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gojoest · 2 months ago

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𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃

━━━ synopsis: fate has a strange way of birthing love. you married gojo satoru to stay close to his father — an arranged union built to conceal a scandalous affair. but somewhere between the lies and the silence, another secret began to stir quietly in your chest. one that did not belong to his father at all.

━━━ content warning: MDNI, fem! reader (she/her), arranged marriage, affair, infidelity, love triangle, age gap (late 50s vs late 20s/early 30s), reader’s age isn’t necessarily specified but she’s written with late 20s/early30s in mind, unreliable narrator, original characters (satoru’s parents: gojo akihito & gojo saori), falling in love, sexual themes but no explicit content, alcohol consumption in a few scenes, reader is drunk in one scene, flashbacks, character death, murder, twists, there’s a specific fire scene that is heavily inspired by the manhwa “betrayal of dignity”, pregnancy, angst with a happy ending, ask to tag if something triggering is missing

━━━ pairing: gojo satoru x fem! reader ; gojo akihito (oc) x fem! reader

━━━ word count: 20k+ (…idk what happened there tbh)

━━━ author’s note: hello guys! this is the idea i first mentioned back in october and it’s finally coming to life! it’s the longest thing i’ve ever written so please be gentle and kind — to me, to the story, and to reader. i did my best to proofread while editing but apologies in advance for any typos, inconsistencies or mistakes that might’ve slipped through! i hope you enjoy the read ♡

Love can make you do crazy things.

Sometimes it’s a silly behavior that you exhibit, one that isn’t akin to your usual self, one that makes you a bit of a fool.

You find yourself taking detours to “accidentally” bump into someone. Your heart races at the sight of them, and you disguise your longing behind an awkward ‘What a coincidence!’, but what you really mean is ‘I really wanted to see you! I couldn’t stay away.’ It’s harmless — charming, even.

But what happens when love blooms where it shouldn’t? When it takes root in poisoned soil, nurtured by secrecy and betrayal — can it still be called innocent? When the heart wants what it shouldn’t, when desire threatens to unravel lives and twist fates — is it still harmless? Still endearing?

No. The fool knows better — but doesn’t care.

Blinded by love, reason is cast aside. Judgment dulls. Morality slips through desperate fingers. The choices no longer belong to conscience; they belong to longing.

Science says that falling in love mimics a drug high — dopamine rushes, rational thought hijacked, impulse overrides consequence. You become addicted. You crave. And in that craving, you’d do anything to have it. No matter the cost.

The air in the room is thick. With the windows shut, the scent of sex lingers — trapped between the four walls of the hotel room, clinging to your skin and his. Your bodies lie tangled, worn out and still close.

“Nobody saw you come in, right?” the whitehaired man beside you breaks the silence, voice low but tender. His breathing has steadied, back to its usual calm rhythm.

You tilt your head, cheek still pressed against his damp chest. His hand, which had been trailing lazily along your bare back, moves up to cradle your neck — gentle, almost instinctive. Like he’s trying to spare you any discomfort, even now. It makes you smile, the way he always trembles for you.

“No, no one saw me”, you murmur. “It’s not like this is the first time.”

“It’s the first time since you got married”, he replies, his tone quieter, more guarded.

“Is this why you’re so tense?” you let out a feeble laugh. “Nothing’s changed, really — except now we’re both married...” the smile on your lips slowly fades. Your lips part, more words caught behind them.

...not to each other though — you want to say, but you don’t. You don’t want to break the moment. It’s been too long since you last had this.

“Actually”, he trails off, reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand.

At times like this, you’re reminded, again, how large he is. He barely shifts beneath you, just stretches one arm to grab the pack, the other still wrapped around your waist. He lights a cigarette with practiced ease, tucks it between his lips, and inhales deeply.

“There’s one thing that has changed”, he says, smoke curling from his mouth.

“Oh?”

“I see you every day now.”

A faint smile touches his lips, softening his blue eyes. He kisses the top of your head, gaze lingering on you.

That’s right. You do see each other every day now. It’s the consequence of living under the same roof.

“But even so, moments like this... they’ve become rare. That bothers me.”

The warmth leaves his voice. His eyes grow distant, pale and cold. “Seems like he is keeping you too busy. Maybe he’s starting to like you.” he speaks in a dull voice.

“You think so?”

“He’s around the house more, with you. He used to be gone all the time. That wasn’t supposed to happen.” His tone hardens. “He wasn’t supposed to act like this.”

You let out a dry, uneasy chuckle. “Maybe he’s taking after you. Maybe I bewitched him... just like I bewitched you.”

You don’t mean it. It’s just a tease, but the words land wrong.

“Don’t joke about it”, he mutters, exhaling sharply. His brows furrow, tension creeping back into his features. “That’d be... problematic.”

The man beside you is Gojo Akihito — your lover. The former head of the Gojo Clan. He is also the father of your husband. The current head of the clan — Gojo Satoru.

...you only meant to lighten the mood. But just like his plan —

It’s not working.

Rumor has it: The clan head, Gojo Satoru, is completely enamored with his wife.

It has become the talk of the mansion.

“Did you see”, one maid whispers, nudging her colleague as they set the long dining table. “He brought her flowers, again.”

“That’s nothing”, another chimes in, lowering her voice. “The other day he asked me how to make omurice. Said he wanted to learn it properly.”

The first two maids lean in, wide-eyed. “And? What happened?”

“I went into the kitchen early next morning”, she continues with a conspiratorial grin, “And there he was. Apron and everything. Cooking omurice from scratch. Said it was for his wife. Even served it on a fancy plate — with flowers from the garden. I think he picked them himself.”

The maids collectively gasp, hands covering mouths, eyes sparkling.

“He’s completely smitten”, one sighs, nearly swooning. “I heard he turned down every arranged match before her — didn’t even consider them. Then out of nowhere, he agrees to this one without a second thought.”

“At first, I figured he just caved from the pressure”, another adds. “You know how the elders kept pushing. I thought he married her to shut them up.”

“But now? Look at him. That’s not obligation. That’s a man in love.”

A round of dreamy sighs circles the table.

“Remember how he used to show up maybe once every couple of months? Only if something serious needed his attention?”

“Now we see him every day”, one nods. “And if he’s not home, it feels... weird.”

“He always comes back”, says another. “No matter how late. And the first thing he does is go see her.”

“That’s not all”, the first maid says, lowering her voice even more. “The other day, he came home with a wound.”

“No way. Him?” one of the others gasps. “He’s untouchable — who even got close enough to land a hit?”

“Exactly. And do you know what he did? He let her clean him up. She asked for the first aid kit, and he just... smiled. The whole time. Like it didn’t hurt at all.”

A chorus of quiet squeals follows, full of awe and disbelief.

“He let himself be struck just so she’d fuss over him?” one whispers, covering her mouth. “God, he’s hopeless.”

But before the fantasy could grow any richer, a sharp voice cuts through the air.

“If you’re done gossiping”, Akihito says coolly from the doorway, “Perhaps you could focus on the work you’re actually being paid to do. Call everyone when dinner is ready.”

The maids freeze, spines straightening, heads bowing in rapid succession. “Y-yes, sir. Our apologies.”

Akihito didn’t linger. He didn’t need to.

It wasn’t their chatter that irritated him. It was what they were whispering about. What they were seeing — what he couldn’t ignore. That’s what got under his skin.

“Good evening, wife.”

You blink at the mirror just as a bouquet of forget-me-nots is gently laid in front of you on the vanity. Satoru leans in behind you, his reflection appearing over your shoulder, smiling. “You look beautiful, as always.” he murmurs against your ear.

You shift slightly in your chair, but his hands land softly on your shoulders, holding you in place — not forcefully, but firmly enough to suggest he’s not letting you leave just yet.

“Want me to brush your hair?”

You sigh and meet his eyes in the mirror. “I can do it myself.”

“I know”, he says smoothly. “But I want to.”

Persistent. That’s one thing you’ve learned about him in the month you’ve been married — Satoru always gets what he wants. If you said no now, you wouldn’t put it past him to slip gum into your hair just so you’d have to ask for help.

Just like he did with your slippers.

He wanted to put them on for you one morning — for no reason other than his own mischief, you’re sure — but you refused. Later, fresh out of the shower, they were gone. All of them. Every pair. Oh no, we’re out of slippers! Guess I’ll just carry you — he said with that shameless grin of his. And he did. Said the floor was too cold. Couldn’t let his wife get sick, after all. He carried you around the house all morning. Then, right before leaving to run some errands together, he knelt, slipped your shoes on like some smug prince, and you let him — half amused, half annoyed.

The bastard always wins.

“Fine”, you relent now, sitting back.

“Don’t worry”, he says, picking up the brush. “I’ll be gentle.”

So far, nothing about this marriage has matched what Akihito told you. It was supposed to be nothing more than a formality. He reassured you countless times that his son would not even glance at you — let alone lay a hand on you; that you would probably just see him just once, on your wedding day, and that would be the end of it. But so far, Akihito was wrong about everything.

He’s never home, huh? — You see him every day.

He won’t touch you, huh? — Then why does he look for every excuse to be close? Going as far as to get himself injured on purpose and come back without healing himself so you’ll tend to him... Why does he always find a reason to touch your arm, your hand, your back? Why... Maybe, he wants to get in your pants? That must be it... right? Why else would he try so hard to make things work? It’s not like you two married out of love. You could’ve just quietly existed as his wife on paper; he certainly doesn’t have to bother making you an actual part of his life.

Sure, he is a huge tease. But it’s not the annoying kind. It’s... disarming. You hate to admit it, but there’s something about him. A pull. A quiet magnetism that makes you want to lean in instead of pull away. And sometimes, you forget — forget why you came to be his wife in the first place, that this was never meant to be more than convenience serving the purposes of a scandalous affair.

Until you remember. Until you look at him and see shadows of Akihito — the resemblance too striking to ignore. A younger version of the man who changed everything for you.

You sigh, unable to keep your thoughts from wandering.

“Did I hurt you?”, Satoru asks, suddenly pausing mid-stroke.

You glance at his reflection. For just a second, there’s something soft in his expression. Worry. “No”, you say. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

He continues brushing, careful not to let the bristles graze your skin. Instead, his hand absorbs the pressure — the motion surprisingly tender. Then his hand drops. Light fingertips brush your neck. Two fingers lift your chin, tilting your head back until your eyes meet. “Thinking about someone else while I’m this close to you?” he asks, brows furrowed. His tone is calm, but the edge in it isn’t playful. It’s sharp. Serious.

“Jealous?” you smirk, trying to deflect.

He places the brush down and leans in. His head hovering over yours. There’s barely any distance left. When you both breathe out a veil of warm air falls and fills the tiny gap left between your faces. “Very”, he says quietly, his face deprived of the usual grin. “Makes me want to do terrible things to the man in your thoughts.” He’s not joking. Not even a little.

“I was thinking about you, actually”, you reply. It’s not technically a lie.

Not accustomed to such intimate closeness with him, heat starts to spread across your cheeks, your heartbeat acting peculiarly too. The nearness is too much. You share a bed, yes — but neither of you has ever dared cross the middle. Not yet. Why beat so fast suddenly, heart? Must be the fact he’s looming over you like this that is making you uncomfortable. Trying to break the tension, you joke. “If you’re planning on doing terrible things to yourself, make sure you don’t die. I’d hate to be widowed so young.”

His expression falters. For a second, you see it — genuine surprise. It’s satisfying. He blinks, once, twice, head pulling back slightly, fingers at your jaw trembling with something unspoken. But it doesn’t last. He recovers quickly.

A breathy laugh escapes him as he leans in again. “You were thinking about me? What, something dirty?”

You scoff. “You wish.”

“I do”, he replies instantly. “And don’t worry — you’ll get there soon enough.”

The audacity.

“What makes you so sure I’ll get there”, you shoot back. He grins, guiding your face back toward the mirror. “If you can’t see it up close...” He taps the glass. “Just look there. I’m kind of a masterpiece.”

“The only piece you are is a piece of work”, you mutter, turning your head with a huff, your hair brushing against his face. You expect a quip in return. But he goes still. Sniffs.

“Hmm... What’s that smell?” He leans closer, nose buried briefly in your hair. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

You freeze. Akihito’s cigarettes. You didn’t wash your hair after the hotel. Damn it.

“I don’t”, you reply, hoping your voice doesn’t betray you.

