that truly means nothing.

“No offense but how does that directly correlate to Sampson… I mean there’s other people with the initial ‘T’ right?” I question him again, hoping it doesn't offend the man.

“It's hard to say, but the way her eyes were cut out...it was almost professional.” He explains.

“But you could never prove it?” Dean asks, chiming in.

“No. No prints, no witnesses. He was meticulous.” Mr. Detective nods.

“Is he still alive?” Dean follows up.

“Nope.” He sighs, sitting down. “If you ask me, Mary spent her last living moments trying to expose this guy's secret. But she never could.”

“Where's she buried?” Sam asks this time.

“She wasn't. She was cremated” He answers. No digging up bodies for us today.

“What about that mirror”, Dean nods towards the one in the photo, “It's not in some evidence lockup somewhere is it?”

“Ah, no. It was returned to Mary's family a long time ago.” He explains, leaning back in his chair.

“You have the names of her family by any chance?”

We drive down the roads, the sun setting behind us. Sam’s call dictates where we go, either to whatever location he gives us or back to the motel.

“Oh really? Ah that's too bad Mr. Worthington. I would have paid a lot for that mirror. Okay, well maybe next time. All right, thanks.” Sam hangs up, pocketing his phone.

“So?” Dean asks.

“So that was Mary's brother. The mirror was in the family for years, until he sold it one week ago to a store called Estate Antiques. A store in Toledo.” Sam stated.

“So wherever the mirror goes, that's where Mary goes?” Dean raises.

“Her spirit's definitely tied up with it somehow.” Sam simply puts it.

“Isn't there an old superstition that says mirrors can capture spirits?” Dean asks.

“Yeah! People would cover up the mirror when someone died so that their spirit/ soul wouldn’t get trapped.” I explain, happy to spew some more of my fun facts.

“So Mary dies in front of a mirror, and it draws in her spirit” Dean works through the facts.

“Yes! But I don’t know how she’s working through various mirrors” I admit.

“I don't know either, but if the mirror is the source, I say we find it and smash it.” Dean proposes.

“Yeah, I don't know, maybe.” Sam gets cut off by his own phone, “ Hello.” A look of concern washes over his face, becoming pale “Charlie?”

The motel room is colder, the rain outside causing that meek fact. Charlie’s sitting on Sam’s bed, her head on her knees, after we picked her up from school all terrified. All the curtains are drawn shut, all the mirrors and reflective surfaces are covered with sheets or turned aquas towards a wall or the floor there will be no bloody mary getting in here.

Sam sits next to Charlie, “Hey, hey it's ok. Hey, you can open up your eyes Charlie. It's okay, all right?” She looks up reluctantly and slowly, “Now listen. You're gonna stay right here on this bed, and you're not gonna look at glass, or anything else that has a reflection, okay? And as long as you do that, she cannot get you.”

“But I can't keep that up forever. I'm gonna die, aren't I?” Her voice wobbled, fresh tears running down her cheeks.

“No. No. Not anytime soon.” Sam comforts, but I don’t think it helps.

Dean sits on the bed too, “All right Charlie. We need to know what happened.”

“We were in the bathroom. Donna said it.” She answers simply, rocking herself slightly.

“That's not what we're talking about. Something happened, didn't it? In your life...a secret...where someone got hurt. Can you tell us about it?” Dean pushes.

She looks around uncomfortably, swallowing she begins, “I had this boyfriend. I loved him. But he kind of scared me too, you know?” She looks over at me for confirmation knowing without any previous conversation about it that I would understand. And she was right. It was as if bad boyfriends were sewed into the fabrics of being a woman, it would be a little strange if you hadn’t had one.

I nod and she continues, “And one night, at his house, we got in this fight. Then I broke up with him, and he got upset, and he said he needed me and he loved me, and he said "Charlie, if you walk out that door right now, I'm gonna kill myself." And you know what I said? I said "Go ahead." And I left. How could I say that? How could I leave him like that? I just...I didn't believe him, you know? I should have.” She cries harder, going back to her previous position.

I move towards her, Sam getting up to allow me to sit close to her. I hug her, holding her close despite her awkward position. “That’s not your fault” I told her simply, and I meant it too. She uncurls herself, quickly wrapping her arms around me and stuffing her face into my neck. I hold her tighter. “You did the right thing, leaving him” I mutter.

Dean huffs, gripping the steering wheel slightly tighter, “You were right back there Y/N, her boyfriend killing himself, that's not really Charlie's fault.”

“You guys should know as well as I do that spirits don't exactly see shades of gray. Charlie had a secret, someone died, that's good enough for Mary.” Sam reasons.

“I guess” Dean sighs.

“You know, I've been thinking. It might not be enough to just smash that mirror.” Sam suggests.

“Oh, what do you mean?” I ask with a tilt of my head.

“Well Mary's hard to pin down, right? I mean she moves around from mirror to mirror so who's to say that she's not just gonna keep hiding in them forever? So maybe we should try to pin her down, you know, summon her to her mirror and then smash it.” Sam explains.

“Well how do you know that's going to work?” Dean questions.

“I don't, not for sure.” Sam shrugs.

“Well who's gonna summon her?” Dean follows up.

“I will. She'll come after me.” Sam states as if it’s the most obvious answer and with no care for himself.

“You know what, that's it.” Dean nearly shouts, pulling the car over quickly and roughly making my body shift nearly knocking into the door.

“This is about Jessica, isn't it? You think that's your dirty little secret that you killed her somehow? Sam, this has got to stop, man. I mean, the nightmares and calling her name out in the middle of the night—it's gonna kill you.” Dean fumes, not quite yelling but also not quite talking.

“Now listen to me—It wasn't your fault. If you wanna blame something, then blame the thing that killed her. Or hell, why don't you take a swing at me? I mean I'm the one that dragged you away from her in the first place.”

“I don't blame you.” Sam answers plainly, almost in defeat

“Well you shouldn't blame yourself, because there's nothing you could've done.” Dean adds.

“I could've warned her.” Sam sighs, and the pain in his voice makes me want to cry.

“Sam…you couldn’t have known that would happen.” I chime in, though it doesn't quite feel like my place.

“And besides, all of this isn't a secret, I mean we know all about it. It's not gonna work with Mary anyway.” Dean exclaims.

“No you don't.” Sam states, no further explanation given.

“I don't what?” Dean asks.

“You don't know all about it. I haven't told you everything.” Sam shrugs.

“What are you talking about?” Dean questions, face full of confusion.

“Well it wouldn't really be a secret if I told you, would it?” He replied sassily.

Dean looks surprised, “No. I don't like it. It's not gonna happen, forget it.”

“Dean, that girl back there is going to die unless we do something about it. And you know what? Who knows how many more people are gonna die after that? Now we're doing this. You've got to let me do this.” But Sam doesn't get any answers, with a roll of his eyes Dean drives off. Conversation over.

Sam is trying to pick the lock on the shop's door, somehow without any word he became the designated lock picker. The dark oak door opens and all around the store are mirrors, mirrors of all shapes and sizes and varieties. Truly the worst place to be in this situation.

“Well...that's just great, '' Dean sighs, pulling out the photo of Mary’s corpse to look at the mirror, the one we’re looking for being a wooden frame. Not very helpful considering our location where there are countless mirrors that look exactly the same. “All right let's start looking.”

I nod in agreement handing both boys their crowbars. I shifted my baseball bat in my hand, there wasn’t a third crowbar and there was no reason for it anyways, a baseball bat is just as good at smashing.

We enter the dark store, flashlights on, splitting up we look for our specific mirror.

“Maybe they've already sold it.” Dean suggests, from some part of the store.

“I don't think so.” Sam says, stopping in his tracks. Dean and I walk over on either side of the taller man, Dean pulls out the picture again comparing the two. It’s our mirror.

“That's it.” Dean sighs, “You sure about this?”

Sam hands over his flashlight and sighs, “Bloody Mary. Bloody Mary.” He looks between the both of us, “Bloody Mary.”

A light shines through the store windows, illuminating the room.

“I'll go check that out. You guys stay here, be careful. Smash anything that moves.” Dean shuffles away.

I grip my bat tighter as a breath that isn’t mine nor Sam’s surrounds us. He turns around quickly but I keep my back towards him, “Nothing?” I ask and he hums in confirmation.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Mary in one of the mirrors, I step forward swinging my bat back and then forward hard. The glass shatters falling to the floor around my feet. Then Sam hits a mirror behind me, before swiftly turning back to her mirror.

“Come on. Come into this one.” He mutters underneath his breath.

He tilts his head watching his regeneration weirdly when suddenly he starts breathing heavily grabbing at his chest.

“Sam!” I shout, grabbing his arm. His eyes begin to bleed, blood trickling down his cheeks. He drops his crowbar, the metal clinking against the floor loudly.

“It's your fault. You killed her. You killed Jessica.” A voice rings out, one that sounds like Sam’s though I know it’s not him speaking. I help him to the floor carefully as he grabs his chest harder.

“You never told her the truth—who you really were. But it's more than that, isn't it?” The voice fumes.

I get up leaving Sam to the floor, “That’s enough of you” I mutter, gripping my baseball bat tight. I hit her mirror, the glass shatters around me.

I hear Sam take a deep breath in, when I look down at him he’s no longer holding his chest. He holds a thumb up to me, weakly.

But for some reason the voice didn’t stop, Mary was no longer hurting Sam but her accusations wouldn’t stop.

“Those nightmares you've been having of Jessica dying, screaming, burning—You had them for days before she died. Didn't you!?! You were so desperate to ignore them, to believe they were just dreams. How could you ignore them like that? How could you leave her alone to die!?! You dreamt it would happen!!!”

I smash three more mirrors, anything to get it to stop by it doesn't.

“SAM, SAMMY!” Dean shouts, rushing into the room and crouching down to his brother.

“It's Sam” He answers meekly.

Dean holds onto his brother's face gently, eyeing his face and the blood on it, “God, are you okay?”

“Uh, yeah.” Sam replies, a little unsure though considering the circumstances I get it.

“Come on, come on.” He pulls Sam up, bringing his arm around his neck with a nod of his head towards the door. I follow the boys towards the exit.

A sudden crunching noise forces us to turn around. Mary crawls out of the frame of her mirror, her long black hair covering her face, she walks over the broken glass with no care, her head tilting to the side as she crawls towards us. Her dark nearly black eyes bore into us, somehow she forces us to the floor.

My chest feels tight as if someone was squeezing my heart, I try to crawl backwards on my hands like a crab walk when a sharp pain surges through my hand followed by my eyes. I bring my hand in front of me, a large slash runs through my palm, a piece of glass sticking out of it. The ache in my eyes I know is not caused by glass but by Mary, I reach my gold hand up to my cheek blood trickling down my face. I suck in a breath, the pain not helping the already pain I was feeling. I look over to the boys on the left of me nearly on top of each other as blood runs down both their cheeks.

Mary stands approaching us with a head tilt and a limp. I grumble holding up a shaky hand, waving my hand once, slowly, making long mirrors form in a line in front of Mary acting as a wall between us.

“You killed them! All those people! You killed them!” A female voice cried out, Mary’s voice.

She looks at her reflections scared, when she begins to choke. She grabs on to her throat and her chest, crumbling down to the ground she shrieks, turning to a puddle of blood

With another wave of my hand the wall of mirrors shatters, glass falling to the floor loudly.

“Hey Y/N?”

“Yeah?” I hum feeling a little defeated.

“This has got to be like...what? 600 years of bad luck?” He asks me and I can’t help the big smile that falls on my face.

“Mmm I can’t wait” I laugh, the sarcastic comment coming to me with ease.