“You smell like cigarettes.”

“I was with a friend earlier. She smokes. Maybe that’s why.” you lie.

Satoru watches you carefully through the mirror. “Good. You shouldn’t smoke”, he says at last, straightening up. “My wife has to live a long life. With me.” A smile tugs at his lips. A playful smirk, back to normal.

You try to summon a sharp retort. Something clever. But all you manage is a tight, fake smile as your heart thunders in your chest. You were almost caught.

Then—

Knock-knock.

“Dinner is ready, sir. Madam.” one of the maids calls from outside.

“Hai-hai~”, Satoru casually yells out. “We’ll be down in a minute.”

The dining room is too quiet. The kind of quiet that isn’t peace, but tension — stretched thin between the four people who sit on the table. It makes the softest sounds feel sharp. Or maybe it’s just in your head, considering the situation.

It’s tradition, apparently — whenever everyone is home, meals are eaten together. Your least favorite part of the day. Understandably so, given the circumstances: you willingly put yourself here, fully aware you’d be sitting across from the woman whose husband you’re secretly sleeping with, and beside the son you’re technically cheating on — with his father.

You sit beside your husband, Satoru. Across from you, Akihito — your lover, your secret. Next to him is Saori, your lover’s wife and husband’s mother — regal and silent, her expression unreadable as always, like she’s wearing a careful mask.

No one speaks when the food is served. Just the mechanical act of eating, a silence that presses against your ribs like guilt. Your appetite has all but vanished since becoming the bride of the Gojo Clan, your stomach perpetually knotted with remorse. Sometimes even water feels repulsive. You often catch yourself wondering why you’re even doing this. Is it really love? You begin to question the choice you made, weighing it with a heaviness that never seems to lift.

Then, as always, the silence shatters. Satoru reaches over, casual as anything, and plucks a bite of greens from your plate with his chopsticks. “Yours always taste better”, he grins, dropping them in his mouth. “Must be the way you chew”, he says with a mouthful.

A small, soft laugh escapes you before you can catch it. There he goes with his silly antics again, you think. He somehow always knows how to tug you out of your head, whether you want him to or not.

Akihito’s chopsticks pause mid-motion. His eyes narrow, barely, but you feel the weight of it. “Interesting”, he says, voice low and smooth, but with a faint edge. “I thought you never touched your greens.”

Satoru doesn’t look away from you as he chews, slow and deliberate. “Tastes change.”

The air thins. You take a sip of wine to steady your hands and avoid meeting Akihito’s eyes. You can feel them — heavy, disapproving, and not very kind.

“They do”, Akihito replies after a moment, setting his chopsticks down with a soft click. “Although not always for the better.”

You want to look at him, to read what he’s really thinking — but you don’t dare. Sometimes it feels like even a glance might betray you. Especially now, as Satoru shifts slightly in his seat, angling himself subtly closer to you, as if rising to meet some unspoken challenge.

“I suppose it depends”, Satoru says lightly, the smile still playing on his lips. “Sometimes, watching someone savor something — it can spark a craving in you too.” He smiles at you then — softly — and something flutters in your chest that has no business being there. Then, he adds, with just enough weight to sharpen the air again. “But you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, old man? How tastes change over time.”

You freeze, just for a moment. Akihito doesn’t blink. His tone stays dry, his face unreadable. “Was there a point to that?”

Satoru leans back slightly. “Just that, at your age, I’d expect you to be less surprised when people... shift.”

Across from you, Saori finally lifts her wine glass. She doesn’t drink — not yet — but she swirls the red liquid slowly, her gaze shifting from father to son like she’s watching something she’s already seen before. They clash often, you’ve noticed. Not loudly, not outright — but it’s always there. A push and pull beneath the surface, a cold war of words and glances.

Sometimes, you wonder if Satoru knows about the affair. He says things — subtle, but cutting — that make you pause, that make you think he might be more aware than he lets on. Maybe that’s why he’s pursuing you so intently — just to prove a point to his father. But then, there are moments when his gaze softens when he looks at you, when his touch lingers just a second too long. He goes out of his way every day just to be near you. And in those moments, it feels too sincere to be a game. You start to think he might actually mean it. That he’s not just chasing you out of spite — but because he truly wants you.

You reach for your own glass again, taking another sip of wine, as if it might wash away the tension thickening by the second. But it doesn’t. Setting the glass back down, your hand lingers at its base. Your fingers brush against Satoru’s hand that rests on the table between you two. He doesn’t flinch. Instead, his pinky curls beneath yours — just enough to be felt, not seen. You don’t pull away. You know Akihito sees it. You feel it. The tick in his jaw is barely visible, but you notice it.

“I’ve been seeing you around way more frequently, Satoru. I hope marriage hasn’t dulled your focus”, he says, his voice smooth and pointed. “There are more important things than... comfort.”

The irony, you think. The words sound like a joke to you, coming from the same man who orchestrated your marriage just to keep you closer and see you more freely. You barely manage to swallow a scoff.

Satoru leans back in his chair, unfazed. “You’d be surprised”, he says lightly. “Sometimes comfort is the only thing keeping people from falling apart.”

“It’s rare”, Saori speaks at last, “to see affection in this house. Perhaps we shouldn’t discourage it.” Her words are gentle, kind — at least, on the surface. But they carry the weight of something unspoken, a quiet complaint from a woman who has never been loved by her husband — not in the way a lover is.

The silence that follows is anything but gentle. Her words hang in the air, delicate yet heavy, like the last note of a song no one knows how to follow. No one speaks. Not right away. You watch Akihito, wondering if he’ll respond — if he even knows how. But his expression remains unreadable, carved from habit more than emotion. Then, without looking at anyone in particular, he speaks, as if the comment never touched him at all. “I meant to tell you”, Akihito says, cutting through the quiet like a blade, “The elders requested a meeting with you tomorrow morning.”

Satoru’s glass of water stills halfway to his lips. “Can’t”, he says casually. “I’m taking my wife out.”

You blink. That’s the first you’ve heard of it.

Akihito’s expression doesn’t change, but the muscle in his jaw tightens — just once, sharply — as he exhales through his nose. “You can reschedule”, he says. “The clan elders don’t appreciate being made to wait.”

Satoru shrugs. “Neither does she.” He doesn’t even look at you when he says it, but the weight of it presses into your ribs like heat.

The silence that follows is tight, full of things no one says. Saori watches Akihito this time, her gaze sharp as cut glass. Her husband is acting odd. And she notices everything.

Gojo Akihito was a man carved from discipline. Now in his late fifties, he was a figure both respected and quietly feared. When he entered a room, silence followed. Backs straightened. Conversations halted. People instinctively adjusted their posture — as if simply being in his presence demanded their best. His presence was weighty, not in a menacing way, but with a gravity that commanded reverence. His name alone held power — spoken softly, carefully, like it belonged to someone who mattered more than most. And he did. Shaped by the will of the elders, Akihito had been molded into the ideal head of the Gojo Clan: composed, unwavering, and dutiful. Obedience had been stitched into his bones from childhood. He was taught not to dream, but to serve. To lead with strength and never stray from what was expected.

His path had been set before he could walk it — become strong, inherit the clan, marry a chosen wife, produce an heir. And he did. His talents bloomed early. Power came easily to him, and with it, authority. He married Saori, a woman selected by the elders, and fulfilled his role without resistance. Love was never part of the arrangement — but respect was. Even in the absence of affection, he treated her with dignity. They never became lovers — much to Saori’s quiet sorrow, for she had loved him from the very beginning. After they conceived Satoru, he never touched her again. As if it had been part of a duty — fulfilled, then forgotten.

When he stepped down and passed the title of clan head to his son, Akihito did not fade quietly into the background. His voice still carried weight, often more so than of the current leader. To many, he remained the pillar of the clan. The rock. Unmoving. Unshakeable. Dependable. But even stone erodes, given time. Even the strongest man can change. Even a rock, under enough heat — can melt.

Akihito wasn’t supposed to be here. The streets were too narrow, too loud, brimming with color and life in a way that felt foreign to him. He was meant to be elsewhere, at a meeting across town — another empty ritual of clan maintenance. But his driver took a wrong turn, and instead of rerouting, Akihito had stepped out, needing a walk. Needing air. Needing space from the weight that always clung to his shoulders. That’s when he saw you.

At first, it was nothing. You were just a figure in the crowd — young, distracted, smiling faintly at your phone, coffee in hand. But something about you… stopped him. You passed by without noticing him, and the moment stretched too long. Something about you felt familiar, though he couldn’t place why. A detail misplaced in time. A memory from a life he never lived. He turned — just slightly. Just enough to watch you go. You entered a nearby café tucked between cramped buildings. Small. A little worn. Too cozy, too youthful for someone like him. He should have kept walking. But he followed you inside. He told himself it was curiosity. That he needed a moment to sit, make a call, kill time. But deep down, even then, he knew. He picked a seat in the corner. Three tables away from you.

He returned the next day. And the next. It was irrational. Dangerous. He wasn’t the kind of man who indulged temptations. His life had been a masterclass in restraint — each step measured, each emotion disciplined out of existence. But you… You sat in the same spot each day, sipping a drink, sometimes reading, sometimes just staring out the window with that faraway look that seemed to see something no one else could. He wondered what you saw. He wondered what you wanted. He wondered what it would feel like to be the thing you looked at that way. And he hated himself for it.

You didn’t know who he was. You didn’t know that the man sitting a few tables away had once been the most powerful figure in one of Japan’s oldest sorcerer clans. That he had blood on his hands and responsibilities that still echoed through every inch of his life. You didn’t know that his marriage was nothing more than a political alignment. That he had followed every rule. Sacrificed every selfish urge. That he had never, in over fifty years, been in love. Not until now.

On the third day, he stopped resisting and made a decision. He stood up, walked to your table, and asked — “May I sit?”

Three tables. He was sitting three tables away from you — again. Just like yesterday. And the day before that. Today made the third.

You’d noticed him immediately. How could you not? Tall, impeccably dressed, white hair, broad shoulders, and unmistakably refined. You guessed he was in his fifties, but he wore it well — almost too well. Dressed in a designer suit, he looked out of place in this cozy, slightly run-down café filled with students and twenty-somethings. Yet, there he was.

Each time you stole a glance, he was gazing out the window, never once meeting your eyes. But something about him — his presence, the stillness in the way he sat, the ghost of a smile on his lips — kept drawing your attention. Maybe you were imagining things. But, perhaps, was he there… for you? Just as you started telling yourself it was all in your head, he moved. Ah, he’s leaving—

No — he wasn’t. He was walking toward you.

Your breath caught. Your eyes widened as he came to a stop at your table.

“May I sit?” he asked, voice smooth but low, as if careful not to disturb the air between you. You blinked, pulse rising. “Why here?” you asked, managing a dry smile. “There are plenty of other tables, including the one you’ve been using for the past few days.” You motioned toward his old table. “I like the view better from here,” he replied calmly, and took the seat without waiting for permission.

The view, of course, was you. He had resisted the pull for two days. But today, Gojo Akihito gave in. In his fifties, for the first time in his life — he fell in love. And for the first time… he broke a rule.

He didn’t touch you. Not for weeks. Not inappropriately, not even in passing. His interest was always wrapped in respect, laced with a restraint that was somehow more intoxicating than overt desire. He spoke little, but with purpose. He listened like it was sacred. Asked questions no one else had ever bothered to. You told yourself it was harmless. That you liked the attention he was giving you. That you weren’t doing anything wrong… with a married man. It’s just a connection — nothing more. But the way he looked at you… like you were something precious, something rare, he had no right to touch but desperately wanted to — it stirred something in you.

When he kissed you for the first time, it wasn’t impulse. It was quiet. Measured. Like a man saying a prayer before stepping into hell. And you let him. After that, the pretense faded. You started meeting behind closed doors…

You were in love, yes. Or maybe, looking back now, you only thought you were. Not the way he was. You were free, while Akihito was chained to a life he could never escape. The deeper Akihito sank into you, the more you floated above him. Untethered. Capable of leaving. And that was what terrified him the most. He needed something stronger — something permanent — to bind you to him.

One year into your affair, Akihito proposed something unthinkable.

“An arranged marriage?” you gasped, your voice cracking in disbelief. “To your son?” You tried to push away from him, stepping out of the bathtub, but he caught your wrist and pulled you back in.

“I miss you too much when you’re away”, he murmured against your shoulder. His breath was hot. His arms wrapped around you from behind, pulling you close, anchoring you to him in the steaming water. “Not knowing when I’ll see you again — it’s unbearable. And knowing it won’t be tomorrow? I hate that.”

You sat between his legs, your bare back pressed to his chest, steam rising around you like a veil. His head dipped to the curve of your neck. You said nothing. Your lips trembled with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, with a sob that didn’t quite leave your throat.

You spoke every day. But meetings were rare. Always discreet. Always in motion. Hotels changed with every rendezvous. Different rooms, different names, different times of arrival. You booked separate rooms but only ever used one. Because what you shared was a scandal. And the walls, anywhere, could talk. He was the former head of the Gojo Clan. A public man. A married man. And in the Gojo Clan, divorce was taboo. Unspoken but absolute. Marriage ended only with death.

“It’s madness”, you whispered. “You’d just… hand me over to another man like that?”

“I’m not handing you over”, he said, voice low and tired. “It’ll be just on paper. You know what Satoru’s like — he’s obsessed with his work. Sorcery is the only thing he’s ever cared about. He won’t touch you.” He paused. He knew how it sounded. But to him, it made sense. He was convinced this was the best way to keep you close. Satoru, as far as Akihito knew, had no interest in romance, no time for love. If you married his son, your place in the clan would be secured — and so would your bond to him. Even if you tried to leave him one day, you’d still be part of his world. Divorce, after all, was never an option. “Think about it”, he continued. “We’d be able to see each other more freely. People wouldn’t question it if we were spotted together — we’d be family. It would raise fewer suspicions than what we’re doing now.”

You stared into the steam, into nothing. “...fine.” You caved.

Neither of you knew then just how flawed the plan truly was. The flaw had a name: Gojo Satoru.

Back in your shared bedroom, you close the door behind you and turn to face Satoru. He’s already tugging off his jacket, tossing it carelessly over the back of a chair. You squint at him, arms crossed. “What was that earlier?” He pauses, one sock halfway off. “Hm?” He looks up at you, eyebrow arched in that maddeningly innocent way.

“‘I’m taking my wife out’”, you echo flatly. “We made no such plans.”

He chuckles — a low, amused sound. “Ah. That.” Straightening up, he begins rolling his sleeves to the elbows, wandering toward the bed. “I was too distracted by your beauty when I got home, I must’ve forgotten to tell you.”

You narrow your eyes. “Tell me what exactly?”

“That everyone wants to meet you”, he says, as if it’s obvious.

“Everyone?” you eye him.

“My students. My colleagues. Most of them think I made up this whole marriage thing just for attention.” He grins like it’s the most absurd idea in the world. “So tomorrow, you’re coming with me. I need to show them that my wife is, in fact, a very real, very stunning person~”

You blink. “So you didn’t just blurt it out to get out of meeting the elders?”

He scoffs and flops onto the bed, arms behind his head. “Please. I don’t need an excuse to avoid them. I’ll meet them when I feel like it — not when they demand it.” Of course he would say that. “Besides”, he adds lazily, “I figured we could hang out a little after. Grab a bite or go somewhere. A proper date.”

You stare at him. “A date?” — “Yeah”, he shoots. “You know, two people spending time together on purpose because they want to?”

“Satoru”, you sigh, “you don’t have to bother with this kind of thing. This is an arranged marriage, let me remind you. We’re not... required to play house.” He tilts his head, eyes glinting with mock curiosity. “Who said couples in arranged marriages can’t go on dates? That’s a rule now? If it is, I must’ve missed the fine print.”

He’s relentless — in a strangely charming way. Always pushing, always poking. And the worst part is... he knows you don’t exactly hate it. You glance away, shaking your head. “Alright”, you say finally, “fine” — and he immediately beams like he’s just won something. And maybe he has — in his own strange way. Satoru doesn’t need much to feel victorious. But there’s something you have noticed — how a yes from you is usually worth a trophy in his world, even if you offer it begrudgingly.

You watch him for a moment, unsure what to make of the warmth blooming quietly in your chest. It’s not love. It can’t be. Right? But it’s something. A softening, maybe. A flicker of possibility. Your fingers absently toy with the edge of your sleeve. That strange flutter you’ve been ignoring — the one he keeps coaxing out of you — is getting harder to deny. What exactly are you doing? — you ask yourself.

And then your phone buzzes in your pocket. You fish it out quickly and glance down at the screen.

Akihito: Come to the guest house.

Just like that, reality presses its weight back onto your shoulders. It doesn’t look like Satoru noticed anything, but your hands are already closing the message, hiding the screen like a child caught with stolen sweets. “I’m going to the kitchen”, you say, too quickly. “I want something sweet.”

Satoru sits up a little. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll get—”

“No.” You cut him off, maybe too fast. “I’m not sure what I want yet, so I’ll just look around.” His gaze lingers on you for a moment. Something unreadable flickers there — brief, sharp, gone too fast. Then he leans back on his hands, still smiling. “Alright, my picky little bride. Don’t be long.”

You force a light laugh and slip out the door.

Akihito hears your knock — light, familiar — before the door opens. You’re still in your dinner clothes, but your hair is looser now, lipstick faded. You look comfortable, relaxed — and he does not exactly like that. You step quietly, and he lets you come to him without saying a word. For a moment, neither of you speak.

He looks somewhat tense, but the air between you is still warm with memory — earlier today, your skin beneath his hands, your lips murmuring his name into a hotel pillow. And yet. “I’m sorry for calling you over like this”, he says finally, his voice low. “I just needed to see you.”

You smile faintly. “You saw me at dinner.”

“Not like this.” His eyes search yours. “Not alone. Not without... him.”

You stiffen slightly — not defensively. Just aware. Akihito gestures to the seat beside him. You sit.

“He’s not the same”, he murmurs after a pause. “Satoru. He’s changing.”

You don’t respond at first. You fold your hands in your lap.

“You know what he used to be like? Detached. Cold. Always disappearing on missions. He never gave a damn about what anyone thought of him — never entertained sentiment. And now?” He scoffs softly. “Flowers. Cooking. Holding your hand under the table like some infatuated schoolboy...”

Your mouth opens — then closes. You can’t find the right words.

“You saw it too, didn’t you?” he asks quietly. “At dinner. The way he looks at you.”

Your gaze falters. Not guilty — not quite — but cautious. “He’s just playing the part, Aki”, you say eventually. “He’s always been theatrical.”

Akihito shakes his head. “No. That wasn’t an act.” There’s no bitterness in his voice. No anger. Just... disbelief. Like he’s watching something slip through his fingers that he didn’t expect to lose. “Before you came into his life, he never stayed home. Never cared about meals or traditions or people. He never had time for anything... personal.”

You look down.

Akihito studies your profile, as if memorizing it. The curve of your brow, the slope of your cheek. “I know I’m the one who suggested this arrangement”, he says, and his voice is more vulnerable than you’ve ever heard it. “I told myself it was the best way to keep you close. Safe. But now...” He trails off.

You reach out, take his hand in yours. “I’m still yours, Aki”, you say gently. “You know that.”

“I want to believe that”, he murmurs. You squeeze his hand. “You can.”

But your voice falters, just slightly. Just enough for him to notice. His eyes flick up to your face. There’s no accusation in them. Only fear. The quiet, creeping kind that lives under the surface of a man who’s spent a lifetime being in control.

“I know he’s not you”, you add softly. “I know why I said yes to this. You don’t have to worry.”

Akihito nods slowly. But his silence stretches too long. You lean your head against his shoulder, and he kisses the top of your hair. Grateful. Reassured — or trying to be. But the weight in his chest doesn’t lift. Because for the first time, he isn’t sure if the threat is outside of what you have... or is growing inside it.

“Don’t worry, they don’t bite”, Satoru chuckles, watching you fidget with your sleeves like you’re about to walk into a job interview. You shoot him a dry look. “You say that like you’re not the worst of them.”

“Me? I’m the warm-up act. They are the terrifying ones”, he teases, nodding toward the lounge room door. You roll your eyes but don’t stop playing with your cuffs.

“You’ll be fine”, he adds, nudging your elbow gently. “Just flash that charming smile and pretend I’m not hovering behind you like a lovesick fool.”

“You are hovering.”

“I’m setting the scene”, he grins. “For dramatic effect.”

You scoff. “I’m not scared, you know.”

“Of course not”, he nods solemnly. “You’re just fidgeting because you’re excited to meet my fan club.” You shoot him a sideways glare. He leans over, voice lowering just a touch. “They’re going to love you”, he says, softer now. “They’ve never seen me with someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“Someone who makes me behave.”

You don’t get the chance to press him on that. He throws the door open before you can respond — and the room instantly freezes. Chairs creak to a halt. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. All heads turn. A spoon hovers midair. A can of soda stops halfway to someone’s lips. Even the air feels like it’s holding its breath. And all of it — every flicker of curiosity, disbelief, and blatant awe — is aimed squarely at you.

“Guys”, Satoru announces, all flair and no shame, “This is my wife. Try not to scare her off.” You manage a composed smile, offering a polite nod. “It’s nice to meet you.”

The reactions come in like dominos.

Yuuji blinks so fast he looks like a malfunctioning cartoon. “She’s real. She’s actually real.”

Nobara lets out a dramatic gasp. “Oh my god, she’s gorgeous. How is he married to her?”

“There’s definitely something wrong with her”, Megumi mutters, arms crossed.

“Blink twice if you’re being held hostage”, Maki deadpans without missing a beat.

Even stoic Shoko lifts her eyebrows, taking a slow drag of her cigarette. “I genuinely thought he made you up.”

Ijichi bows at the waist, glasses fogged slightly from the tea steam. “Gojo-san speaks of you often. I assumed it was... metaphorical.” Nanami says absolutely nothing. Just closes his eyes and exhales, a slow, pained breath that says this is beneath me, but also of course this is happening.

Meanwhile, Geto is the picture of calm. Reclined on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, he simply smirks and raises his hand in greeting. “About time you dragged her here, Satoru.”

“Don’t encourage him”, Nanami mutters without opening his eyes.

You can’t help it — you laugh. A light, genuine thing that breaks the awkward spell in the room like shattering glass. The tension in your chest uncoils slightly, and Satoru beams beside you.

“Oh god”, Nobara groans. “Even her laugh is gorgeous. This is unbelievable.”

“Do you need help?” Megumi asks again, completely serious.

“She’s under some kind of spell, huh?” Yuuji whispers. “Do we do something? Help her?”

“No need to rescue her”, Satoru says smugly. “She married me willingly”

“That’s even worse”, Nanami mutters.

“You guys are insufferable”, you finally say, smiling despite yourself.

“You’re perfect for him then”, Shoko hums.

“Alright, alright, don’t scare her off on her first visit”, Geto says, rising from the couch. He strolls over, offering his hand. “I’m Suguru. Satoru’s better half.”

“Hey!” Satoru protests.

You shake Geto’s hand. “Pleasure.”

“It really is”, he replies smoothly. “Though we may have to talk about your taste in men.”

“I’ve made peace with it”, you reply with a smirk. The room erupts into scattered chuckles. Even Megumi snorts. Satoru clutches his chest. “I feel so betrayed.”

“Get in line”, Nanami mutters again.

“Come on”, Geto waves you over. “Sit. Eat something. Let us dissect your personality in peace.” As you move to join them, Satoru’s hand brushes your lower back — a barely-there touch. Protective. Familiar. You glance at him. He’s still smiling like the sun — blinding and hard to read beneath the surface.

You ease yourself into a spot between Suguru and Satoru on the long couch. Plates and cups shift around. The lounge settles into casual chaos again, but it’s warmer now — less like scrutiny, more like curious acceptance. As conversations spark up around you, you feel it — a brush at your side. Subtle, deliberate. Satoru’s hand slides across the space between you on the couch. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t even look your way. But under the table, his fingers quietly reach for yours. At first, you don’t respond. The chatter of the room covers the rapid thrum of your heartbeat. It feels like everyone might notice, even though no one’s looking. And still — slowly — your fingers curl around his.

You glance sideways at him. He’s still grinning and bickering with Geto about who’s ageing better — but there’s a flicker in his eyes when they meet yours. Something warm. Something that longs. And Satoru doesn’t look like he’s letting go of your hand anytime soon.