The sun rises in front of us, gleaming on the Impala. Our faves are cleaned up, ridden of blood and the event that unfolded. The only proof of it happening being my hand that’s carefully wrapped in white gauze, the glass now out and the cut cleaned.

Charlie sits next to me in the back seat as we pull up to her house, it's odd having someone else back here with me.

“So this is really over?” She asks us, her eyes puffy from her night of crying.

Dean looks at her through the rearview mirror, nodding, “Yeah, it's over.”

“Thank you.” She says, Dean reaching back to shake her hand. She turns to me next, arms open in a hug. I close the gap between us and give her a good squeeze.

She smiles a little sadly at me, getting out of the car.

“Charlie?” Sam calls out, stopping the woman in her tracks. She turns around, “Your boyfriend's death...you really should try to forgive yourself. No matter what you did, you probably couldn't have stopped it. Sometimes bad things just happen.”

She smiles faintly, turning back around to go into her house.

Dean hits his brother's arm gently, “That's good advice.”

We drive off the car falling silent for a beat before Dean talks again, “Hey Sam?”

“Yeah?” He answers.

“Now that this is all over, I want you to tell me what that secret is.” Dean tells him, looking between him and the road.

“Look...you're my brother and I'd die for you, but there are some things I need to keep to myself.” He admits with a sigh, looking out the window.

The car falls silent again.

Healing isn’t easy. It's not something you can put a bandaid on and expect to be fine, and maybe all that Sam shared will be enough for now but that’s not something we can gauge.

That is times doing, and time isn’t something we can control.

God knows i’ve tried.

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #fanfiction #sam winchester #supernatural #john winchester #slow burn #witch #witch reader #witch craft #sunshine x grumpy #romance #fantasy #bloody mary #urban legends #mystery #mirror #fun facts #the hunter and the witch

134 notes · View notes

jacksabbotts · 19 hours ago

Note

so excited for good girl confessions!! i already love how relatable it is as someone who works in healthcare and is quite introverted/shy, i’ve been struggling to find fics where the reader has anxiety or isn’t so confident so it means a lot!! can’t wait and i have no doubt it will be amazing 💓

🥹 i am beyond happy that i was able to create a character others could relate to. i dont want all the characters i write to be generic and or cliche so i am glad that morgue tech!reader is at the very least a little different than what is constantly portrayed in x reader fics

and as always, thank you for reading, sweeeeeet anon 🫶🫶

#·˚ ༘ ┊͙ jacksabbotts responds #jack abbot x morgue tech!reader

0 notes

pmpmyread · 10 months ago

Text

New Old Habit

Nanami Kento x f!reader, hurt/comfort, brief mentions of death.

The timer you’d set on your smartwatch displayed just a little under two minutes remaining.

You caught your disheveled reflection in the guest bathroom mirror; loose braids falling out of what was once a neat bun framed your tired eyes, a manifestation of the chaotic whirlwind the last couple of hours had proven to be. A movement caught your eye, reflected in the mirror, returning your focus to the true source of your concern.

Nanami had barely budged from the position he’d assumed since you’d brought him back home. He’d swiftly discarded his shoes and suit jacket in the vestibule before slumping onto the sofa, throwing his head back over the backrest and draping an arm over his forehead; a demeanor you’d rarely seen him take, yet distinctly recognized.

Things had escalated so quickly tonight. One minute, you were at home, a sorcerer’s typical busy day having left you weary and resisting sleepiness as you waited for Nanami to return from his late mission. The next, you were in your car speeding towards the Jujutsu Tech campus in the dead of the night.

Separating these two moments had been a hasty message from Nanami in the form of a voice note, a medium he’d often reserved for the rare occasion that saw him otherwise incapacitated to go back and forth over text or to stay on long for a call. Its contents confirmed your suspicions, and only partly appeased your worries; a characteristically concise summary of a mission gone south, quickly followed by a reassurance of his own safety, and concluding with a confirmation that others had not been as lucky.

You’d headed straight for where you’d known him to be in such a crisis: at Shoko’s infirmary, where he had the habit of helping to tend to wounded fellow sorcerers, always ensuring that everyone else was examined at least once before he was.

When you did find Nanami, he’s been out in the distance, fixing the entrance to the morgue adjacent to the treatment room, where a line of about half a dozen cots carrying covered bodies was visible through the ajar door. His brows were knitted into a frown, relaxing only ever so slightly once you placed your hand on his arm, pulling him out of his contemplation.

It was only after ensuring that Shoko and her crew would have the rest covered that he’d finally peeled himself away and acquiesced to having you take him home.

The car ride back had been mostly quiet. After the third furtive glance you’d thrown his way, he gave your arm a gentle squeeze along with his best attempt at a reassuring smile, one that came out rather morose.

You’d held back from pressing him for details, putting off the typical pragmatic debrief Nanami usually engaged in after tougher missions, with you as his sounding board, as he dissected where things went wrong and sometimes explored preventative solutions.

There would be a time for all of this, just not tonight.

You’d understood that it was only in a charged yet necessary silence, away from the campus’ chaos and in the private sanctity of your shared home, that Nanami would shed the lingering vestiges of his firm composure and allow himself to begin to truly process the night’s events.

The rhythmic vibration of your watch's timer jolted you out of your reverie.

You took out the soft cotton face towel you had soaked into a bowl of ice water, in which you’d diluted a few drops of your go-to calming lavender oil. After draining the towel of its excess water, you dried your hands and slowly padded towards the living room.

You stood before Nanami, steadying yourself by leaning one knee against the exposed portion of the sofa between his sprawled legs. He raised his head slightly, leveling his eyes with yours. You could feel his gaze on you despite the darkness of the room and the opaque tint of the lens of his signature glasses, which you carefully grabbed by the bridge, gently removing and settling them beside you on the arm of the sofa.

Your eyes returned to lock with his, and you took stock of the now perceptible depth in his eyes, windows to the vulnerable man beneath the mask.

You quietly lifted the cooled towel with both your hands, and you watched his tired eyes strain in focus to identify what you were holding. There was a brief moment before curiosity bled into recognition and appeared to bring a certain softness to his expression, a moment during which you doubted whether your gesture would be accepted for what it was.

He wordlessly leaned his head back onto the backrest and closed his eyes, and you leaned after him, gently placing the towel over them. He let out a slow exhale at the contact, and you watched the pronounced tension in his jaw release slightly.

You delicately loosened his tie and undid the first two buttons of his dress shirt to help him relax to the extent that he could. Just as you were about to pull away, he removed the arm he had draped over his forehead and took your hand into his, bringing it up to his face and nuzzling it against his cheek over which you instinctively ran your thumb, grazing his lips on the way down to his chin.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice coming out raspy as he finally broke the silence.

You wanted to be the one to thank him for being the force that he was; a dutiful sorcerer, a trustworthy colleague, an inimitable life partner, and for doing even more for you, whenever you were the one who came home to him, distraught from the horrors of the field. You were dying to urge him to unload what could only be an unimaginable burden brought on by the night’s events and to allow you to carry some of it.

As you pressed your other hand to his chest, you brought your focus to his steady heartbeat in an attempt to keep it together and to remind yourself that Nanami had made it out of the carnage that had occurred that night and that he was indeed here with you.

“Anything for you,” you simply whispered back instead, relying on brevity to maintain what little composure you had remaining.

As a sorcerer yourself, you were all too familiar with the amalgamation of conflicting sentiments after missions like these; the gratitude of getting to live to fight another day, the grief of those companions lost, and the fear of what could have been.

You thought of this simple habit of placing a damp cloth over tired eyes, one held by Nanami long before you’d met him, one you’d seen him engage in a couple of times before, under similar circumstances, one of his many quirks you’d grown to get accustomed to, that you’d never seek to change, only to enhance, wherever you could.

On nights like these, when there were no words that could alleviate this intense configuration of mixed feelings, you’d found a bit of solace in the anchoring force of old habits. You only hoped that you could help Nanami do the same.

#nanami kento #nanami x reader #nanami kento x you #nanami x you #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento fluff #nanami kento headcanons #nanami headcanons #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujustsu kaisen x reader #nanami #kento nanami #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fanfic #pmpmyread

114 notes · View notes

simpforfandoms · 2 years ago

Text

Never Love Again

listen to the song shawty baes

100 followers WOOT WOOT 🙌

thanks y’all so much here’s some angst bc I’m a little angst whore, also requests are open so please request I'm running out of ideas

part 2

pairing: Jason Todd x reader (i don’t think any gender is specified)

genre: angst

summary: Jason Todd’s death has left a mark on you

word count: 1251

warnings: death, descriptions of abuse (kinda). I did not proof read this

masterlist

April 27th, that's when he died.

wish I could, I could've said goodbye

His funeral was held at the Gotham City cemetery. He was buried in the Wayne plot. You know he would much rather be buried next to Catherine Todd. Not Martha and Thomas Wayne, people that he didn’t even know. Bruce invited you to the funeral. When you arrived it was filled with people Jason didn’t even know. People that he wouldn’t want there. The funeral was a glorified press conference. Bruce used the funeral to explain his wards death. Of course he couldn’t tell them the truth. That Jason Todd died a hero. It infuriated you to see Bruce fabricate a whole story to keep the truth away from the public. It infuriated you that the Joker was still on the lose after what he did to Jason. It infuriated you that the whole world sees Jason as an immature child. It infuriated you that you didn’t stop him from going.

if I knew it would be the last time

You knew that him trying to find his birth mother would be dangerous, but somehow he convinced you that it would be okay. You made the mistake of trusting him. With a goodbye kiss he walked out the door. That was the last time you saw him alive. If you would’ve known it would be the last time, you’ve would’ve held him tighter. Kissed him longer. Begged him not to go. But at last the past is the past.

I would've broke my heart in two

tryna save a part of you

When Bruce told you the story of how he died, you laughed a bittersweet laugh. Of course it was like Jason to try to save someone that he barley knew. You only wish that Jason could be seen as the hero he truly is.

I wanna pretend that it's not true

You didn’t believe he was dead at first. Even going as far to make Bruce take you to the morgue where his body was. When you saw him you couldn’t contain your self. You broke out in a sob, holding his lifeless body, begging for him to come back. Anything. Bruce had to drag you off. It was evident that it wasn’t a fast painless death. It was slow excruciating death. The love of your life didn’t deserve to die like that. No one did.

that you're gone

At the end of the service Dick came up to you to offer his condolences. You find it ironic that Dick, the person who resented Jason from the beginning, now suddenly cared for him. You tried to be nice to him. Put on a brave face. You know that’s what Jason would’ve wanted. He wouldn’t want you to cry over him. But just because you didn’t cry doesn’t mean you weren’t in pain.

cause my world keeps turning and turning

Years after his death and you still weren’t over it. You’ve went off to college, graduated, got a job at a boring tech company across the country, but yet everyday you thought about him. You only did all those things because you knew Jason would want you to continue living your life. You’ve been in countless dates none of them ever filling that Jason Todd sized whole hole in your heart. Maybe part of it is that you don’t want to move on. You don’t want to forget the time you had with him. You don’t want to know another kiss. You don’t want to feel another touch. You don’t want to give your heart away to another stranger. You’ll never love again. You’ve rather wait to be reunited with him in whatever afterlife he’s in.

and I'm not moving on

Jason lived in the apartment across from you. It was just you and your dad and Jason and Catherine. Your dad was hardly home but when he was he was either passed out drunk or hitting you drunk. You saw Jason every morning when you left to head to school. Jason never went to school, he would stay home taking care of Catherine. He would stare at you. A part of him was jealous. You got to live a life he never could. Eventually you got tired of his cold stares and confronted him.

when we first met

“Would you please stop staring at me” You said

Jason was stunned for a moment he had never heard your voice before. Angelic was how he would’ve described it. Regaining his composure he said, “Don’t flatter yourself”

“Wouldn’t dream of it” you rolled your eyes and continued the journey.