Even after leaving the school and walking toward the car, Satoru hasn’t let go of your hand. Not once. And, truthfully, you haven’t tried to pull away either. His hand is warm and steady, fingers loosely laced with yours like it’s always been this natural. “They’re very chaotic”, you say as you walk side by side, the late afternoon sun painting golden highlights into his white hair. “But adorably so.”

Satoru gasps. “How come you never say that about me?”

“I do say you’re chaotic.”

“Not that part”, he pouts, dragging your hand slightly as he walks. “Say I’m adorable too.”

You glance up at him with a smirk. “Why make me lie now?”

He clutches his chest like you just wounded him. “Unbelievable. And here I was, thinking we were having a romantic moment.”

“You pouted like a toddler five seconds ago. That was the opposite of romantic.”

“That was endearing, thank you very much.” He sighs dramatically, unlocking the car with a flick of his keys. “One day you’ll realize just how lucky you are to have married me.”

You chuckle. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

As the engine hums to life and the radio kicks in with something mellow, he steals a glance at you. “You liked them, though?”

You nod. “They’re all... a lot. But in a good way. I liked them. They like you, too — though it’s hilarious how some of them thought I was a figment of your imagination at first.”

“That’s fair”, he shrugs. “Even I sometimes think you’re too good to be real.” You don’t reply to that — partly because it’s sweet, partly because it makes your stomach twist in ways you’re not ready to admit.

Instead of taking you to a fancy restaurant, Satoru pulls the car up near a quiet park tucked into a tree-lined stretch of the city. It’s not crowded, the evening air is crisp, and the swings creak gently in the breeze.

“A date doesn’t have to be complicated”, he says, hands behind his head, strolling beside you. “This used to be my favorite spot when I ditched meetings.”

You laugh. “What a responsible clan head.”

“Oh, terribly irresponsible”, he agrees proudly. “Now — race you to the swings!”

You both make a break for it, laughing as your shoes hit gravel. You get there first, narrowly beating him (because he let you), and triumphantly claim the left swing. Satoru sits on the other — except, the chains creak loudly as he settles in, clearly too tall and too big for the tiny seat.

“God, you look ridiculous”, you say between laughs.

“Hey”, he grins. “Let me have my moment.” He tries to swing but his feet keep dragging on the ground. You get off and try to push him but fail spectacularly. “You’re too heavy!” you exclaim. He snorts. “I’m muscle and grace, I’ll have you know.”

“Lift your legs then! That’s the only way this will work.”

“If I lift my legs, the swing will snap and we’ll both die.”

You dissolve into laughter, arms over your chest as you watch him try — and fail — to get any lift. “Hop off now”, you say. “It’s your turn to push me.”

He gets off, and you take over. He starts pushing you gently, and you find yourself relaxing, head tilted back toward the sky as you glide back and forth. You don’t notice how quiet he’s gone until the swing slows and you look back to find him watching you — softly, openly, with none of his usual teasing in sight.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask. He shrugs. “You look happy. I like seeing you like this.”

Your heart stumbles. And just like that, the real world catches up — Akihito, the marriage, the plan... Guilt prickles under your skin. You’re not supposed to feel this warm around Satoru. Not this content. He notices the shift in your eyes, tension in your smile. “Hey.” He walks in front of the swing, kneeling slightly to meet your gaze. “Where did you go just now?”

You open your mouth — but you don’t know what to say. There’s too much. You’re not even sure what you’re feeling anymore. Satoru doesn’t push. He simply lifts a hand to brush your cheek with his knuckles, gentler than anyone would expect from a man like him. “If you’re scared”, he says, “I’ll wait. But I’m not stopping.”

You should say something — anything — but you don’t. Instead, you lean forward without thinking. Just a little. Just enough. And he meets you halfway. You kiss. It’s soft. Uncomplicated. Barely a breath long — but enough to make your stomach flip and your thoughts scramble. You pull back just as fast, cheeks feeling hot, and suddenly shoot up to your feet.

“I—uh—I’m going to head to the car”, you stammer, already backing away. “Give me fifteen minutes. Just... wait, okay? Don’t come right now.” Satoru blinks after you as you run off, flustered. A slow smile spreads across his lips. He lifts a hand, touching his fingers to where your lips met his. “Why shy away like this now?” he murmurs to himself, chuckling. “It’s not like this is our first kiss...”

His smile lingers, a little softer now. Almost nostalgic. He watches the direction you went, lost in thought. Because only he remembers. You’ve kissed before. But back then, you didn’t know who he was. And you still don’t remember.

Satoru remembers it as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. The memory came rushing back the moment he saw your picture — the proposed match for the arranged marriage. The others in the room kept talking, formalities piling up like a tide of obligations, but he barely heard a word.

It was you — the girl who stole his first kiss. The girl he never managed to find again.

It happened years ago, sometime past midnight. He had just wrapped up a mission — a dull one, barely worth remembering — and was wandering the streets of Tokyo, eating red bean mochi with one hand and scrolling his phone with the other. Still in uniform, still buzzing from leftover cursed energy, still too wired to sleep. As he strolled past a row of late-night bars and clubs, the music leaked into the street like fog. Somewhere between neon signs and cigarette smoke, he spotted you — a girl slumped on the curb outside a nightclub, arms wrapped around your knees, head lolling sleepily to one side. You looked like you were dozing off. Alone. Vulnerable.

He kept walking. At first. But something didn’t sit right. There were a few guys loitering nearby — drunk, leering, the kind of men that don’t need a reason to ruin someone’s night. One of them peeled away from the group and started approaching you, calling out something Satoru didn’t care to hear. He stopped at a vending machine, fingers patting his pockets as if he were looking for coins — but really, he was watching. Calculating. When the guy crouched beside you and reached out to brush your hair behind your ear, Satoru moved. Fast. “Sorry I took so long”, he said loudly, slinging his jacket over your shoulders in one smooth motion as he stepped between you and the stranger.

The man froze.

Satoru didn’t raise his voice, didn’t flare cursed energy — just looked at him. Cold. Unblinking. Dangerous. The guy got the message. “I was just making sure she was okay”, the creep stammered.

“Yeah”, Satoru said flatly. “She is. Now leave.” He didn’t have to say it twice. Once the guys scurried off, Satoru crouched beside you, tilting his head. “Hey. Not a great place for a nap, you know?” You stirred, muttering something incoherent. “I’m serious”, he said, nudging your shoulder lightly. “It’s not safe out here.”

“Can’t walk”, you mumbled. “Not sure if I’m spinning, or everything else is.”

He blinked. “That bad, huh?”

You squinted at him through half-lidded eyes. “Are you a cop?”

“No.”

“A kidnapper?”

“Definitely not.”

“Hmm”, you leaned your cheek against your knee. “Guess you’ll do.”

Satoru stared. “What does that mean?” You reached and tugged his sleeve, and with surprising strength, pulled him to sit beside you. Then, without warning, you laid your head in his lap. “What are you—?”

“You’re warm”, you sighed, nestling closer. “And you smell nice. But I kind of feel like throwing up.”

“Please don’t”, he said instantly, trying not to panic. “This is my favorite outfit.”

You giggled. “You’re funny.”

He looked down at you, at the way your hair fanned across his thighs, at the curve of your sleepy smile. “What are you even doing out here alone?” he asked.

“I lost my friends”, you mumbled. “Or maybe they lost me. Who’s to say...”

“You got a phone?”

You held it up proudly. It was dead. “Perfect”, he sighed.

Eventually, when it became clear you weren’t going to get up willingly, he gathered you into his arms and stood. “Alright, mystery girl. I’m getting you somewhere safe — where’s your place?”

“Wait, wait”, you slurred, squinting suspiciously at him. “I don’t know you. I can’t just tell you where I live!”

“You’re literally unconscious on the sidewalk and I’m carrying you like a bridal bouquet. I think we’re past that point.”

You didn’t answer. Your head lolled onto his shoulder. He sighed, glanced around. He didn’t know your name, didn’t know where you lived — but you looked about college-aged, and the university campus wasn’t far. It was the best guess he had. So he started walking.

Halfway there, a group of girls came jogging down the sidewalk, calling some name (yours). They looked frantic — until they saw you in his arms. “Oh god”, one of them exhaled. “We’ve been looking for her everywhere!”

They reached out to take you, but you lifted your head groggily, blinking at him like you’d just remembered he existed. You took off his sunglasses and placed them on his head, then cupped his face in both hands, surprisingly gentle.

“You’re pretty”, you said.

He blinked.

Then you leaned in and kissed him. It was soft and quick. “Thank you”, you whispered. “For keeping me warm.”

And just like that, your friends pulled you away — you still wearing his jacket, him still too stunned to speak. He stood there long after you were gone, fingers pressed to his lips, dazed. “What a weird girl”, he muttered.

But he’d already fallen for you.

He tried to find you after that, of course — visited the area again, lingered by the campus, even asked around in his own way. But your name, your face... all of it had vanished like a dream after waking. Until years later — when he saw your photo again. And this time? He said yes without hesitation.

The days begin to blend. Soft, warm mornings. Laughter over late breakfast. The rustle of flower petals against your cheek as you wake — a new habit Satoru’s picked up. You open your eyes to a fresh bouquet on your pillow, tied together with a silk ribbon and a folded note tucked inside.

Roses are red, violets are blue, don’t open the curtains, I’m watching you ;) S.

You roll your eyes but smile. By now, your phone is full of messages from him — some voice notes, some texts. Some completely random, like:

Voice message — 9:07 AM

Hey, I found this stray cat that reminds me of you. They ignored me when I tried to pet them and just walked off. Thought that was kinda romantic~

Text — 10:12 AM

Do you miss me or are you pretending I don’t exist again? Be honest. I can take it. (Don’t be honest)

Sometimes he’s halfway through a mission and still finds the time to send you a photo of some stupid little charm at a shrine that “looks cursed like you” — and by the time he returns home, you’ve forgotten how silence used to fill the rooms before he came.

You start leaving notes back. Hiding snacks in his coat. One time, you sent him flowers — as a joke. A massive, bright pink bouquet delivered right to the faculty lounge at Jujutsu Tech.

Yuuji nearly dropped his drink when he saw it. “Sensei, I thought you were the man in this relationship... but I guess you really shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.”

Satoru beamed as he held the bouquet. “Listen, Yuuji, I think she’s got me on a leash. And honestly? I don’t mind it.”

Geto didn’t even blink. “You’ve always liked being domesticated.”

Nanami groaned in the distance. “Please take your romance outside school grounds.”

Your life with him feels like a sitcom at times. Like you’ve somehow fallen into a slice-of-life version of your own story. And strangely, you don’t hate it.

But not all lives move at the same pace.

Akihito watches it unfold from the shadows of his own silence. This was not part of the plan. You’re playing your role way too well to his liking. Are you humoring Satoru’s peculiar behavior for the sake of keeping the peace... or is there something more to it?

He feels the distance stretching. You reply to his messages slower now. When he calls, you sound distracted — not cold, just... somewhere else. Sometimes when he walks by your and Satoru’s room, he hears his son’s voice talking to you and it cuts deeper than he expects. Laughing. Teasing. Talking to you in a tone Akihito used to think was only his to use.

He remembers your last few moments together, how they’ve been growing shorter. More careful. Your touches — once confident, rooted in secret familiarity — now come with hesitation. Like you’re aware of something new. Something blooming in the cracks you didn’t plan for. You were slipping. And for the first time in a very long time, Akihito doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t confront you. He won’t. Because even now, he trusts you. Even now, he tells himself you would never betray him like that... But still — he’s left staring at the space beside him that used to be filled by you, fingers curled into fists he won’t raise, breathing through a storm he never thought he’d have to weather.

Evening settles softly across the room like a warm blanket. The lights are dim, casting a gentle golden hue over the shared bedroom you’ve both slowly grown used to — not just as a space, but as a kind of quiet haven. You sit on the bed with your knees tucked close to your chest, absently flipping through some old magazine you already checked out twice. Satoru is nearby, sprawled across the foot of the bed, fiddling with his phone but mostly stealing glances at you. The silence between you is easy now. Not empty, not awkward — just comfortable.

Still, something hangs between you, unspoken but undeniably there. It’s been lingering ever since that kiss in the park. You haven’t kissed again since, but your touches linger longer now — a brush of fingers as you pass something to him, the slow curl of his hand around yours when you walk beside each other. Close, but careful.

Tonight feels different.

“Do you ever miss the chaos?” you ask, not looking up from the page. “Before we... whatever this is.”

“Before we became a domestic power couple?” Satoru teases, stretching out with a dramatic sigh. “Tragic. I used to be wild. Now I fold your laundry.” You laugh. “You don’t fold my laundry.”

“I would. For the record. If it meant you’d smile like that.”

You glance at him now, and his expression softens when your eyes meet. The air changes. It’s in the way he shifts, propping himself up slightly on one elbow. There’s something different in his gaze — not just affection, but hunger veiled by hesitance. You feel it too. That same flutter deep in your belly. The nervous kind. The kind that tastes like anticipation. He moves closer, slowly, watching you for any flicker of hesitation. When he reaches out, his fingers brush lightly along your jaw, his thumb barely skimming your cheek. You don’t move away.

“You’ve been looking at me like that for a while now”, you whisper.

He smiles, a little crooked, a little shy — rare, for him. “Yeah. I’ve been... trying to behave.”

Your lips part, but you don’t speak. Satoru leans in, and this time, when he kisses you, it’s slower than last time. Less impulsive. More reverent. His hand cups the back of your head gently as he pulls you closer, tasting your breath as if he’s been craving it every day since the last time. And then he pulls back. Breath shaky. Eyes shut. You blink, still dazed from the kiss. “Satoru? What are you doing?”

He exhales a slow, uneven breath. “Waiting for you to slap me.”

You stare at him. That rare vulnerability in his voice knocks the breath right out of your lungs. “Why would I slap you?”

“I didn’t ask. I didn’t warn you. I just... kissed you. Again. I told myself I’d wait until you wanted me.”

You hesitate only for a heartbeat. Then, you lean forward and take his face in your hands, gently pulling him back into you. Your lips find his, and this time there’s no pause. No retreat. He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize you. Every angle. Every sound you make. Your hands find their way under the hem of is shirt, fingertips grazing bare skin, and he shivers beneath your touch. You break the kiss long enough to whisper, “Come closer.”

His forehead rests against yours. “Only if you want me to.”

“I do”, you breathe, voice trembling but sure. “I want this. I want you.” His arms tighten around you, and it’s slow, almost reverent, the way he lays you down — like you’re something sacred. Clothes are shed without urgency, and his hands trace the lines of your body like he’s reading scripture. The rest unfolds in quiet gasps and whispered names. It’s not just desire — it’s need. Familiar, frightening, warm...

...when it’s over, the silence that follows is different from all the ones that came before. You lie beside him, heart still racing, his fingers lazily tracing circles along your arm. He doesn’t speak. He just watches you, memorizing the curve of your lips, the way your chest raises and falls. And for a moment, you forget every plan. Every lie. Every secret. For a moment, it feels like love. The kind that sneaks up on you — quiet, uninvited, and impossible to ignore. You lie tangled together, your head tucked against his shoulder, his hand tenderly caressing your bare skin. Hearts still thudding.

Satoru is the one to break the silence, his voice light, teasing (as usual). “So... You really don’t remember me, huh?”

You blink, lifting your head just enough to glance at him. “What?”

“Brutal...”, he laughs. “And here I was, thinking I made a lasting impression that night.”

You narrow your eyes, unsure if he’s joking. “What are you talking about?”

“Nahh, I get it — you were pretty drunk”, he says, dragging the words out like a cat playing with mouse.

“Oh god—” You sit up suddenly, sheet gathering around your chest. “Don’t tell me we’ve hooked up in the past and I don’t remember it?” Satoru bursts out laughing. “No, not like that.”

You squint at him. “Then stop being so cryptic and tell me!”

He stretches, hands behind his head, smug and insufferable. “Let’s just say… you were outside a bar. Alone. Slumped on the curb. And I saved your life.”

You blink again. He continues, barely hiding his amusement. “Some creep tried to hit on you. I intervened, obviously. You asked if I was a kidnapper, told me I smelled nice, then fell asleep in my lap.”

Your jaw drops. “No way.”

“Oh, there’s more,” he says with a mock-serious nod. “You called me pretty. And you kissed me.”

You gape. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” he says, lips twitching. “And you stole my jacket, by the way.”

Your eyes widen. Something flickers at the edge of your memory. “Wait— that was your jacket?”

Satoru raises his brows, clearly enjoying himself. “Yep.”

“I always wondered where it came from”, you mumble, stunned. “I kept it for years. I thought maybe someone just… gave it to me out of pity.”

“Well, I did give it to you”, he says, softer now. “But it wasn’t pity.”

You’re quiet for a moment, absorbing it all. “I can’t believe it. That was you.”

He shrugs one shoulder, like it’s no big deal — but his voice betrays him when he says, “Yeah. I looked for you, you know? Went back to that street, hung around your supposed campus. Thought about that stupid night more times than I’d ever admit.”

You gasp.

“When your photo showed up in the marriage proposal packet?” He looks over at you, something unreadable in his eyes. “I said yes before they even finished reading your name.”

You stare at him, stunned. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

He smiles, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Because you didn’t look at me like this before.” You lean in, heart heavy with something warm and aching. “How do I look at you now?”

“Like you might not disappear this time.”

You slip into your nightgown, your skin still tingling with traces of warmth and tenderness. The sound of water runs in the background — Satoru in the shower, humming something off-key. A lazy smile plays on your lips as you step out of the bedroom, quietly padding down the hallway. You tell yourself it’s just to grab snacks. Maybe a drink. Something to soothe the afterglow that’s left your heart both full and aching.

But as you reach the kitchen and flick on the soft underlight, your body seizes.

Akihito is there. Standing in the low light like a phantom, glass in one hand, his other curled into a loose fist at his side. The bottle of whiskey beside him is nearly half-empty. He doesn’t speak right away — just stares at you, and it’s a look you’ve never seen on him before. Not like this. There’s pain, yes. But buried under that is something sharper. Something raw.

“Akihito...” you breathe, barely more than a whisper. He doesn’t answer. Just brings the glass to his lips again, slowly, as if buying time — or trying to keep himself from saying what’s already clawing its way up his throat. Akihito, huh? You used to call him Aki...

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes narrowing slightly as he steps forward. You don’t move — not because you don’t want to, but because you don’t quite dare. He stops in front of you, closer than comfort allows. The scent of whiskey and something tired hangs on him — disappointment. His eyes flicker over your face, and you know he sees it. The softness in your cheeks. The haze still lingering in your gaze. The warmth that isn’t his. He knows. Of course he does. But he wants to confirm, one last time.

His hand reaches toward you, swiftly lifting your nightgown to brush his fingers against your cunt, bare, still wet and sore. You flinch, instinctively stepping back — but his free hand snaps around your wrist. He withdraws his fingers, bringing them close to your face, then slowly rubs them together. Smearing the slick, laced with remnants that don’t belong to him. “You slept with him”, he says, low, flat. No question. Just a quiet accusation.

Your breath catches.

He leans in, close enough for his words to brush against your skin. “Do you love him?”

Before your lips can part, before your heart even finds a beat, a new voice breaks the silence.

“Hey, I was looking for y—” Satoru enters the room, still damp from the shower, water clinging to his chest, a towel slung low around his waist, another in his hands as he rubs it through his hair. The moment he sees his father, he stops mid-step. His eyes lock at his hand around your wrist. His tone drops, his jaw clenches. He immediately yanks his hand away from you, then his eyes dart to the whiskey on the counter. “Old man, did you get drunk enough to mistake my wife for yours?”

Akihito doesn’t answer right away, but he tenses. For a moment, he seems to fold in on himself — trying, perhaps, to remember who he is, and who he’s supposed to be. “I lost my balance for a second”, he mutters. Then without another glance at either of you, he brushes past and disappears down the hall.

The silence he leaves behind is deafening. You’re frozen. Like glass on the verge of shattering. Guilt crawls under your skin like a fever. You want to scream. You want to run. You feel like you’ve betrayed them both.

Satoru looks at you. His expression softens the moment he sees your face. “Hey...” voice gentle now. “You okay? You look a bit... pale.” He tries to joke, but there’s a note of worry breeding into his words. “Did I... maybe go a little too hard on you back there?” A faint smirk, halfhearted. His eyes, though, are searching.

You force yourself to nod, to smile like you’re fine. “No. I’m okay. I just—” you glance toward the hallway, “I got startled. I didn’t expect to see anyone else awake.”

Satoru doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he doesn’t push either. He just reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch almost reverent. “Next time, tell me”, he says softly. “I’ll walk you around the house like a proper husband.”

You laugh — weakly, but you manage it. Neither of you says what you’re thinking. Neither of you asks the questions hanging thick in the air. But both of you feel it. Something has shifted. And in the stillness that follows, all you can do is hold your breath and pretend it’s not already slipping out of your control.

The soft creak of Akihito’s footsteps disappears into the silence of the hallway as if he is retreating from more than just a room. By the time he reaches the bedroom he shares with Saori, the burn in his chest has settled into something heavier, duller. She is already asleep, curled into herself beneath the silk sheets. He doesn’t even look at her. Akihito pours himself another drink from the decanter near the dresser, the sound of the liquid filling the glass louder than it should. His hand shakes as he brings it to his lips. He has lost count of how many glasses he had tonight.

He believed he was in control, never imagining, even for a moment, that you might be the one to falter. He sits on the edge of the bed for a while, nursing the bitterness on his tongue, trying to down what feels like the unraveling of everything. His grip tightens around the glass until his knuckles turn white. And eventually, the weight of it — the whiskey, the pain, the loss — pulls him down. He settles in bed, fully clothed, eyes open to the dark. Only when the alcohol dulls the sharpest edges of his thoughts does sleep finally claim him.

Saori wakes sometime later — hours, maybe. She doesn’t know what stirred her at first. The clock ticks quietly. The room is still. But then she hears it. A soft sound. A broken voice. Akihito. At first, she thinks he is awake, whispering. But when she turns to face him, she sees the tight lines on his brow, his face twisted in restless dreaming.

...a name falls from his lips like a prayer. Your name.

“Don’t leave me...” He shifts, face turned toward her, eyes shut tight. His voice cracks in a way she has never heard before. “I love you... please... don’t go...”

Saori doesn’t move. She doesn’t breathe. For a long moment, all she can do is stare at the man she spent more than half her life beside. The man who kept so much from her. Until now.

Everything made sense to her now. All of it. The proposal of a random girl — a nobody, by traditional standards — as a bride for the clan head. His obsessive oversight of your marriage. His silence. His sudden, inexplicable shifts in mood. All the times he came home reeking of another woman. And now this.

She sits up slowly, placing her hand on her lap as the cold realization settles deep into her bones. Her husband has never said her name like that, even in dreams. A sharp, unfamiliar ache blooms in her chest. It isn’t jealousy — though that is part of it. It is grief. For a marriage that never really belonged to her. For a love that was never hers to begin with. She turns to look at Akihito once more. His lips move soundlessly now, breath uneven. Vulnerable in a way he has never let himself be when conscious. Saori whispers, her voice nearly a breath, “You poor, stupid man...”

And she doesn’t know whether to feel pity, rage, or heartbreak. So she sits there — in the dim quiet, beside the man who is dreaming of someone else — and tries to remember what it feels like to be chosen.

The morning sun spills through sheer drapes. Saori sits before her vanity, back perfectly straight, hands folded in her lap as the house attendant brushes through her hair. She stares at her reflection — still, expressionless. But her eyes, always sharp, betray thought in motion. There’s no puffiness in them, no redness, no sign of the long night she endured beside her sleeping husband and the dreams he whispered into the dark. Not a trace of it reached the surface. Because Gojo Saori does not falter.

She was raised for this life. Trained from the moment she could walk and speak — in manners, in posture, in etiquette. In silence. In sacrifice. She was chosen for the Gojo Clan as if born for it, bred for it. A perfect match to elevate status and maintain lineage. An ideal bride, by design. Not merely beautiful, but refined. Not merely obedient, but poised. Regal in her restraint. And still, he never loved her. Gojo Akihito, the man she married at twenty-one, gave her everything a wife could ask for — wealth, status, a name that carried power. But not his heart. Never his heart. She spent years trying to earn it anyway. With devotion. With loyalty so fierce it could have moved mountains if he had only looked her way and seen her properly.