I never thought that I would fall

That was the first time of many you talked. Over the years you and Jason became best friends of some sort. When Catherine died, you were there for him. When he would come home with bruises and scrapes from stealing you would patch him up. When your dad got to be to much he would let you stay over at his apartment. When you he was adopted by Bruce Wayne you were heartbroken having to see him go. But you were happy that he got to leave this horrid place. He deserved the world. You still remember the day when he told you he was leaving. You two were sitting side by side on the rooftop of the building.

I never thought that I'd find myself lying in your arms

“So that’s it? You’re just gonna leave and never see me again?” You said voice cracking turning towards him

Jason eyes soften, he pauses, “you know I could never go one day without seeing you” trying to lighten the mood

“Jason you’re gonna go live in a mansion across the city. Be realistic.”

“C’mon y/n quit being a Debbie downer. I promise you I will always make time to see you” he said

You search his eyes trying to find any hint of dishonesty but you find nothing. You close your eyes and sigh, “I’m gonna miss you Jay”

“I know.” He said pulling you into a hug

don't want to feel another touch

Jason did keep his promise. You were enrolled in Gotham Academy with Jason. Probably because of a certain Wayne. You ended up seeing Jason everyday and spending frequent nights at the manor.

Your and Jason’s friendship eventually blossomed into more, slowly but surely. One day he came through your window all beaten and bloody in his robin costume. You freaked out at first until you realized it was just Jason.

“Jason what the fuck?” You whisper-yelled

don't want another name falling off my lips

He just groaned in response. You quickly grabbed the first aid kit and patched him up. He flinched at each stitch.

"Jay I need you to stop flinching"

"It hurts." He moaned

You hummed in response.

"Kiss the pain goodbye" Jason said abruptly.

You blanked out for a minute. A million thoughts flooded your brain. You thought it was joke. There was no Jason could feel the same way about you. Oh but he did. You were proven this when Jason pulled you down into a kiss.

I don't wanna know this feeling unless it's you and me

A bittersweet memory. Robin brought you together but also brought you apart. That's all you can think about before falling asleep.

don't want to give my heart away to another stranger or let another day begin won't even let the sunlight in oh I'll never love again

...

part 2

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd angst #jason todd x reader angst #angst #red hood x reader #red hood x you #bruce wayne #dick grayson #ill never love again #kinda sad #jason todd oneshot

382 notes · View notes

hyperfixationsporfavor · 2 years ago

Text

The Marriage

Gojo x Reader: The Marriage

PART 2 PART 3 PART 4 PART 5

When you married Satoru Gojo you knew what you were getting yourself into. The strongest sorcerer to date, the successor to one of the major clans. You weren’t naive in anticipating the surprise that his union to you, a first grade with no ties or connections in the Jujutsu world, was going to turn heads.

Despite being from completely different backgrounds the two of you somehow managed to fall in love. Your husband's title kept him at an unattainable distance that prevented most from protruding his walls. Most being the key word, as you had been one of the few who managed to break through and secure his heart.

When you were a first year at Jujutsu Tech he was a second year. Of course you noticed him, how couldn’t you? He was absolutely gorgeous.

“If you like him, you should just go up and say hello,” Yu Haibara suggested.

He and Kento Nanami, your fellow first years, sat across from you at your lunch table.

You snorted at the suggestion, scratching your fingernail against your empty juice box.

“Please. Never in a million years. And I told you two that in confidence. So it doesn’t leave this room Yu.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because he’s the Gojo heir,” Kento explained.

“So?” Yu pushed.

Kento sighed and set his sandwich down. He loved his friend but he could be so aloof at times.

“Sorcerers like us, without connections, aren’t exactly welcome in certain social circles.”

“But Satoru’s not like that. He’s pretty nice,” Yu protested.

“Nice isn’t always genuine,” you argued. “Face it. He’s just another institutional set piece. Besides, even if he was different I’m not going to prostrate myself for his parents.”

You stuck your nose up in the air and did an impression of the type of reception you’d imagine you’d receive from old money types.

“Well I say. How do you ever expect to marry into this esteemed family? You’re just a peasant.”

That got a laugh out of Yu and a small smile out of Kento who quickly wiped it off his face to return to his meal.

“Whatever,” Yu playfully scoffed. “I was just talking about dating. Who said anything about marriage?”

You just offered him a kind smile.

“Forget it. It’s not worth the trouble.”

Later that year Yu was killed.

He and Kento were dispatched to take care of a curse whose grade was underestimated by the higher ups. Botched paperwork and an indifference to more thoroughly assess the threat led to the death of your friend. You still remember how the lights of the morgue flickered as you stood over his lifeless, mangled body.

That night you didn’t sleep, the night after you didn’t sleep. For months, the nights were reserved for your tears, your sorrow, your anger, your rageful punches and kicks. All feelings were concealed and stored away when the sun rose.

‘It’s just part of the job.’

‘Don’t get attached.’

Yu’s face entered your train of thought for the umpteenth time.

Despite your pain you followed Kento’s example and carried on. The two of you transitioned from your first to second year, readjusting to a new dynamic. Your only remaining friend had always been a bit stoic, but the death of Yu had turned him into a jaded recluse. The two of you hardly spent time together anymore outside of class and missions, but you couldn’t blame Kento. The bond had been severed and an awkward stage of mourning forever loomed over you both.

“(Name)? Do you think the rumors are true?” Ichiji asked.

You looked up from your book to find the first year exchanging nervous glances with Akari Nitta, the only other first year. The two of them had fallen under your wing at the behest of Mr. Yaga, but you’d be lying if you didn’t admit to appreciating their company during lunch.

“What rumors?” you asked in a purposely aloof tone.

“Don’t play dumb,” Akari pushed. “It’s all over the school. Suguru Geto, that third year with the long hair? He slaughtered an entire village.”

“Did he really do it (Name)?” Ichiji dared to utter.

You closed your book and set it on the table. “Right now Suguru Geto’s whereabouts are unknown,” you recited just as Mr. Yaga had. “So we shouldn’t jump to conclusions based off of rumors.”

The two of them begrudgingly dropped the conversation and carried on with their lunch.

Yes, Suguru Geto had murdered an entire village. The higher ups had released the information shortly after the rumors started circulating. On top of that two children, twin sisters, were reported missing. With that he was deemed a traitor, expelled, and registered as a curse user. The same Suguru who had comforted Kento after Yu’s death, who had only ever treated you with kindness.

For an extra layer of added cruelty, it was announced that Satoru Gojo would be sent to capture and kill his former friend.

A few months later you found yourself in the presence of thee Satoru Gojo himself during your evening walk. You nearly ran into him when he angrily stormed out of a room stopping just in time. His rageful expression was quickly disposed of and replaced with a neutral one.

“Sorry about that,” he said.

You shook your head. “It’s fine.”

“How are you (Name)?” he asked.

He carried himself in the same carefree manner, a sly grin and a playful tilt of the head. It was a good disguise, and Satoru acted the part in a charming and convincing way. However, as a person who had also lost someone dear to them, you could see through the cracks.

“I should be asking you,” you countered. “I heard you were unable to find Suguru.”

His performance was unbreakable. “Well what can you expect from a special grade?”

You nodded.

“He was a kind person,” you assured him. “Yu really looked up to him. And you of course.”

He said nothing, but you took notice of how his adam’s apple bobbed up when he swallowed. Like he had eaten a secret hastily scribbled on a piece of paper, desperately trying to dispose of the evidence of his emotions.

He just nodded and masterfully redirected the conversation. “So…what are you up to? It’s a little late.”

You relented, not too eager to relieve the past yourself.

“I was just taking a walk. You should try it. It really clears your head.”

“That sounds nice,” he commented. “Maybe we could walk together?”

You offered him a small smile. Your sentiments from a year ago still remained. You hardly saw the invitation for an evening stroll as anything romantic, just two broken souls reveling in each other's misery.

“Maybe we could.”

You and Satoru walked together quite a bit after that. Sometimes you talked and other times you’d allow the silence to envelope you, but it was never awkward. You found comfort in his company, something deeper that exceeded past your childish crush.

When your third year at Jujutsu High came to an end Kento decided to leave. It didn’t come to a surprise to you, but nonetheless it did pain you to see him go. Perhaps the bittersweet feelings came from something more symbolic. You weren’t children anymore, but adults who had to make their way in the world in whatever way they deemed necessary.

For Kento that meant retiring from the life of a sorcerer and assimilating into the life of a civilian. You had dutifully walked him to the edge of the school, sending him off down a long flight of stairs.

“Well I guess this is it,” you sighed.

Kento shrugged his duffle bag more securely onto his shoulder.

“I guess it is.”

“Have you given any thought into what type of job you want to do?”

“I’m going to take some time to think about it. Maybe college first?”

You smiled. “That sounds perfect for you Kento. You’ve always been so smart.”

He gifted a small smile back to you. “Thanks, but I doubt knowledge on curses could take you far in an academic setting.”

You chuckled. “I suppose you’re right, but whatever you decide to do you’ll do it well. That’s something you can always count on.”

He nodded and turned to descend the stairs, but before he could he stopped himself.

You tilted your head. “Kento?”

“Come with me,” he requested.

You just blinked at him and he took your silence as an opportunity to keep going.

“Sorcery is shit. There’s no guarantee. We should get out and live.”

You reached out and squeezed his hand. “Kento I can’t.”

“But why not? We’ll just end up like-”

“Yes. And that’s why I’m staying.”

He said nothing.

You took a deep breath and released Kento’s hand before continuing. “I want to stay and teach. I want to equip students to fight curses to the best of their ability. I know I can’t save everyone, and it won’t bring Yu back, but I want to do my part.”

Kento just glared at you. “Is this self sacrificial speech supposed to convince me to stay?”

You glared back at him and punched his shoulder. “No dumbass. It’s supposed to convince you to leave.”

“How so?”

“Anyway we choose to live our lives is honorable, because we are alive.”

You pulled your friend in for a hug before he could protest. Kento just snorted but didn’t pull away.

“Did you get that line from a fortune cookie?”

You laughed despite yourself. “Just pretend it was inspiring okay?”

Your life as an educator began not too long after. Under Mr. Yaga you honed your craft and took on additional studying and training courses. At the end of your tutelage you had a class of your own. You opted to go on less missions and redirect your focus to academia. There you found yourself content, removed from the pressure of advancing to special grade.

One evening, while you were grading papers in your classroom, you heard a knock on the door frame. When you looked up you were greeted by none other than thee Satoru Gojo.

“Long time no see (Name).”

You hadn’t seen Satoru in a while, he had been working on missions overseas the last you had heard. Now he has returned to the school in a more permanent capacity.

“You want to teach?” you asked.

“I’d still do solo missions on the side of course.”

“And the higher ups are okay with that? Your family?”

He smirked at your inquiry. “Naturally the old geezers disapprove, but it’s not really up to them is it?”

You were slightly taken aback. Satoru Gojo was the only jujutsu sorcerer you could think of who could so blatantly play by their own rules and disregard the rigid hierarchy of your world, it was all beneath him.

“So…this sudden career goal is a way to piss off the higher ups?”

Satoru pulled his sunglasses off and pierced you with his striking blue eyes. You froze for a moment, forgetting to breathe. He looked so…determined.

“I want to change things.”

So Satoru sets out on his quest to create lasting change, and you do the same in your own way. Since he was a more common sight around the school, the two of you spent more time together. You seemed to meld organically with him, becoming confidants in one another. You’d find yourselves talking late into the evenings in your room, concerning your hopes and gripes with Jujutsu society you only ever had the courage to talk about with him.