But last night... Last night, in the hush of the sleeping room they shared for so many years, he spoke someone else’s name. Not once. Not carelessly. Lovingly.

Saori meets her own gaze in the mirror — unwavering, unflinching. She should’ve wept, perhaps. Cried the way lesser women might. Collapsed into trembling disbelief or broken rage. But she had no time for that. No space, in the skin she wears, for such indulgence. Her family name was teetered on scandal, and she bled too much grace into this place to see it torn down now — not by a girl’s foolishness, not by a man’s longing. Gojo Saori was, above else, a guardian of the image. But the image was beginning to crack. And she was ready to protect what needed protecting.

You sit at the table, eyes tracing the rim of your teacup, steam curling softly into the morning air. You haven’t taken a sip. You haven’t touched your plate. Your stomach is tight, twisted with guilt... especially after last night.

Satoru is full of light and ease, as he always is — grinning, teasing, tossing playful remarks into the stillness like stones skipping across a glassy lake. His hand brushes yours casually, fingertips lingering just long enough to warm your skin. It’s comforting in a way, how unchanged he is. But his energy doesn’t reach you this morning. You smile when you’re supposed to. You answer when he prompts you. But your mind is far away — caught between the memory of last night’s warmth and the echo of Akihito’s voice, flat and cracked with disappointment.

Akihito sits quietly, as he always does, but today his silence feels heavier. His fingers press against the bridge of his nose, slow and methodical, as if trying to will away a migraine. He hasn’t touched his food. His presence across the table burns into you like a brand. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, but you can feel his restraint like a tremor in the room — barely contained, always building.

Saori is a vision of composure. She lifts her teacup with perfect posture, takes delicate sips, and sets it down with the precision of someone who has performed this same ritual every morning of her life. Her face is unreadable — not blank, but too measured. There’s something behind her stillness, something coiled. But you can’t tell what. She gives nothing away.

Satoru leans in toward you with a lopsided grin, voice dipped in mischief. His hand brushes your arm again, and for a brief moment, you wonder if he senses how fragile you feel. “You’re awfully quiet today”, he points out. You blink, startled — his voice snapping you out of your spiral — and you force a breath, a small smile. He’s trying to bring you back. The way he always does. “I didn’t get much sleep last night”, you manage, voice low and tight.

“Tired, huh?” he echoes with a soft laugh, leaning in closer. His voice drops to a whisper, just for you. “Guess that’s what happens after a long, productive night... right?”

Your heart stumbles. The words land like a thunderclap, disguised as a joke, but sharp enough to cut through your skin. His wink is lighthearted — harmless in his mind — but you freeze. You don’t laugh. You can’t. The knot in your stomach coils tighter, shame rising in your chest. You drop your gaze and press your lips together, every nerve on fire.

Then comes the sound. A sharp, sudden crack.

Akihito’s hand clenches around his teacup — or what’s left of it. Porcelain shards glint, splintered across the table and floor. His palm is cut, a slow trickle of blood winding through the lines of his hand, but he doesn’t seem to feel it. He stares at the broken cup like it’s something far away. His shoulders tense, jaw clenched. A man unraveling slowly — but silently.

Satoru turns toward him, his gaze casual, almost detached. He says nothing.

Saori moves immediately, her composure untouched as she rises and then immediately kneels beside him without ceremony, inspecting the wound with clinical care. Her voice is even, steady. “Are you alright?” Akihito doesn’t respond. His eyes are still fixed on the broken shards. His breath is shallow. Hollow. You wonder if he even knows where he is. Saori retrieves the first aid kit from the cabinet, her movements smooth, practiced. She tends to the cut with quiet precision, wrapping the bandage around his hand in silence. She doesn’t look at you, not directly — but her awareness is piercing. You can feel her watching, even when her eyes aren’t on you.

You try not to flinch under the weight of it.

Satoru watches you now. Truly watches you, and only you. There’s concern in his eyes, but beneath it, something darker — a flicker of something unreadable, as if he’s seeing straight through you.

You walk Satoru to the front of the estate, the morning sun slowly warming the stone path. He lingers, reluctant to go. “Are you sure you want me to leave?” he asks, searching your face. “You’ve been... kind of out of it all morning.”

You manage a smile, reaching up to smooth a hand through his hair. “I told you, I’m just tired.”

He’s clearly unconvinced. “Then let me stay. I’ll take the day off, we’ll snuggle in bed, watch trashy movies, eat junk food — whatever you want.”

“No”, you cut him off gently. “They’ll chew you out for skipping another day because of me. I’m fine, I promise. I just... need a little time to myself.”

He watches you for a moment longer, visibly debating. Then he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead. “You better call me if you change your mind. Or even if you don’t. I just want to hear your voice.”

“I will”, you say, trying to mean it.

“You won’t”, he mutters. “But I’ll pretend to believe you.”

You watch him walk away until he’s out of sight. And then the weight returns, heavy and unforgiving. You turn and head back toward your room, your steps slow. You were planning to reach out to Akihito — to talk, to finally be honest. At least with him. You need to say the words out loud.

Halfway to your door, one of the maids appears at the end of the corridor, bowing her head respectfully as she approaches. “Lady Saori has asked if you would join her for tea in the garden”, she says.

You blink. “Tea?”

“She’s waiting for you now”, the maid adds.

Your stomach twists. This is a first. Saori has never invited you anywhere, never initiated anything outside of polite formality. And now — tea? You murmur your thanks and change direction, heading toward the garden with careful steps. When you arrive, Saori is already seated beneath the wide shade of the cherry blossom tree. Everything is picturesque — the porcelain tea set arranged perfectly, delicate sweets on a lacquer tray. Not a single detail out of place. She looks up as you approach, her posture composed, her expression mild.

“Hello again”, she says, gesturing to the seat across from her. “Please, sit.”

You lower yourself slowly. “Thank you.”

She pours the tea herself. No attendants. No distractions. Just you and her. “We’ve never had the chance to talk”, she says, tone pleasant. “Just the two of us.”

You nod faintly. “I guess not.”

She picks up her cup, takes a small sip, and sets it down again. “Satoru seems happy.”

You glance at her, cautious. “He is.”

“I can tell. He’s always been bright, but lately there’s something different. Something new. He’s softer. His laugh is more genuine.” She offers a smile. “He clearly cares for you — deeply.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Thank you.”

She hums softly, and then — without a change in tone — asks, “And how are things between you and my husband?”

The question hits you like a stone dropped into still water. No warning. No shift in expression.

You stiffen, staring at her.

She doesn’t look away, “Not well, I imagine?” voice still calm.

“I—”

“I don’t want to hear it”, she cuts in, quiet but firm.

Silence settles like a weight. Her voice remains calm, but the steel beneath it is undeniable. “I am not blind.”

You lower your gaze.

“I see the way Akihito looks at you. I see what it’s done to him.” Her fingers rest gently on the rim of her teacup. “And I know the kind of woman it takes to twist a man like him into something unrecognizable.”

You flinch.

“I won’t let this continue. I won’t let you unravel this family from the inside out. If you stay on this path, you won’t just break Akihito — you’ll destroy Satoru too. He’s already too attached. Too invested. And when this blows apart — because it will, like all secrets do — do you really think he won’t be the one to bleed for it?”

You look up at her, heart pounding. Her words feel like nails driven into your spine. There’s no venom in her voce. No raised pitch. Just control. Cold and deliberate. “I’m giving you a choice”, she says. “You leave. On your own terms. Or I will make sure you have no terms at all.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. What can you even say? What are you supposed to do? Argue?

“Think it over”, she says, lifting her teacup again. “Before it becomes something you can’t come back from.” Then her eyes meet yours one last time — still poised, but with a new edge. “And don’t even think about telling Akihito we had this conversation.” she adds softly. “Unless you want Satoru to know about it too.”

You barely make it back to your room before your legs give out. The door shuts behind you and you crash onto the bed, your breath caught somewhere between a sob and a scream. You press the heels of your palms into your eyes, trying to hold back the tears, but it’s useless now. The dam is breaking. Your shoulders shake, and the sob that leaves you is hoarse, pulled from a place so deep it feels like you’re splitting open.

Everything was falling apart — like a chain of dominoes tipping one after another. One thing went wrong, and the rest followed, collapsing in swift, inevitable sequence. The worst part? The love blooming quietly in your chest. There’s no use pretending anymore. You can try to lie to everyone else — maybe even try to lie to yourself. But the truth is carved into your every glance, every touch, every breath, every unspoken word between you and Satoru. You love him. But you’re not allowed to have him. Not after this. Not when the damage has already begun to spill over the edges.

You sit in the stillness for a while, until your tears run dry and resolve begins to settle in their place. There’s one thing left to do — the thing you intended before everything spiraled. You need to speak with Akihito. You pick up your phone and type out the message.

Meet me in an hour. I’ll send you the location of the hotel.

Then you get up, dress in silence, and leave.

The room is quiet when he arrives. Akihito steps inside and finds you standing by the window, framed in soft, diffused light. There’s something different in your posture — something heavier. He doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at you, then takes a step forward.

He dropped everything and came to you. Still hoping. That small, foolish hope still flickers in him — that maybe, despite everything, you’ve called him here because you’ve come back. He reaches for you, arms out as if to hold you again. But you step back.

“No”, you say, voice tight. “We can’t do this anymore.”

His hands drop to his sides. “What?” his voice barely comes out. You swallow the lump rising in your throat. “Aki... we can’t.” He stares at you. Then — a bitter, hollow laugh escapes him. “So that’s it?” His voice cracks. “You fell in love with him, didn’t you? And all this was for nothing?”

You close your eyes. The silence answers for you. He paces away, running a hand through his hair, then back again. “God”, he mutters. “I thought this was the perfect plan. I thought — if I couldn’t have you publicly, I could at least have you close. Through him. Knowing he wouldn’t want you, wouldn’t touch you. Knowing that you loved me...” He looks at you now, eyes sharp with grief. “But I was wrong about both.”

You wrap your arms around yourself. “This was a terrible idea from the start, and you know it”, you whisper. “I should’ve never agreed. I should’ve never let it get this far. I wish I’d never—”

“Don’t”, he snaps, suddenly raw. “Don’t say you wish you never met me. Don’t.”

Your breath hitches, but you don’t take it back. His voice lowers, thick with disbelief. “You don’t really mean it... right?”

Your silence cuts deeper than any answer.

He lets out a sharp breath, like it hurts, and moves to step toward you again, in utter denial of what’s unfolding before his eyes.

“No”, you say, firmer this time. “Please. Just let this be the end.”

You reach for the door. He follows. For the first time, you leave the hotel room together — not like all the other times, not hidden, not careful. You’re walking away, and he’s chasing you, hand reaching desperately for yours.

“Wait—!”

Akihito’s hand closes around your wrist just as you step onto the sidewalk, his grip tight, desperate — like holding on could somehow undo everything unraveling between you.

And then you hear it — a familiar voice calls your name.

“...is that you?”

You freeze. Shoko stands a few feet away, dressed in her uniform. Her gaze flicks from your face to where Akihito’s hand still clings to yours, and her expression changes in an instant.

And just like that — in the space of a single day — everything you’ve tried to keep buried begins to rise. Crashing, all at once, to the surface.

The sun is long gone by the time Satoru returns, the estate cloaked in stillness. He steps inside, calling your name softly. When you appear at the end of the hall, barefoot in the dim light, something in him settles — and then, just as quickly, something else begins to stir. You look like yourself, and yet... not. Your smile is soft but distant, your eyes shimmering in a way he can’t place. “I’m home”, he says, shrugging off his jacket. “Missed me?”

You nod, walking up to him. You press a hand to his chest. “Little bit.” He smiles and leans down to kiss you, and when your lips meet, he feels it — the way you cling just a little tighter, hold just a little longer. It’s like you’re trying to memorize the way he tastes.

Later, in your shared room, the lights are low and the silence is velvet. You’re already in bed when he returns from the shower, his white hair damp and tousled, towel slung loosely around his neck. He slips in beside you, cold fingers brushing your arm. You shiver, not from the chill — from the weight of what’s to come.

“You said you needed some time for yourself this morning, but you’re still like this”, he murmurs, pulling you close. “I don’t like it.”

You nestle against his chest, pressing your cheek to his skin. “I’m okay now.”