You were ashamed of the way you had viewed him before, shallow and content with the status quo. Satoru Gojo was far more complex than you could have imagined.

You met Megumi and Tsumiki shortly after Satoru’s return back into your life. They were the children of the now deceased sorcerer killer Toji Fushiguro. When the incident had happened a few years prior there was no official record of them, just rumors that the Zenin clan wanted something their disgraced son had left behind. Satoru acted in good faith to stop them from acquiring the children and ensuring Toji’s son would become a sorcerer.

After you had dismissed your class for the day you were surprised to find two kids following Satoru into the room, one smiling and the other frowning.

“They live with you?” you asked in a hushed tone.

The two of you stood near the back of the classroom while Tsumiki and Megumi drew on the chalkboard.

Satoru nodded. “For the time being. The Zenin’s only wanted Megumi, but I couldn’t leave the sister by herself.”

Your gaze wandered over to the children. Tsumiki was complementing Megumi on his drawing of a dog.

“I can’t imagine the Zenin’s were too happy about you interfering.”

Satoru just smirked. “Do you disapprove (Name)?”

You lightly chuckled. “I expect nothing less from you Satoru.”

“You’re moving?” Satoru asked.

“Just a few minutes away,” you answered. “I thought having my own place would be nice.”

You liked your room on campus but this little venture would be good for you, a small piece of normalcy you could attain.

“It could be dangerous,” Satoru protested. “There’s less protection from curses out there.”

You rolled your eyes and placed your coffee mug in the sink of your snug kitchenette.

“I’m not entirely helpless, Satoru. I may not be in the field anymore but I’m still a first grade.”

He stood up from his chair and walked over towards you. “That’s not what I meant. All I’m saying is it’s risky.”

You reached out to squeeze his hand, taking him back a bit when your skin made contact with his barrier that kept you a milliliter from actually touching him.

“I know, but I’ll be fine.”

As annoying as his persistence could be, you knew his heart was in the right place. Ieiri was currently away at med school and the Fushiguro children were being kept at the main Gojo estate. Keeping people in his protective barrier must have been of the utmost importance after everything that had happened.

“I’m looking at a few places today if you’d like to come along,” you suggested.

He smiled, truthfully.

“I’d like that.”

You eventually find a place, a two bedroom one bath, just 20 minutes away from campus. It’s small, but it’s yours. You invited Satoru for dinner about a month after you moved in, Megumi and Tsumiki accompanied him.

“This place is so cozy (Name),” Satoru observed.

You snorted at that. “We can’t all live in a massive estate Satoru.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he protested. “And the estate’s not even that big.”

You turned to the children who were content watching their guardian try to backpedal.

“Is he lying?”

Megumi nodded. “It’s really big. And he has people to do everything for him.”

“You’re supposed to be on my side, squirt,” Satoru mumbled.

The young boy just glared at him. “Don’t call me that.”

Tsumiki just giggled. “One time he tried to do his laundry and turned all of his underwear pink because he forgot his red socks.”

You cackled along with the young girl while Gojo pouted, unprepared to be the subject of critique tonight. Megumi just carried on with his dinner.

“I thought you were the nice one Tsumiki,” he grumbled.

Despite his embarrassment Satoru found comfort in the presence of the three of you. He relented and joined in your laughter.

Eventually Satoru asks you out to dinner, alone. He picks a dark place with a fantastic view of the city skyline. He’s paying, which comes as a relief to you when you see the prices. The two of you thanked the waiter as he took your dinner plates away.

“I had a nice time Satoru.”

He leaned forward and put his arms on the table. The expensive cream button down he’s wearing emphasizes the muscles his uniform hides.

“I’m glad.”

You reluctantly pulled your eyes away from his biceps and stared into his eyes. He stared back at you for a moment then finally decided to break the silence.

“Do you wanna get out of here?”

“Fuck,” you panted between Satoru thrusts. “Right there. There. Fuck”

You must have sped through three red lights to get back to your apartment. Satoru ripped you out of the driver’s seat and retreated with you in tow like his pants were on fire. You made it as far as your couch before clothes were flying off.

Satoru erratically plowed into you as you desperately moved your hips to keep up with him. You clawed into his back and bit his shoulder to stop yourself from screaming as your orgasm rushed through you.

When you had finally reached your limit Satoru scooped you up and retreated to the bedroom. You laid on his chest while his calloused fingers ran up and down your back.

“That was…wow,” you admitted.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, unable to find some quick witted comment in his current state.

You sat up, fully aware that you needed to have a talk now.

“So…do you want to brush this off as a one time thing? Friends with benefits? Or…”

You didn’t dare finish it but Satoru took the hint, sitting up and leaning against the headboard.

“Dating?”

You took a breath and nodded. “Yeah. No pressure or anything.”

“I’ve never been great with relationships,” he admitted. “You know how much red tape goes along with this job.”

You nodded, fully ready to accept this as a one night stand when he surprises you.

“But I…I love you (Name). And I love being with you,” he confessed.

You swallowed, nerves taking over you. “Don’t say things like that if you don’t mean it. Please Satoru.”

He pulled you towards him and kissed your lips. When he pulled away. He pressed his forehead against yours.

“I love you (Name). And I want to be with you.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed your chest firmly against his, no space between you, and absolutely no room to escape.

“I love you too Satoru.”

So the two of you started dating, and you were ridiculously happy. Warnings of getting attached play in your head on loop. There was a reason why so many jujutsu sorcerers don’t get into long lasting relationships, and have families. It was dangerous work, and there was no promise of survival. You had reminded Satoru of that, but he had just dismissed your concerns. Those realities didn’t apply to him.

As you grew closer to him you also grew closer to Megumi and Tsumiki. When you imagined your first serious relationships, outside of something more casual, you didn’t expect children to enter the equation. But they were good kids and you enjoyed being with them as well.

One weekend Satoru was called away to attend a conference between the three major clans and for obvious reasons he couldn’t take the Fushiguro siblings.

“I feel kind of bad though,” he admitted over coffee. “Their kind of left to themselves at the estate.”

You could only imagine. Toji Fushiguro was the disgrace of the Zenin family so his children weren’t exactly welcomed into Jujutsu society out of kindness but of necessity. To ensure that another Toji Fushiguro would never see the light of day.

You sipped on your cappuccino when an idea hit you.

“Why don’t they stay at my place for the weekend?” you suggested.

He shook his head at the suggestion. “I don’t want to saddle you with them on your time off.”

“I insist,” you pushed.

He thought about it for a moment. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Absolutely not. Bring them by on Saturday morning.”

“What are you drawing Megumi?” you asked as you peered over his shoulder.

“An elephant,” he answered.

He was hard at work coloring in his drawing with the help of his new Crayola pip squeaks. You had bought them for him and Tsumiki to entertain themselves with over the course of the weekend. When you had presented them with their gift Tsumiki softly poked her brother in the ribs with an authoritative expression.

“What do you say?” she whispered.

He just stared at his shoes and after a moment he finally relented.

“Thank you,” he mumbled.

You sat on the couch and observed Megumi scribble away at the coffee table while Tsumiki flipped through one of your Glamour magazines.

You looked at your watch.

‘5:00.’

“Are you kids ready for dinner? How does pizza sound? Or hamburgers?”

Tsumiki closed the magazine and set it on the arm rest. “Um, we don't mind. Whatever you want.”

“Nonsense. You’re my houseguests so you two get to decide.”

Tsumiki looked at her brother who looked back at her. Clearly she would make the decision for the both of them.

“Hamburgers, please,” she requested.

“Two hamburgers coming up. Get your coats.”

When Megumi stood up he forgot the uncapped marker still in his hand and absentmindedly dragged it across the surface of the table. He looked down in a panic to find a blue streak ruining the wood.

He looked up to you attempting to remain stoic but his fidgeting eyes gave him away. Tsumiki noticed and jumped up. “I’m so sorry. He didn’t mean to.”

You tilted your head in confusion. The incident had set them more on edge than expected, like they were preparing for you to get mad. You quickly stepped in to alleviate their nerves.

“It’s fine,” you assured them. “They’re washable.”

You went to the kitchen to retrieve the sponge. After running it under water you returned and gently scrubbed the stain out of the wood.

“See,” you smiled at them. “Good as new.”

Megumi nodded and capped the marker, gently setting it down with the others in the pack.

“Let me put the sponge back in the kitchen and then we’ll go.”

After a delicious dinner of hamburgers, fries, and milkshakes you suggested the three of you hit the park. It was on your way home and just light enough outside to go for at least an hour.

While Megumi went straight for the swing, Tsumiki remained by your side on a spare bench and tried to apologize for the marker incident again.

“Really sweetheart. It’s fine.”

She still looked doubtful.

You debated prying. Was it right or should you just keep your suspicions to yourself?

“Tsumiki…did your parents get really mad at you and Megumi when you made mistakes?”

Her eyes widened and she quickly looked away.

“You can tell me, but you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

The young girl took a shaky breath. “Um, well, Mr. Fushiguro…Megumi’s dad wasn’t really around and…my mom yelled a lot…she was always really mad.”

You put your hand on her shoulder, not wanting to prolong her anxiety.

“It’s okay Tsumiki. I’m not mad.”

She looked up to face you. “Promise?”

You smiled at her. “I swear. Now go play with your brother. We can’t stay out too late.”

She hastily took her pink scrunch off of her wrist and handed it to you with a smile. You quickly pulled it up in a ponytail so she could play without her hair getting in her face.

Tsumiki thanked you and raced off towards the swingset. She hopped on the one next to her brother and kicked her legs up towards the sky.

Sunday evening, Satoru returned from Kyoto. Upon his arrival he gifted you fresh pastries and a kiss that he definitely would have expanded on if he didn’t have parental duties to attend to.

Megumi and Tsumiki collected their things and raced to meet him at the door.

“Are you sure you can’t stay?” you asked. “We could all have a pastry.”

“I’ve got to get these guys home. School tomorrow.”

He didn’t mention that about four more boxes were in his car.

“Alright you two, let’s move out,” he ordered.

After saying their thank yous and goodbyes you were about to shut the door before Satoru stopped you. “See you tomorrow,” he murmured before leaning in to kiss you. You happily reciprocated it and playfully shoved him when he tried to go back in for another.

“Go,” you demanded. “Don’t keep Ichiji waiting.”

“You’re so sexy when you're being authoritative,” he smirked before shutting the door.

After about three years teaching, the now Principal Yaga offered you a promotion.

“Vice Principal?”

“Frankly, I need someone to help me handle administrative and management tasks, including meeting with the clan leaders and the higher ups.”

“Well,” you contemplated. “I’m flattered sir, but why me?

“I trust you (Name). This position is subject to being privy to sensitive information and you’ve proven you have no ulterior motives behind your ambitions.”

You remembered your conversation with Kento years ago, how you talked about wanting to help. This would allow you to do so.

“Thank you sir, I’ll accept the position.”

(A few months later)

Satoru’s lips trailed down your neck as he tenderly caressed your naked underneath him. Originally you were supposed to go out to the movies. When he arrived at your apartment to pick you up you offered him coffee, which was currently sitting untouched and ice cold on the kitchen counter.

“What?” you managed to get out. “What time does the movie start?”

Satoru looked up at the alarm clock on your nightstand table.

“It ended about an hour ago.”

You chuckled and pecked his lips.

He got off of you and padded across the room to retrieve his jacket.

“Do you have to leave?” you asked as you sat up.

“Well…I was going to do this later, but I think now’s as good a time as any.”

He looked up to meet your gaze.

“Close your eyes,” he ordered. “And don’t try to peek.”

You rolled your eyes and proceeded to do so. “Okay. Okay.”