There’s something in your voice that makes him pause. But he doesn’t push. Instead, he wraps his arms around you tighter, grounding himself in the curve of your spine, the warmth of your breath against him.

“You smell like cotton candy”, you whisper.

He chuckles, nose brushing the crown of your head. “It’s that new shampoo. Smells fancy, huh?”

You don’t answer. You just reach for his hand and intertwine your fingers with his like it’s the last time... “Will you stay with me?” you ask softly.

“I’m not going anywhere.” he breathes.

“Good”, you murmur, voice barely above a breath. “Then, come closer.”

Satoru tilts his head down to look at you, a flicker of unease moving behind his gaze. “Of course”, he says. “Where else would I go?”

You pull him down to kiss you again. Deep. Slow. There’s no teasing. No games. Just something desperate threaded through every movement. Like a goodbye wrapped in silk. When you make love, there’s no rush. No fire. Just the quiet rhythm of two people trying to suspend time — to stretch a moment into forever. You whisper his name like a prayer. He kisses your temple like he’s stealing a promise he doesn’t know he’s about to break.

Afterward, you lie tangled together, your head on his chest, his fingers absentmindedly drawing circles on your bare shoulder. Your breathing evens. Sleep comes to you quickly — a peace you haven’t known in a while.

But Satoru doesn’t sleep. He watches you in the darkness, his blue eyes searching your face, as if trying to decode something written there. Something unsaid. You’ve never look so peaceful. And, honestly, that’s what scares him. His chest tightens. Something in his gut whispers that he’s missing something. That he’s not seeing the full picture. That maybe... you’re slipping through his fingers.

“Why do I feel like I’m losing you?” he murmurs, barely audible, brushing a thumb along your cheek. You stir, but don’t wake. He leans down and kisses your forehead — gentle, reverent. “I love you”, he whispers into your hair. And for a moment, he lets himself believe it’s enough to keep you.

A week passes. The Gojo estate buzzes with preparations for the annual celebration — Saori and Akihito’s wedding anniversary. As always, Saori is at the heart of it all, composed and efficient, orchestrating every detail with practiced grace. Akihito, on the other hand, remains distant. Detached. You barely see him around the mansion. Not a word has passed between you since that day at the hotel. It feels like he’s quietly disappearing — withdrawing, piece by piece — and yet, an uneasy weight sits in your chest. Something feels off. Unfinished.

One afternoon, as you help Saori sort through invitations, she brings it up — casually. “Have you made up your mind?” she asks, her eyes never lifting from the stack of envelopes. You pause, fingers brushing the edge of an envelope, and answer softly — almost absently. “Who knows.”

Morning light filters through the sheer curtains. You’re already awake, lying still in Satoru’s arms. His breath is warm against the nape of your neck, one arm draped lazily around your waist, holding you in place like an anchor. Carefully, you ease out from under his arm. He shifts but doesn’t wake. Bare feet touch the cold floor as you rise and stand in the light, allowing yourself one last look. He’s lying on his back now, hair a tousled against the pillow. Peaceful. Vulnerable in a way only sleep allows. Your chest aches.

In the bathroom, you splash cold water on your face and lift your gaze to the mirror. Your eyes are red. Hollow. The skin beneath them bruised with fatigue. But beneath the weariness, there’s something else — resolve. When you return to the room, Satoru is stirring. He squints at you with a sleepy grin. “Come back”, he mumbles, voice rough with sleep. “I sleep better when you’re here.”

You smile softly. “Can’t. You know today’s the big day.”

He stretches like a cat, arms reaching above his head, the sheet slipping down to his hips. “Ugh. Right. Completely forgot about that”, he groans and then rolls onto his side. You manage a quiet laugh. As he nestles back into the pillow, you linger in the doorway. “I love you.” you whisper — quietly, so quietly he won’t hear. Then you close the door behind you. And with that, the countdown begins.

The Gojo estate is nothing short of magnificent tonight. The garden glows beneath a canopy of paper lanterns, warm amber light spilling across the sea of guests. Tables are dressed in fresh flowers. Soft music hums in the background, blending into murmured conversations and the gentle clinking of glasses. Tonight is a celebration of image — Akihito and Saori’s wedding anniversary. Saori is elegance incarnate, her smile as polished as the pearls at her neck. Akihito stands beside her, composed, offering polite nods and minimal words. Together, they are the picture of grace. But the image is just that — a facade. There’s nothing worth celebrating. Nothing real about the harmony they pretend to share.

Across the garden, Satoru floats through the evening like a disruption in the symmetry. Dressed in a loose gray suit, tie nowhere in sight, he laughs too loud, drowns juice from a champagne glass, and teases the elders with casual disrespect. No one bats an eye — it’s just Satoru being Satoru. But those who know him — really know him — can see it. He’s restless. His eyes keep scanning the crowd. At first subtly. Then, with growing urgency. You’re not out here. You slipped away earlier, saying something about fixing your dress. But that was over thirty minutes ago. Long enough for the knot in his stomach to tighten. Long enough for his laugh to start sounding forced.

He leans toward Shoko, who’s sipping wine with a bored expression. “Have you seen her?”

“Nope”, Shoko replies, unbothered. “Didn’t she say she was heading to the bathroom?”

“Yeah”, Satoru’s fingers drum against the table. “But how long does fixing a dress take?”

Across the garden, Akihito and Saori stand side by side as guests gather for the toast. She leans in, whispers something. He nods — but his gaze flickers, briefly, toward the house.

An elder raises a glass. “To love. To strength. To bonds that stand the test of time.”

Glasses rise.

Clink.

Applause follows. The illusion holds.

Until—

BOOM.

A thunderous crack splits the air. The ground shakes. Heat pulses across the garden like a wave. Screams erupt. From the left wing of the estate, fire bursts through the windows — a wall of flame swallowing the air. Smoke billows thick and choking. Music cuts out. Plates crash. Glass shatters.

Satoru’s glass falls from his hand and explodes against the ground. Something sharp drives into his chest. He knows — you’re still inside. But before the thought is fully formed, he’s already running.

“WHERE IS SHE?!” His voice cuts through the chaos as he barrels through the guests.

Akihito starts to follow, face pale, but Saori grabs his arm. Her gaze then snaps to her son. “Satoru, STOP!” she cries — but he doesn’t hear.

To Satoru, the world is silent now. There is only the roar of the fire and the pounding of his heart. He bursts through the estate doors, sprinting toward the source of the flames. He forgets his technique. Forgets his own safety. Forgets everything — except you.

“Please, baby— please, my love— I’m coming, please— Don’t do this to me, please—”, he keeps chanting.

The deeper he goes, the more warped the hall becomes — blackened, unrecognizable. He reaches the kitchen — but it’s empty. Panic claws up his throat. He turns, runs to the nearby bathroom. Kicks the door open. Heat smacks him like a wall. Smoke clogs his lungs. He pulls his sleeve over his mouth and steps inside.

Then he sees it — someone collapsed near the sink, limbs sprawled. Still. His heart stops. He nearly slips as he rushes forward, dropping to his knees beside the figure. Burnt and unrecognizable. But the dress — what’s left of it — is familiar. The color. The delicate trim. There’s a necklace around the neck, half-melted, but unmistakably yours. “No”, he whispers. “No, no, no—”

His hand hovers over your body. His throat tightens. Everything around him is heat, noise, pressure, but in his ears, there’s only silence. Like the world just folded in on itself. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until the tears hit his lips — salt and ash. “I was just with you...” he whispers, almost childlike, broken. “You were laughing with me a moment ago...” He leans in, presses his forehead to your shoulder, and breathes raggedly. Body shaking.

Behind him, voices start to echo. Footsteps. Shouting. Geto is coming to pull him out. But Satoru doesn’t hear any of it. He doesn’t move. He can’t. For the first time in his life, it feels like he’s lost.

The fire was quickly contained. The Gojo mansion still stands, its structure untouched. Only the left wing of the first floor bears the marks of the fire. The investigation concluded that the fire was caused by an overheating motor in the bathroom’s ventilation system, a tragic accident. Only one life was lost: yours.

Your funeral was two days ago. A private ceremony. Satoru didn’t speak during it. He barely moved. Just stood there, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his eyes hidden behind the blindfold. Quiet. In a way he’s never been.

Now, days later, the world still spins — people still laugh, they breathe, they live. But he’s still here. In the room that was once your shared bedroom. Alone. He sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the chaos of your things scattered around the room. Your belongings — still as you left them — seem to scream your absence. He can’t bring himself to touch them. Not yet. Not ever. The book you were reading, the bottle of perfume on the nightstand, your lotion, your earrings, the brush on the vanity, and your nightgown — neatly folded on your side of the bed. It all kills him. The maids are prohibited from entering the room. He’s made sure of it. The silence of the space, with all its untouched remnants of you, is his alone to bear.

He buries his face in your pillow, hoping to catch even the faintest trace of your scent. But it’s long gone. A strangled breath leaves him. Then another. And then... he breaks. His hands shake as he scrolls through his phone, endlessly flipping through old texts. Rereading them. The messages that still feel so alive — your voice echoing in his mind. One voicemail stands out. The one you left days before the accident. He presses play.

“Satoru, stop leaving the toilet seat up! I’m too sleepy in the mornings to notice, but my butt definitely doesn’t appreciate an unexpected ice bath.”

He laughs. Just once. And then, he breaks again. Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer in the world, curls into himself, his body crumpling into fetal position. He cries. Not quietly. No. He cries like he’s been holding it in his entire life, like the ground beneath him finally gave way and left him with nothing to stand on. No air. No reason.

They say he’s doing fine. Around others, he smiles. He jokes. He walks with that same easy confidence, says the right things, acts like nothing’s changed. But Geto and Shoko know better. They see it in the way he visits your grave every day. The way his shoulders stiffen when someone dares mention your name. The way his hands tremble when they’re not stuffed in his pockets. He’s unraveling. Slowly. Quietly. And still, no one knows the truth. Not yet. Not even him.

Only Shoko does.

You follow Shoko into the morgue at Jujutsu Tech, each step slow and soundless. She doesn’t speak. Just moves steadily toward a counter, where she sets a folder down. Her back remains to you. The silence stretches long and taut. Then—

“I wasn’t sure what to make of what I saw earlier”, she finally says. “But the fact that you followed me here... it confirms my suspicions.”

You try to speak, but no words come out. Only a shaky breath escapes, heavy with guilt, regret, and everything you’ve been holding in for far too long. Shoko turns to face you. Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes are sharp.

“You look like you want to say something”, she says. “So say it.”

The words stumble out at first, fractured and raw. But then they come faster, pouring from you. You tell her everything — the affair, the reason behind the arranged marriage, the lies... everything. And the worst of it — that somehow, in the wreckage of it all, you fell in love with Satoru. You nearly choke saying it aloud, the weight of the truth crushing in your chest.

Shoko listens in silence. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t interrupt. When you finally stop, she speaks with her usual stillness. “Why are you telling me this?” Then, sharper, “Why not tell Gojo?”

“No”, you say quickly. “I can’t... I won’t do this to him.”

She tilts her head, gaze narrowing. “You already did”, she replies flatly. “Whether you tell him or not doesn’t change that.”

Your throat tightens. “I know... and I need you to help me.”

“Help you?” she repeats. “Why would I?”

“Because I don’t want him to hurt, not like this.”

There’s a long pause. Shoko just watches you — assessing, weighing. Then she steps closer, her voice low. “But he will hurt. In a way I’m not sure he’ll ever come back from.”

You meet her gaze, desperation burning in yours. “Please.”

She says nothing, but something seems to be shifting in her.

“There’s something that will hurt him less than the truth”, you say. “I need you to find a body. Someone who resembles me. Imbue it with my residuals — only you can do that. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Her arms cross slowly. “You want me to find a corpse?” she asks. “You want me to help you fake your death? Is that it?”

You nod, eyes dropping. “He’ll be better off thinking I’m dead than knowing what I’ve done.”

“You’re underestimating him”, Shoko says, shaking her head. “You don’t know what you mean to him. This isn’t mercy — it’ll destroy him.”

Her words cut like glass, but you close your eyes. “Please”, you whisper.