When he was sure you couldn’t see he pulled out a small velvet box and made his way back over to the bed. His legs felt like lead as he sank back down in front of you.

“Okay,” he exhaled. “Open them.”

You did so to be greeted by a diamond ring.

“Satoru,” you gasped.

“You don’t have to make a decision now. I just wanted to let you know,” he took another deep breath and continued. “I love you (Name). I’m scared, because I know what that means. Having someone else to worry about would be difficult. But I don’t care. I love you and I’ll dedicate myself to you forever.”

You put a hand over your mouth. You knew what this meant. The expectations and demands you would have to meet to be accepted.

“Satoru, I’m not…I haven’t been taught how to be your wife.”

He understood what you meant by that and nodded. “Well I haven’t been taught how to be your husband,” he paused. “But I want to try, and I don’t expect you to be something you're not.”

You started to cry. Your answer nearly knocked the wind out of him.

“Yes. I’ll marry you.”

(7 years later)

“So (Name), are you looking forward to having more time to yourself?” Principal Yaga asked from across the dinner table. He had invited you and Satoru over for an impromptu send off to celebrate your last day before you started your maternity leave.

“It’ll be nice to not be on my feet so much. Not that Satoru lets me do anything at home. He had a meltdown when he saw me folding the laundry last week.”

“I’m just an attentive kind of guy,” Satoru mused.

Principal Yaga just grunted. “A nuisance is what you are.”

You chuckled as Satoru dejectedly went back to prodding his salmon.

“And your certain Ijichi will be a suitable replacement?”

You nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Sure,” Satoru mumbled under his breath.

“Satoru,” you scolded.

“Well it’s only for a few months,” Principal Yaga sighed.

“Um,” you started. “I actually was thinking it would be more than a few months.”

Satoru looked up from his meal. “What?”

Your eyes darted back and forth between the two men. You might as well have, since you let the cat out of the bag.

“I’ve actually…been considering…retiring.”

“Really?” Principal Yaga asked, clearly surprised.

Satoru just narrowed his eyes. “How long have you been thinking about this?”

“Not long, and nothing’s set in stone, I was just thinking-”

“And just when were you going to tell me?

“Satoru,” you hissed. “You’re being incredibly rude.”

“I’m sorry,” Principal Yaga chimed in. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No,” Satoru barked. You really shouldn’t have.”

Before you could yell at him the doorbell rang. Principal Yaga excused himself and got up to let the person in.

“Look,” you whispered. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything. I was going to tell you but he just brought it up. And that certainly doesn’t give you an excuse to speak to me like that.”

Satoru just scoffed at you, enraging you even more. “Don’t worry. I’m sure the school will fine in Ichiji’s capable hands.”

Principal Yaga reentered the room with your replacement following quietly behind. You could kill Satoru for acting like such an immature brat.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Ichiji announced. “But we have a situation that requires Mr. Gojo’s immediate attention.”

“What is it?” your husband griped.

“The higher ups need to see you, it’s regarding Sukuna’s vessel.”

“Nothing serious I hope,” you chimed in.

“No, they just need a status report. But it could take awhile.”

You stood up from the table. “Then I suppose I should head home early.”

“Ichiji, have Akari drive Mrs. Gojo home,” Principal Yaga ordered.

“No,” you interjected. “Thank you, but I’ll just take a cab home.”

You excused yourself before anyone could protest your decision.

Being 7 months pregnant wasn’t for the faint of heart. When the cab arrived at the Gojo estate you sighed in relief. Your back was killing you, and it was only inflamed by your mood. You paid the driver and entered through the massive doors, not looking forward to the walk ahead of you.

When Satoru proposed to you, years ago, the Gojo clan gave their blessing only on one condition: living on the main estate. Not ideal for a newly married couple but Satoru managed to create some wiggle room by having a small home commissioned for your family on the estate grounds. The only downside was it was a bit of a trek, something not nearly as amusing when your ankles are swollen.

When you finally made it to your humble abode you sighed and kicked your shoes off. Your once cozy home felt a little empty these days. Once Megumi started attending Jujutsu High he opted to live in the dorms. Tsumiki had remained with you until the incident. You placed a hand on your bump and sighed.

You had just enough time to shower and change before Megumi arrived. Originally you and Satoru had invited him over for dinner and a movie but as per usual work and other unexpected things popped up. You were so tired of the unexpected. Your phone rang as you entered your bedroom.

“Hi sweetheart,” you answered.

“Hi (Name),” Megumi replied.

“Listen I just got in, so I need to know: do you want leftovers or should we order in?”

There was an awkward pause.

“Um…(Name). Something came up.”

That caught your attention. You were a little on edge these days. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing bad,” he assured you. “Yuji and Nobara just asked me if I’d go to the movies with them.”

You sighed in relief. “Oh, I see.”

“But I don’t have to go with them,” he quickly added.

“Megumi, go have fun with your friends,” you ordered.

“But we made plans,” he argued.

“And they can easily be moved to next week, really Megumi it’s no trouble.”

There was a slight pause. “Did Gojo pick a movie already?”

“He was still deciding between The Notebook and Troll 2.”

You could practically hear the eye roll on the other end.

“Just text us when you get back to the dorm. Be safe Megumi.”

“Goodnight (Name).”

Before you stepped into the shower Satoru called. You waited a moment before answering, not willing to entirely forgive him just yet.

“Yes?” you answered.

“The higher ups need me to take care of something. It’s nothing too serious, but I won’t be able to make it home for Megumi.”

“It’s fine. He’s going out with his friends.”

“Really?”

“They invited him to the movies.”

He paused for a moment. “Are you going to be okay by yourself?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll just be twiddling my fingers until you get back.”

He mumbled something under his breath, which ticked you off. Was he seriously not going to even bother making some half assed apology?

“On second thought, I think I’ll go out.”

“What? Where?”

“Some of the girls were meeting at Ieiri’s place tonight. So I’ll just swing by.”

Satoru just scoffed on the other end of the line. “What is this? You can’t go by yourself.”

“I’ll have the main house bring a car around front. Besides if Megumi’s busy and you're in a mood I don’t see why I can’t have some time to myself. I’ll see you later.”

You hung up before dialing the number for the main house.

You were greeted by Yuki at the door. “Hey everyone! Look who made it!”

She let you into Ieiri’s apartment and when you entered you were greeted by a chorus of hellos.

“Hey everyone, I’m sorry for dropping by so late.”

You shrugged off Satoru’s Hugo Boss coat and tossed it on the coach with the other coats.

“So you managed to get away from the old ball and chain,” Ieiri joked.

Mei Mei glanced at your bump as you joined them on the couch.

“How are you feeling (Name)?”

“Fine. Just a little tired. But not tired enough to go to sleep yet.”

“Do you want something to drink?” Yuki asked.

“I’d kill for a scotch but I’ll just settle for a glass of water.”

Only a few more months until the baby arrived, after that you’d take a bath in champagne.

“You really want to retire?” Yuki asked.

“I’ve just been thinking a lot these past few months, maybe it’s the hormones I don’t know.”

“So why does Satoru have a stick up his ass if nothing’s official?” Ieiri asked.

You sighed. “I don’t know. All I know is I’d like to just be a mother for a while and just get away for a bit.”

Mei Mei patted your shoulder. “The only thing that matters is what you want (Name). He’ll come around.”

“Do you want me to beat the shit out of him? I will,” Yuki offered.

You laughed.

“We’ll play it by ear.”

You spent the next couple hours catching up. Your busy schedules and Yuki’s avoidance of Jujutsu Tech made these gatherings far and few in between. The fun came to an abrupt end when your phone rang. You stepped outside to answer it.

“Hello?”

Akari Nitta responded on the other end of the line in a slightly frazzled tone.

“Hello Mrs. Gojo. I’m so sorry to bother you so late but there’s a bit of a situation.”

You tensed up, your brain rushing to the worse case scenario.

“What is it?”

“Noaya Zenin’s here.”

Well that was unexpected.

“Why?”

“He just got in from Kyoto. He says it’s urgent and the Principal isn’t here. Ichiji isn’t here either, he went with Mr. Gojo on his assignment from the higher ups.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. Leave it to that asshole to show up without an appointment.

“Did he say what it’s about?”

“No ma’am. He told me he’d rather wait for someone important.”

Well that was a mistake you’d make him pay for.

You just sighed in defeat. “Alright. I’ll be right there.”

You hung up and went back inside to tell everyone goodbye.

You had already sent the driver back to the estate since you originally planned to get a ride home with Mei Mei. It all worked out in the end as you were able to get a cab with no trouble. When you finally arrived at the school you briskly walked to the main office and found Akari waiting outside.

“He’s waiting in your office,” she informed you.

You just nodded and braced yourself for the stench.

“Naoya. What brings you all the way from Kyoto?” you monatonely asked.

He just glared at you. “Where’s Yaga? I didn’t ask to see you.”

You didn’t bother sitting down, opting to stand behind your desk.

“I didn’t ask to see you either so why don’t you tell me why you're here so we can all leave faster?”

He narrowed his eyes on you. “I’m here to express the Zenin’s clan's frustrations involving the half curse.”

“Yuji Itadori? What about him?”

“Why are you allowing that thing to practice Jujutsu sorcery here?”

You scoffed. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“This school has a tendency to harbor sorcerers of a lesser caliber.”

“Something more to add Naoya?”

“We’ve also received word that the third year Kinji Hakari is still enrolled here.”

“Again I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“He physically assaulted one of the higher ups and that higher up is on good terms with the Zenin’s. So what the hell are you going to do about it?”

“Kinji Hakari has currently been suspended for his behavior,” Akari confirmed.

“Why? So he can just come back?” he barked at her.

“Hey,” you interjected. “You don’t get to interrogate my staff Noaya. And you don’t get to make demands just because of who your father is.”

“Yaga assured us the issues were being handled, and the Kamos are in agreement as well. We don’t want trash forced upon us.”

You guffawed at that sentiment.

“Really? Why? Because your family has such a stellar record on judgment? Toji Zenin, your cousin, murdered the star plasma vessel and almost killed two students. Not to mention the countless number of sorcerers he slaughtered. And don’t even get me started on how you’ve been bribing anyone you can to make sure Maki Zenin doesn’t promote beyond grade 4.”

“Watch how you speak to me,” he warned. “Everyone knows the only reason you have this job is because you’re riding Satoru Gojo’s cock.”

Akari flinched at that last statement, but you remained unmoved. You knew what he was doing and you wouldn’t let it work.

You walked to the door and opened it. “I’ve given you more than enough of my time. Now get the hell out of my office before I call my husband and tell him what you just said. And the next time your clan wants something your father can come down here himself instead of sending his errand boy.”

Noaya just relented and stood up. Before he left he looked at your bump, studying it for a moment. Your baby remained secure underneath Satoru’s coat.“You’re about seven months along right? So I guess that’s only about two or three more months until your official replacement comes in.”

You just glared at him.

He smirked and strolled out.

Gojo was pissed.

He rarely had a moment to himself and just when he had thought he secured an evening to relax, the higher ups summoned him for a useless meeting which resulted in him getting stuck with a menial assignment. There were some level one and two curses in a few abandoned office buildings downtown and, on top of the millions of other things he had to do, it was decided he’d take the job.

It was egregiously beneath his skill set, but the higher ups were presenting more and more little inconveniences for him these days. Just a subtle punishment for making their jobs harder by allowing Yuji Itadori to live. Not that it mattered anyway. Megumi was miraculously crafting a social life for himself and you were mad at him. The curses were harmless to him but there were quite enough to keep him busy. He worked his way through each building increasing in aggression with his attacks.

“She wants to retire,” he mumbled under his breath. “And leave me.”

But that was fine. He could handle things. He could handle anything.

‘Are you the strongest because you’re Satoru Gojo. Or are you Satoru Gojo because you're the strongest?’

He was strong. That’s what everyone said. He was capable. That’s why no one worried.

He spit at that notion. If he was so capable then why couldn’t he save the people who he cared about the most? The people he was charged to protect: Suguru, Riko, Tsumiki.

He swallowed his guilt.

A level three tried to sneak up behind him, much to its dismay. Satoru channeled all of his rage into a punch that sent the curse crashing through the floor and plummeting several levels resulting in a massive boom. Glass sprinkled around him as the weary building let out a pained groan.

Satoru strolled out of the final office building, making sure to put his blindfold back on. He was completely drained, and wasn’t looking forward to sleeping on the couch. There was no way you were letting him into your bedroom tonight.

When he approached the car he noticed Ichiji was talking on the phone.

“Yes,” he nodded. “Understood. I’ll let him know.”

He hung up and faced Satoru. “Everything went well?”

“Of course. What was that? Another assignment?”

“Actually Principal Yaga convinced the higher ups to let Ino handle it. Mr. Nanami will supervise, so you're free for the rest of the night.”

Satoru just nodded. “Fine.”

“Should I drive you home or would you like to go somewhere else?” Ichiji asked.

Satoru pondered it for a moment. You were probably still out and Megumi and Tsumiki weren’t home. He didn’t want to sit in front of the television and watch old sitcoms.

“No,” he replied. “I’ll get home on my own. See you tomorrow. Good night Ichiji.”

Satoru just put on his sunglasses and walked around downtown for a while. The night crowd was pouring in and out of bars and hole in the wall restaurants that never closed. He walked a little further and looked in some of the storefront windows. When was the last time he walked around a store? He couldn’t remember.

You had never been so grateful to be home in your life. Once you had finally made it back you silence your cell phone and opted to turn your much needed shower into a hot bath. You let the hot water consume your body and alleviate your sore muscles. After you had finished soaking you dried yourself off and changed into your nightgown. You settled in front of your vanity and opened your drawer, feeling around for your moisturizer.

You paused when your fingers brushed against something soft. When you fished it out you discovered an old pink scrunchie you instantly recognized.

How long had it been there?

It was Tsumiki’s.

Tsumiki’s room had remained untouched since she had fallen into a coma. You apprehensively flicked on the light and walked inside, cradling the scrunchie in your hands. The bed remained unslept in, her books remained unread, collecting dust on her bookshelf. You missed her, Megumi missed her, and Satoru missed her too.

You all took shifts visiting her in the hospital. The doctor tells you talking is good so that’s what you do, even if you're not sure how much she’s getting. It pained you to see time go by without her. The four of you had seven years together as a family, and now it felt like you were all drifting. Your home felt less lively, and it scared you.

How could you bring your baby into this predicament?

It was a question that had been haunting you for the last few months of your pregnancy. Everyday at work you saw the signs. Your husband was right, curses and sorcerers were becoming stronger. The balance of your world and the real world was more uneven than ever before.

You knew that, and yet you wanted this baby. You found comfort in Satoru knowing he could protect your child, but was that fair? Was it right to depend on him so much? He never complained about the work, he brushed it off as another reality of his life. Was it getting to him more than you imagined?

You gingerly placed the scrunchie on Tsumiki’s and let out a weary sigh. You couldn’t stay in this room, it held too much sadness in it. With that you shut the door and retreated to your room. Instead of crawling onto your side of the bed you found yourself on Satoru’s side, something you did when he went away for work.

You closed your eyes and fell asleep.

When Satoru returned home he tugged his blindfold off and stuffed it in his pocket. He debated venturing upstairs to check in on you but he was probably the last person you wanted to see right now. So he turned on the television and leaned back to watch an old rerun of Frasier.

After the first commercial break he shuffled into the kitchen for a snack. Then, in a less than graceful move, he accidentally dropped the bowl that he had intended to put his chips in. It plummeted to the ground and shattered into a million pieces. He stood there for a moment, completely shocked. He must have been more upset than he had allowed himself to realize. Since when the hell was he so accident prone?

“Satoru?”

He shot straight up at your voice and looked up to see you standing there. The whole thing was so awkward all he could do was stand there.

“What are you doing up?” he asked.

You shuffled to the pantry and returned with the broom and dustpan.

“I couldn’t sleep so I came down for a glass of water. Are you alright?”

He nodded and took the dustpan from your hand, bending down by the mess. You quickly swept up the remnants of broken glass.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured as he plucked a spare shard off the ground that had escaped the broom's vengeance.

“It was an accident,” you assured him.

“No,” he said. Satoru stood up and wrapped his arms around you. “I’m sorry for everything that happened earlier.

You immediately surrendered into his arms and pressed your cheek against his. “I was going to tell you about how I felt when I was ready.”

“I know,” he swore. “I’m so sorry I snapped at you.”

You pecked his lips and pushed his white hair out of his eyes.

“Let’s sit down.”

Once the mess had been cleaned up the two of you settled on the couch and finally talked.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about things. About our baby and the world we’d be bringing them into.”

He nodded and waited for you to continue.

“I used to believe so adamantly in the things we used to talk about. Changing the system from the inside and making a difference. But how are any of us supposed to protect against things we never even see coming? Has everything we’ve worked for been in vain?”

Your husband reached out and took your hand in his.

“Is this about what happened last December?”

“Partly,” you admitted. “And then there’s Tsumiki. It’s been months since she was cursed.”

“(Name). Suguru…Suguru’s dead now, along with his cause. And Tsumiki…everything is being done that can be done.”

“I want to spend what time I can with my baby. Before they have to face this world. Our world.”

“We can’t shelter them forever (Name),” Satoru gently warned.

“I know. But Satoru, don’t you have any…fears?”

He pulled you into his chest and leaned back.

“Of course,” he quietly admitted. “But I can’t think about it for too long, I don’t like the places my head goes to.”

You closed your eyes and listened to his heart softly beat against his chest.

“Sometimes,” he mumbled. “I just want to let the world burn, but everyone has these expectations. So I have to keep going.”

He tightened his grip on you.

“That’s why I freaked out,” he whispered. “I was just scared of having to keep going alone.”

You sat up, pulling him with you. “Satoru, you’ll never be alone. I’ll always be with you, whether I’m there or not my love. I swear.”

He wearily nodded. “It’s just a little hard to let myself believe that sometimes, but I’ll get there eventually.”

“Good, because I’m not going anywhere. I love you Satoru.”

“I love you too (Name).”

(The next week)

“I’m home!” Satoru announced. “And look who I found standing outside.”

You looked up from your spot on the couch to find Satoru at the front door with Megumi glaring at him.

You just smiled. “Welcome home Megumi.”

“Hey (Name).”

The young boy looked around as Satoru closed the door behind him. Practically every inch of the house was covered in baby stuff. Two cribs, three baby swings, a couple of changing tables, a plethora of onesies, stacks of diapers, and a mountain of toys just to name a third of the items.

“Well this is…a lot.”

“Watch where you step. Satoru’s been shopping all week.”

“We were behind. I just want to make sure Megumi junior has everything they need.”

Megumi navigated his way to the couch and sat down next to you.

“If you name the baby that I’m never coming home again,” he threatened.

The three of you sat down to dinner.

“So tell me, how is everything at school?” you asked.

“Things are going well. I’ve been training more, so things have been busier.”

“Well we’re always available if you ever need to talk about something,” you reminded him.

Megumi set his water glass down. “Actually there's something I’ve been thinking about lately.”

“What is it?” Satoru asked.

He paused for a moment before continuing. “I was thinking about visiting Tsumiki. I know we all take turns. But could we go together sometime?”

He looked slightly bashful at the request. You reached across the table and took his hand, knowing how difficult it was for him to share his feelings so vocally.

“We’d love to sweetheart,” you answered.

“I think she’d like that,” Satoru sincerely mused.

Megumi nodded and the three of you continued eating your meal.

The End.

#gojo x reader #jjk fanfic #angst #oneshot #hyperfixationsporfavor #ao3 fanfic

364 notes · View notes

boldlyvoid · 4 years ago

Text

touch me

spencer reid x reader

Summary: Spencer is incredibly touch-starved and hard on himself since coming home from prison. Luckily, the medical examiner in this small town is really good at reading people, and exactly what he needs.

warnings: mentions of cases, insecurity issues, female reader, smut, blowjobs, riding, praise, emotional hurt/comfort. emotional sex, strangers to lovers, hook-ups,

word count: 5.8k

They had been in New Mexico for almost a week, solving a series of murders that seemed to have no end in sight. There was nothing they could do but go back to their hotels to sleep, hoping there’d be a connection in the morning.

Spencer and JJ were sharing a room as the small town hotel didn’t have accommodations for everyone that was visiting to help with the case. They didn’t mind, it was like a long sleep-over.

They did their own thing, kept their space and Spencer really did enjoy overhearing her on FaceTime with her kids. It was refreshing happiness in the middle of the madness murder sadness and despair they were swallowed by.

When his phone rang at 6 am, just shortly after he returned to his room for a quick rest, he sighed deeply, “Dr. Reid.”

“I’m so sorry to do this to you, but another body dropped and I need you to go to the ME,” Prentiss explained softly down the line. “It’s weirder than the other’s and you’re the only person who would be able to work it out with the examiner.”

“I’m on it,” he replied with a tightlipped smile. He hung up and looked over at JJ, already peacefully asleep on her bed. He closed the door softly on his way out, not wanting to disturb her any further.

At the other end of the hallway, Spencer stood and waited for the elevator. It seemed to be taking forever, everything he was doing lately dragged on and on with no end in sight. He was exhausted, still struggling with his PTSS, just all around not having the best time.

He was in the middle of rubbing the sleep out of his eyes when the elevator opened with an equally tired woman waiting inside. “Hi,” she said before covering her mouth to yawn, “sorry.”

“I get it,” he smiled as he stepped inside. “Lobby?”

“Yes please,” she smiled. “Are you here for the case too?”

“Uh, yes,” he answered softly, “I’m Dr. Spencer Reid, with the FBI.”

“Oh, hi! I’m Dr. Y/N Y/L/N, the medical examiner,” her face lit right up. “Agent Prentiss said you’d be joining me I just didn’t think this quickly.”

She was adorable, bubbly and happy in a way he envied. He missed the feeling of random giddiness, smiling at her as he felt the butterflies swirl in his stomach. “Do you need a ride? I have an SUV from the bureau.”

“Yeah,” her smiled got bigger. “That would be really nice.”

They walked closely together through the lobby and towards the parking structure, he hit the unlock button a few times while trying to figure out which SUV his keys matched to. Finally getting in and watching her climb in the passenger seat.

“Do you know anything yet about the body?” Spencer asked as he turned on the ignition.

“Yeah hold on,” she pulled her iPad out of her bag and started sliding through emails.

“Your tech girl sent me the initial police reports, witness statements and overview,” she began to explain. “Like the others, she’s a 25-year-old female, blond, blue-eyed, athletic.”

“Prentiss said it was a weird one?” Spencer added.

“They think she was embalmed before the unsub staged her,” Y/N added with a tone of disgust on her voice. “Do you have your tech girl’s number?”

“Yeah, hold on,” Spencer dug his phone from his pocket and dialled the number.

“Penelope Garcia, the 8th wonder of the world at your service,” she answered after just one ring. “How are you doing on this fine morning, my fine furry friend?”

“Not so hot,” Spencer replied. “I’m with the ME right now on the way to the body, she has a question for you.”

“Oh hello, ask away.”

Y/N was smiling on the front seat, enjoying the show they put on for her. “Um, hi I was wondering if you could look into anyone in this town buying embalming equipment, or if any has been stolen from the funeral home? This town is so under-resourced already, I don’t know where this guy could get this stuff.”

“Absolutely, I’ll add that to my parameters,” Garcia’s voice was lovely and soft. “I’ll call you back if I find anything!”

“She’s lovely,” Y/N exclaimed as Spencer place his phone back in his pocket.

“Yeah, she is.”

Spencer pulled into the morgue’s parking lot, the lights were all on and the Coroners van was parked by the loading doors. Inside there was just 1 officer, waiting beside a body bag as Spencer and Y/N walked in.

The officer gave them both a quick rundown of the crime scene findings, as well as information about where all the equipment was before leaving them to their work.

“Have you ever examined a body?” Y/N asked Spencer.

He nodded, “I’ve been present during a few, held some organs, but I’ve never done one myself.”

“They’re pretty gnarly,” She scrunched her face and giggled. “Let’s get you all geared up.”

She handed him a hairnet, a white plastic suit, goggles and a mask. “Gloves are on the wall, pick your size.”

He felt like a lunch lady standing beside her, taller than her by almost a foot, dressed in all white with a hairnet. He could tell she was smiling at him under her mask, her eyes gleamed up at him in a way that made his heart melt.

He had to remind himself multiple times that this was nowhere close to the time appropriate to want to flirt with someone. They were about to examine a dead body, and potentially solve a case. There would be time to flirt later.

But he was just so amazed by how she worked, being able to tell everything that was going on by just looking at the body. Making notes on her own and only occasionally explaining things to Spencer. In her own little world, solving the puzzle with expertise.

“The other 4 vics were just strangled and staged, dressed up and left in different areas around town,” she ran the case down more for herself, needing to hear the words to make a connection.

“Yes,” Spencer followed her train of thought, tilting his head as he listened.

“She was murdered, embalmed, staged and sexually assaulted. His MO is completely different and it’s only been 2 days since the last body dropped. I think he’s found his signature,” She explained her thoughts. “His sexual aspect comes out only when they’re dead and cold, we’re dealing with a necrophile.”

“While most serial killers start with small animals before moving on to humans, he started with women and then eventually grew to what he really wanted. That’s what we were missing,” Spencer’s eyes lit up.

“He’s a lot younger than you hypothesized in the original profile,” She added.

“You read it?”

She nodded, “yeah I like to know what you’re looking at to see if I have answers.”

“This is really going to help us,” Spencer smiled, his eyes mimicking hers now.

“I can finish up here if you want to go back to your team? I can get a cab,” She offered. “Go catch this guy.”

“Okay,” Spencer said, backing up from the table and taking his equipment off. Placing them in the hazmat garbage. “Are you sure?”

“Yes Dr. Reid, I’ll be fine,” She laughed. “Can I call you if anything comes up?”

He smiled again, “call me even if something doesn’t.” He dug a contact card out of his pocket and placed it on top of her purse. Waving as he walked out of the room.

—

He thought about her smile for the rest of the afternoon, leaving his findings with Prentiss before heading back to his room to sleep for a few hours.

He finally found his way back into the police department 5 hours later, coffee in hand as he tried to absorb all the new information. They had a lead, stolen embalming equipment from a funeral home a few towns over was reported 4 days ago.

He stayed back during the apprehension of the suspect. Simmons, Lewis and Rossi were closer and they didn’t think the unsub would be dangerous. No one was missing and he wasn’t expecting them, should be easy to get him to come in for some questions.

Much like the rest of this case, it didn’t go to plan. They found another woman in his home, having to shoot him in the process. Ending the spree, ridding the world of a necrophile. It just didn’t feel like justice was served when another person had to die.

Spencer sat on his bed, calming down slightly from the end of the case. Saving a woman, killing a murderer, it was all a lot to process in such a short time.

JJ was in her bed on the other side of the room, scrolling through Facebook as she looked at photos of her kids. It was a much easier way for her to calm down, remembering that she could go home to pure, unadulterated happiness at the end of a case.

They heard a small knock on the door, Spencer volunteered to answer, opening it only a small amount as he looked out.

“Oh, hi,” surprised to see Y/N behind the door.

“Would you like to come and drink with me?” She asked, holding up a bottle in her hand. “In my room,” she added.

“Yeah, yes um, hold on,” he closed the door on her softly.

“Who’s that?” JJ smirked at him.

“My friend,” he replied quickly, running to the bathroom to look at his hair and fix his shirt. “I’ll be back later.”

He grabbed his wallet, making sure he had a condom first, before opening the door only a small amount to slip out into the hall. Hiding Y/N from JJ as she tried to look out the door.

“Sorry, my co-worker and I are sharing,” he explained.

“It’s okay,” she smiled, heading towards the stairs. “I’m just a floor up, and the elevator takes a million years.”

Spencer held the door for her, watching her head up the stairs as he noticed the bottle in one of her hands and her shoes in the other. She walked up the steps in her socks, exhausted from the day.

“Did you get any sleep?” She asked him softly as she kept climbing the steps.

“A few hours, did you?”

“Yeah,” she laughed, “I woke up just before they called about the body this morning.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to just go to bed? You’ve been working for 12 hours,” Spencer worried for her.

She reached the door for floor 3, pulling it open with the hand she held her shoes in, “Sleep is the for weak.”

He laughed lightly, “do you want me to hold anything?”

“Here,” she handed him the bottle, “thanks.”

She dug the keycard from her pocket as he followed her towards the right door. Excitement bubbled in his chest as she opened the door and welcomed him inside.

It was exactly like his room downstairs, only there was just 1 queen bed and a few couches by the window. She set her things down on the bed, sighing deeply as she sat on the edge.

“Do you have any cups or mugs?” Spencer asked, reminding her that he was holding the alcohol still.

“Yeah, on the bar table over there,” she pointed. “I’m just going to change in the bathroom quickly, you can pour yourself a drink.”

“Okay,” he smiled awkwardly as he crossed the room.

She dug through her suitcase quickly. Spencer saw from the corner of his eye as she took out some shorts and a shirt, not even slightly worried about being so casual in front of a complete stranger.

He inspected the bottle, it was just a cheap scotch, nothing too special. He poured about an inch of the golden liquid into two cups, not a big fan of drinking but tonight he felt a little risky.

She came back looking more refreshed, very cozy, and still breathtakingly beautiful. He hadn’t felt this way about someone in a long time, the tightening in his chest as he wondered where the night was going to go.

Not to mention the longing he felt.

Even before prison, he wasn’t one to spend a lot of nights alone with a beautiful stranger. The added isolation in his life changed him on a fundamental level, he realized just how much he craved contact, and just how much he’s deprived himself over the years from both men and women. He just wanted to be loved properly.

He silently handed her one of the cups, smiling at each other softly as they tapped cups. Taking the whole drink, “oh, yep that was exactly what I needed.” Y/N’s eyes watered as her face scrunched up, coughing a bit.

Spencer felt the same, only being able to hide it a bit better. The burn was nice on his throat, it made him feel alive. “Did you want to order some food or anything or?”

She laughed, “that would be the smart and responsible thing to do.”

“Are you okay?” He asked softly.

She looked up at him, her shoulders dropping as she released the tension in her body. Looking into his eyes with care, it was so different from the way his co-workers looked at him. She didn’t think he was broken, she had to reason to believe he was even damaged.

“Yeah,” she smiled, placing her hand on his chest as she stepped in closer to him. “Do you like mushrooms on pizza?” She giggled, even this close to him with every opportunity to kiss him, she chose to just make him smile. Something that didn’t happen too often lately.

“I do, it’s my favourite topping actually.”

She took his tie in her hands and dragged him to the couch, “I enjoy topping sometimes too.”

She sat down on the couch and looked up at him, waiting for him to sit beside her. Patting the cushion beside herself while he swallowed sharply, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, making her smirk.

“I won’t bite Spencer,” she laughed finally. “I’m sorry if that was too much?”

“No,” he said, sitting down beside her quickly. “No, it’s fine honestly, I’m just not used to it.”

“Too busy with the FBI to find anyone to hit on you?”

He shook his head softly, pushing his hair out of his face. “I uh, I was framed for murder and in prison for 3 months. I haven’t really had a conversation with anyone I don’t work with in a while.”

“Oh,” she didn’t look surprised or scared. “That makes sense.”

“What does?”

“You’re soft,” she leaned in to press her hand against his chest once more, eye level with him now. Seeing his eyes dart from her lips to her eyes every few seconds as he licked his lips. “You don’t look like you want to hurt anyone, but something about your aura is changing. You know how to protect yourself now, and you’re stuck thinking you’re still in danger.”

“How can you tell all that just from looking at me?” He asked softly.

“If I showed up at any other man’s door with a bottle of alcohol and the offer of a night alone, I would have been pushed against that door the second we got here,” she explained. “You respect me, almost a little too much.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” His face was soft and curious and proving her point.

“You see me as a person, but I can tell you’re touch starved. Every time I get close to you, it’s like you don’t want me to move away,” her voice was barely a whisper as she leaned in even closer to him.

She could feel his breath on her face, her nose was close enough to brush against his as she stared at his lips, “but you won’t make the first move. You want to protect me from you.”

He nodded his head lightly before rubbing the tip of his nose against hers and making her smile. He let out a sigh, relaxing his shoulders as she straddled his lap, leaning him back against the couch. He bit the bullet and let his hands rest on her hips, looking at her softly in the hopes it was okay.

“Tell me?” She begged, holding his tie in her hands, running it through her fingers as she waited. “What do you want? What you miss? Let me be that for you,” she begged.

“Anything,” he finally tells her. “Just touch me.”

She loosened his tie, freeing his neck finally. She slowly undoes every single button on his shirt, untucking the hem from his pants as she opens it up.

Her fingers are warm on his skin, but he still gasps at the touch. Her fingers were so soft, like angel kisses as the pads of her fingers traced the skin. Gliding over every freckle, raking through his chest hair, bumping along the barely-there abs.

His thumbs rubbed against her bare thighs, where he held her lightly. “You can touch me too,” she whispered.

His hands travelled up to her waist, he gently pulled her in closer. No longer resting on his legs, but pressed close to his chest. Her hands landed on his shoulders, looking down at him with nothing but pure lust as her breathing hitched.

She cupped his face, gliding her thumbs along his cheeks softly as she stared at his lips. He opened his mouth to breathe, his bottom lip was plump and beautiful and she couldn’t help herself from rubbing her thumb over it.

He kissed her thumbprint before taking it in his mouth, sucking on it softly making her hips buck into his lightly. The suction on her thumb was more erotic than she expected, the feel of his hot mouth, his wet tongue swirling around it before he let her go with a pop.

She accidentally let out a moan that excited him, “like that?”

She immediately felt her heartbeat in her clit, she nodded feverishly. Suddenly at a loss for words, wondering where this Spencer suddenly came from.

“How far are we taking this?” He asked softly. “We can stop and order that pizza at any time?”

There he was, the soft and sweet man that she brought here in the first place. “Pizza is even better after sex,” she couldn’t stop the giggle from erupting from her, even as she bit her lip.

He smiled at her like she was the world. A complete stranger making him feel more than anyone had in the last year. “I’m going to need longer than it takes to deliver a pizza,” he admitted.

“Luckily they’re open late,” she compromised, leaning in and finally kissing him.

It was soft at first, then he pulled her in even closer. She was chest to chest with him as he breathed her in deeply. She melted into his grasp as if he had just stolen her soul right out of her body.

She was his now.

She kept his face in her hands, holding him as he broke the kiss to explore her jaw. Kissing every inch of her neck and chest as she gripped his hair, making him moan as she used her nails to comb through the long locks.

“Does that feel nice?” She cooed, running her nails along his scalp as he tilted his head back.

“My favourite thing,” he explained as he closed his eyes, letting her repeat the same motion again and again.

He looked so peaceful, running his hands over her back and sides softly as she massaged him. She leaned in and kissed his cheeks, the tip of his nose, both eyelids and his forehead.

He wanted her to touch him everywhere, her delicate touch made him feel worthy for once. Every self-hatred of his washed from his body as she explored him with care, care only one would receive if they were a most prized possession.

He felt loved.

It was overwhelming, he didn’t realize a tear had slipped down his cheek until she was wiping it from his skin. Shushing him softly before kissing him quickly on the lips.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, embarrassed.

“It’s okay, what’s on your mind beautiful?” She asked softly as she brushed through his hair once more.

“I just,” he looked in her eyes ever so innocently. “I’m not used to feeling cared for, no one pays attention to me this way.”

“That’s shameful,” she looked utterly perplexed. “Look at you? You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you’re powerful. You’re kind and lovely and soft?”

“But I’m also weird and too much to handle,” he interjected.

“Not to me,” she corrected him. “this morning you could have said nothing in the elevator, you could have driven by yourself and awkwardly waited till I was finished my work. But you didn’t, you had a conversation with me, you helped me many times, you cared about me making it back here safely and you didn’t even know me. You’re a special kind of person Doctor Reid, and anyone who doesn’t see it is an idiot.”

He pressed his lips together in an awkward smile and furrowed his brow, “do you ever give out parts of yourself to everyone because you know how hard it is to feel appreciated?”

“All the time,” she laughed softly. “But not now.”

“Me either,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

“I’ll make you a deal, you tell me the worst thing you’ve ever done and I’ll tell you mine,” she offered. “Even the playing field.”

“How so?”

“Right now you think I’m super nice and kind right? And I just told you how I feel about you, but you hate yourself and outside of here I hate myself too. Share a secret, we can be fucked up together,” she smiled.

“In order to keep myself safe in prison, I poisoned a batch of heroin and almost killed a lot of people,” he responded without thinking.

“Okay,” she was a little shocked that he gave in so fast. “One time I stabbed a guy who tried to touch me after I pushed him off me twice already. He didn’t die, it barely even went in.”

“Both are technically self-defence,” he shrugged.

“See?” She smiled. “You’re not as bad and scary as you think you are. You’re smart and cunning.”

“Are you sure you’re not a therapist?” He teased her, “because this has been better for me than any therapy appointment I’ve ever gone to.”

She laughed again, kissing him softly. “I think it would be against the rules for your therapist to do this, I guess that’s why some men cheat.”

“How so?” He just liked listening to her speak.

“It’s easier to be open with someone you’ll never see again than it is with your therapist or wife because there are no consequences. They can’t judge you or hold anything against you, they do what you paid them for and they leave,” she explained herself.

“I’d like to see you again,” his voice barely a whisper. “If you’d like that?”

She nodded softly, “maybe I’ll move back to Virginia, finally.”

“Is that where you’re from?”

“Born and raised. I moved to Albuquerque with my girlfriend 5 years ago, and she left me about 2 years ago now,” Y/N explained. “I liked my job too much to move all the way back there and start over.”

“I can put in a good word for you where ever you want,” he offered before he could stop himself from looking too desperate.

“I’ll look into it,” she smiled.

He kissed the centre of her chest again before pulling her into a hug. Hearing her heart beating in her chest softly as she pressed her cheek to the top of his head and rubbed her hand over his back. Soothing him so completely, he felt beyond amazing.

And then she was gone, pulling back from him and standing up. “Wh-?” Before he could even ask, she was lifting her shirt off.

He stared at her breasts, eyes wide and jaw dropped. She walked over to the bar, taking another shot before she pushed her shorts down and climbed onto the bed. Completely naked in under a minute.

He stood then, pushing the opened shirt off his shoulders and immediately undoing his belt. He took a condom from his wallet before kicking off his shoes, dropping his pants and underwear to the floor and stepping out of them.

She was laying back against the pillows when he crawled over her, resting his naked body against hers ever so slightly. She just smirked as she looked up at him, “hi.”

“Hello,” he whispered.

“What do you want?” She asked.

“You.”

He kissed her softly on the lips, or at least he planned to. Y/N wrapped her arms around his back and pulled him down against her. Swiping her tongue across his bottom lip, begging to make out with him, finally.

Grabbing and tugging at each other as everything started to heat up, she could feel his erection against her leg as he ground down on her. Sucking on his tongue, lightly making him moan into her mouth.

His hair kept tickling her face, every time she’d push it away it would just fall right back against her skin. She pulled him off by his hair, gasping for air as they stared at each other again.

“Can I be on top?” She asked lightly.

He wrapped his arms under her, holding her close as he rolled over. Watching her settle more onto her knees as she sat on his hips. “Better?”

“Much,” she said as she sat up, taking a hairband off her wrist and putting her hair up. Raising her arms in a way that made her tits perk up. He reached up and cupped them, rubbing his thumb lightly across her nipples before giving them a squeeze.

She just laughed as she finished her ponytail, “having fun?”

“Absolutely,” he smiled up at her.

His hands followed the curve of her body, from her boobs to her waist and down over her hips. She was stunning, confident, everything he ever wanted and more.

She found the condom in the sheets, the bright purple packaging making it easy to see. She played with it in her hands, seeing how long it would take before he got desperate, but he never did.

“How long have you had this?” She asked, trying to tease him.

“Not long,” he was honest. “I just got out of prison, remember?”

“So you haven’t had sex since before you went in?” She looked excited.

“No, why?”

She smiled, “so I’m taking your free man’s virginity.”

“I don’t think that’s a thing?”

“It is now,” she giggled before leaning down to kiss him once more.

Trailing kisses down his neck, stopping only to suck a mark near his Adam’s apple. Hearing the sweet little gasps he made every time her tongue came in contact with his skin. She kissed his clavicle, his shoulder and down his chest. Making her way across his abs and over his lower tummy.

He gripped the sheets, not knowing what she had planned or where she was going. Spreading his legs, she kissed his groin, his right hip bone and the inside of his thighs. He couldn’t believe it, the way she explored him so delicately.

She ignored his cock for a while, kissing and sucking at any and all the visible skin she could find. He felt her smile against his thigh then, getting closer and closer before she took his cock in her hand and kissed the base.

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding in, settling into the bed like water filling a glass, he was liquid in her hands. Her mouth was a blessing and she chose him to worship.

“Fuck,” he moaned as she took all of him as far as she could. Dragging her tongue along the shaft as she pulled back up. Swirling her tongue around the tip before taking him all the way in once more.

She pulled off with a pop, sitting up now with his dick still in her hands. She tore the condom open with her teeth, taking the package off and rolling it over him.

His dick bounced back against his stomach when she let go of it, hard enough that it had a mind of its own now. She bit her lip as she lifted herself over him more, setting herself down softly where it laid against him.

The head of his cock brushed her clit as she ground down on him, his hands found her hips once more as he instinctively helped her find a rhythm.

He could feel how wet she was, the way she glided over him so easily. Her breath hitching every time her hips bucked, she was enjoying herself. It made him even more excited. She leaned back down then, kissing his neck once more as she continued to push down on him.

“I need you,” Spencer gasped.

She smiled against his skin, lifting her hips enough for him to line up with her before she started to sink down on it. He watched himself disappear inside of her, feeling the way she took him in like he was always meant to be there.

“Fuck,” she gasped as she sat down fully, her hands resting on Spencer’s stomach as she tried to get used to it all. Listing herself up and down little by little to get the rhythm going again.

Spencer pulled her back in again, arching her back so she could bounce easier. She held him close, tucking her face into the crook of his neck as she started to move faster and faster on him. Hearing his breathing pick up as his grip tightened on her asscheeks.

She kept one hand in his hair as her other hand reached for her clit, pleasuring herself slightly the way she knew she liked it. “Jesus Christ,” she whispered against his skin as she fucked him.

It had never felt like this before, it was so personal for the first time. They worked together perfectly, not having to communicate at all, following the other person’s rhythm like a well-oiled machine with a task.

He felt her everywhere. Her hands in his hair, her lips on his neck. The way her hot breath tickled right under his ear as she tried to catch her breath against him. The way she pulled off him and sucked him back in, again and again, her breasts against his chest and her ass in his hands.

He couldn’t believe it. That a real human being cared about and appreciated him, even after learning his worst secret. She was special and different and everything he needed.

He could feel himself getting closer, wanting to savour every moment with her that he could. His hands roamed her back, over her shoulders and arms. He wanted to touch every single inch of her while he had the chance.

“I’m so close,” she whispered in his ear, kissing his cheek and resting her open mouth against his.

They weren’t kissing, they were panting over each other with their foreheads resting together. Euphoria filling the empty spaces between them as she came, gasping and shaking violently over him.

“Fuck,” he groaned, bending his knees and driving into her a few more times before he finished.

She tugged on his hair then, biting his bottom lip as she felt him twitch inside of her. Letting out the smallest gasps and whimpers as she pulled her hand out from between them and pushed herself off him.

Dropping her body against his, resting her head on his chest as they caught their breath.

He wrapped his arms around her, holding her in a hug as he repeatedly kissed the top of her head. “Thank you,” he was still out of breath as he said it.

She smiled, laughing against his skin again as she hugged him back.

—

He woke up to the sun in his eyes and the feeling of lips against his skin. He blinked as gained consciousness, finding Y/N laying against his chest again. Her face in his heck where she was placing lazy kisses, trying to wake him up nicely.

“Good morning?” His voice was groggy and deep, it made her smile against his skin. A feeling he didn’t realize he missed so much during the night.

“What time is your flight back?”

“10:30, why?” He asked softly, rubbing his hand over her back softly.

She held him tighter, breathing him in deeply as she did so. Not wanting to let him go any time soon, “it’s 9:45.”

“Is it bad I’m hoping there’s a secret serial killer in Albuquerque?”

She laughed again, sitting up this time so she could look at him again. “Maybe I’ll come to visit my parents soon a find a reason to stay in Virginia?”

“I’d like that,” he smiled, pulling her into a kiss. Never wanting it to be the last one.

He waited till the last possible moment to finally peel himself out of her grasp, trying to find all his clothes and belongings from the night before

He kissed her quickly at the door before taking off down the steps and back to the room he was supposed to be sharing with JJ. He knocked on their door lightly, hoping to every god on earth she hadn’t left yet.

She opened the door and just stared at him with her mouth open, “oh my god?” She laughed.

“What?” He asked, completely oblivious to how he looked.

JJ dragged him inside, pulling him towards a mirror and pointing at his reflection. “What happened to you?”

His hair was a mess, he had hickeys all over his neck. His shirt was barely buttoned, definitely not untucked and he didn’t even have his shoes on. “oh.”

“Oh?” JJ couldn’t believe it. “Who is she?”

“Um, the ME from this case,” he explained, scratching the back of his head as he squinted.

JJ just laughed then, “hurry up and look somewhat presentable, pretty boy, the team is going to eat you alive for this.”

Sure enough, when he finally sat in his little corner of the plane with his glasses on and a hickey still visible above his collar, all eyes were on him. No one wanted to ask, they all just made it abundantly clear that they were curious.

Alvez even took a photo to send to Penelope, who sent it to Derek, who texted Reid only 20 minutes into the flight asking who she was. He rolled his eyes and put his phone back in his pocket. About to get really pissed when a second text came in.

555-0623: if you’re still serious about that recommendation, there is a spot available at the DC medical examiner’s office… I’d probably be closer to you than your therapist’s office 💋

He smiled then, saving her number and starting his letter.

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid self insert #spencer reid request #criminal minds smut #criminal minds self insert #criminal minds imagine #one shot

3K notes · View notes