“When?”, Shoko asks, and you blink. “When do you need the body?” she repeats, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

(One month later)

You moved away. Far away. To a small village tucked in the mountains, hidden in a forgotten corner of the country. It’s quiet here — the kind of quiet that doesn’t demand anything from you. No one knows your name here. Not your real one, anyway. You rent a modest cottage, barely furnished, but clean. You wake with the sun, tend to your tiny garden, then walk to the local pub where you started working just enough to get by. It’s simple. Monotonous. A life carved from necessity, not desire. And yet, every night before bed, you check your phone. One conversation always sits at the top of your inbox: Shoko.

Your last message was three days ago.

You: How is he?

Her reply came the next morning.

Shoko: Still breathing. Don’t ask for more.

You didn’t. You never do.

(Back at Jujutsu Tech)

Satoru has just returned from a mission, and it’s clear he’s not himself. He’s sharp, but off. The usual cocky confidence has slipped into irritation, and he drifts through the halls with his mind elsewhere. Distracted. A clipboard hangs loosely in his hand, and he’s on the hunt for Shoko — she’s supposed to fill out a report.

These days, he only drops the act around her. Or Geto. Or, of course, when alone. When he’s not pretending, he’s quiet. Drained. Nothing like the Gojo Satoru everyone knows.

As he nears the morgue, he slows. A muffled voice cuts through the silence behind the door. It’s Shoko, on the phone. He’s about to knock when he hears it.

Your name.

Satoru freezes. Is he finally losing his mind? But then, there’s more—

“...you need to stop asking.”

A pause. Then, softer—

“He... He doesn’t talk about you still. He’s not okay. But you knew he wouldn’t be.”

The world stills. He doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink. It’s like his mind is short-circuiting. Did he hear that right? His grip tightens on the clipboard until it creaks beneath his fingers. But then, it comes again.

Your name.

He stands there, stunned for a moment, before his body moves of its own accord. The door opens with a slow creak.

Shoko looks up, and she sighs. “...I have work to do”, she says quietly, and ends the call.

Satoru steps inside and shuts the door behind him. He throws the clipboard aside. He is not smiling, and he’s no longer wearing his blindfold. And for the first time in a month, his eyes are fully visible — different, bottomless, rimmed in red — and they are fixed on her. “Care to explain?”, he says, voice low, flat.

Shoko doesn’t play dumb. She doesn’t lie. She leans back against the wall, her posture shifting to something almost resigned. She exhales, a soft sound, like she’s been waiting for this moment. She knew it would come. And for the first time in weeks, Satoru’s eyes �� his grief-clouded eyes — are lit by something else. Hope.

“She’s alive.”, Shoko says. The words hang in the air between them, and Satoru’s world shifts. He doesn’t react at first. Just stands there, trying to process her words.

Finally, his voice cracks — barely audible, barely more than a whisper, like something fragile. “You let me bury her.”

Shoko’s gaze softens for a moment, but then she sighs, a sound that’s more exhausted than regretful. “She said it’d hurt you less.”

“Less?” He laughs once, a shar, disbelieving sound. “Less than what?”

“The truth.” The words come from Shoko with unflinching clarity. “She had an affair with your father.”

Shoko waits. For a reaction. For anger. For questions. For anything.

But Satoru doesn’t blink. He only asks one question. “Where is she?”

The Gojo estate still stands. The first floor — once scorched by fire — has long since been renovated. But beneath the surface, the scars of the past remain. For those who know, it’s impossible to forget what was lost. Akihito sits in the living room, staring down at the floor, his expression hollow. The once commanding patriarch is now a broken shell. His hands tremble as he takes a sip of his drink, his gaze unfocused, consumed by grief. He hasn’t spoken much in weeks. Every time he tries, his voice cracks. The loss of you has shattered him. Sometimes he tells himself it was better this way — better to lose you to death than to watch you belong to someone else. Even if that someone else was his son. For a moment, that thought would make it easier to breathe. But then again, what did it matter? You were gone. And something in him knew — the fire wasn’t an accident. He suspected Saori. Maybe she found out. Maybe she did this to you. Should he kill her? But that wouldn’t bring you back. And besides... the clan. He still had a duty to do.

Saori sits nearby, her gaze fixed out the window, her lips curling into a faint, satisfied smile. Her eyes flicker to Akihito for a brief moment, but there’s no sympathy in them — only contentment. After everything, she believes fate has finally righted itself. She watches him fall apart with quiet detachment, a sense of calm in her stillness. At least now, he is more hers than he is yours. “Perhaps it was fate”, she murmurs softly, her words for no one but the walls. Akihito’s eyes remain distant, his thoughts far removed from her voice. He’s too lost to hear anything she says — too far gone to care.

Then, the door opens. Satoru enters, no grand gesture, no announcement. His presence fills the room immediately, thick and heavy, like an impending storm. Akihito doesn’t look up. He doesn’t need to. He knows why his son is here — he can feel it in the air before he even steps further in. Saori glances at Satoru, her eyes narrowing slightly, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. She rises without a word, understanding that this conversation isn’t for her. She leaves quietly, walking past her son with only a brief, knowing look.

The door clicks shut behind her.

Akihito slumps lower in his seat, but he doesn’t look at his son. He doesn’t need to. The way Satoru stands there, rigid, fists clenched, eyes dark and filled with fury. Akihito feels the weight of it, heavy in the room, before he even lifts his head to look at him.

“You know”, Akihito says quietly, his voice hoarse, a statement rather than a question. Satoru stands still, his jaw clenched tight, eyes burning. He doesn’t answer. The air between them crackles with the unsaid. Akihito presses on, his voice low, laced with a tremor. “How did you find out?”

Still, Satoru remains silent. His fists tremble at his sides, his breathing shallow, ragged. The words catch in his throat, a clash of fury and hurt. When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse and strained, as though forcing each word past the tightness in his chest.

“You broke her.” he spits, finally. “You broke the one thing most precious to me.”

Akihito flinches, the weight of the accusation landing heavily on him. His gaze hardens, but he can’t meet Satoru’s eyes. There’s nothing to say. His son is right — he did break her. And by doing so, he broke his son as well.

Satoru steps forward suddenly, his movements swift and calculated. The space between them closes in an instant, and Satoru’s eyes, wide with intensity, burn through the silence as he towers over his own father. There’s something primal in the air now — a rawness, an energy that could consume the entire room, the entire estate, if left unchecked. Akihito doesn’t react, he just sits there, knowing what’s coming. He accepts it. The man he once was, gone. And this son — this powerful, broken son — is the reckoning he’s been waiting for.

“Do you have anything to say?” Satoru’s voice is barely containing the storm inside him. His hands shake, still clenched tightly into fists, but there’s a note of something darker in his gaze — an edge that suggests the breaking point is near. Akihito looks at him, pained, defeated, but remains silent. The words don’t come.

The sound that follows — sharp and violent — could be a fist crashing into flesh or a bone snapping under pressure. It’s unclear, too quick to pinpoint. The air itself seems to shatter with it.

Satoru turns without another word, leaving the mansion. His hands are covered in blood.

Behind him, a scream shatters the silence. Saori’s scream, high and frantic, echoes through the halls. Saori doesn’t know it yet, but her time is coming too. Soon enough.

Satoru knew. He had known for a while. It wasn’t a dramatic discovery. It was quiet and accidental, in fact. It happened early into your marriage, when you were still distant with him — polite but clipped. Somehow always guarded. He thought it was the nerves at first. Shyness. The weight of tradition. But then a month passed, and you still wouldn’t meet his eyes unless it was absolutely necessary. Still flinched when he reached for you. He could handle awkward beginnings, of course — especially for you. He wasn’t expecting a fairytale, you didn’t even remember him. But what he couldn’t handle was not knowing you, the way that you never let him in.

So he did what a curious man with too little patience like himself might do. He followed you. Not out of suspicion of course. He thought if he observed you from a distance, he might’ve learned things you weren’t ready to tell or show him. Your habits. Anything. And then, one afternoon, he watched you enter a hotel. Alone. Odd.

Ten minutes later, his father arrived. Very odd.

Satoru waited. Two hours later, you walked out. Head down, hair slightly mussed. You didn’t see him. Shortly after, Akihito exited the building, adjusting his coat, wearing an expression Satoru had rarely seen on him — satisfied, secretive. And that was it. He didn’t even use his Six Eyes at first. Part of him didn’t want confirmation. Part of him hoped it was just a coincidence. But shortly after, he let his technique drift over your form. And there it was. Residuals. His father’s cursed energy. All over you.

...and everything began to click. Your stiffness. The arranged marriage. His father’s sudden interest in choosing his bride. How Akihito had spoken of you before the engagement with just a touch too much fondness. It wasn’t an arranged marriage; it was a cover. You weren’t his. You were his father’s.

Satoru never confronted you, never let on that he knew. He just watched. Watched the way you disappeared for hours and returned with a soft look in your eyes that was never for him. Watched the way Akihito seemed lighter after seeing you. Watched the lie of a marriage unfold, thread by thread, every day. He never blamed you, though. He thought, maybe this was fate’s twisted way of bringing you back together. Yes, he could’ve easily destroyed it, could’ve exposed the affair and made the clan turn against Akihito. But that would’ve meant the clan turning against you as well. And Satoru never wanted to ruin you, he wanted to keep you.

So he waited. Watched. Loved you in silence. And when he caught glimpses — that maybe you were beginning to see him, not just the son of the man you loved, that you were starting to change — that was all it took. He clung to that.

Because the thing about Gojo Satoru is that, when he wants something — really, truly wants it — he doesn’t stop. Not rules. Not family. Nothing can stop him.

You had been stolen from him once — the night on the curb, when fate gave you to him and then ripped you away before he could even ask your name. Then it happened again. His father got to you first.

Now, he wasn’t going to let you be taken away from him for the third time. No matter what. Even if it meant choosing heart over blood.

If you had faked your death and disappeared because you believed you couldn’t exist in a world with both of them, then all he had to do was remove the one standing in the way. To keep you.

You’re wiping down the tables at the pub, preparing for the new day. Half-focused. Letting the repetitive motion ground you, steady your nerves. Trying not to think about the ghost of him that’s never really left you.

The door creaks open behind you.

“We’re not open yet”, you immediately call out. Politely, without turning around. “Please come back in an hour.”

Silence. Neither a response, nor footsteps indicating that the person is leaving. You glance over your shoulder, ready to repeat yourself, but the words catch in your throat.

Satoru is standing there, leaning against the doorframe. “Won’t you make an exception for me?” he says softly. It’s meant to sound like him — teasing, light — but his voice gives him away. It’s quiet, fragile. Like it might crack if he tries any harder to keep it steady.

The rag slips from your hands. You freeze. Then slowly, you turn. But you don’t meet his eyes. You don’t dare. “Why would you come here?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. It’s not a question of how he found you. The answer was simple. Shoko.

He steps forward, slowly. “For you.”

“For me”, you echo under your breath, more to yourself than to him, a bitter laugh escaping you. “For me, huh?” you repeat.

“For you.” — he says again, with no hesitation. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to shrink, as if you could fold into nothing. As if it might protect you from the weight of what he’s carrying in his voice. “Did you ever consider that maybe I didn’t want to be found?”

“I did”, he says. “I considered a lot of things, actually.” He pauses before he takes another step, and then adds, “But the fact you did something so reckless... made me consider that you cared more than I imagined.”

You shake your head, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You don’t understand—”

“I do.” He cuts in gently. “You thought if you stayed, you’d destroy us both.”

You finally look up, meeting his eyes for the first time, and something inside you threatens to cave, the devastation in him nearly buckling your knees. “I did something unforgivable.”

He exhales, like what he’s about to say is so obvious it needn’t be said out loud. But he does it anyway — “I was ready to do anything for you.”

“Even if what I did was truly terrible?”

“Even then.”

He takes another step, and then another, until the distance between is gone. Until he’s close enough to touch. You want to move. To put space between you, but your feet don’t listen. And his presence — it roots you in place like gravity.

“You could’ve told me everything”, he murmurs. “You should’ve told me.” A pause. “I already knew.”

“What?”, your breath stutters.

His eyes darken, and a faint, bitter smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “I’ve known for a while.”

“But... Shoko... didn’t Shoko—”

“It wasn’t her.” He shakes his head. “I found out myself.” He falls silent for a moment, like the memory stings to recall.

“And you never said anything?”

“I had my reasons”, he says softly. “Just like you had yours.” He lifts his hand — the lightest touch — and tilts your chin up. The gentleness nearly undoes you. You try to speak, but the words tangle with the sob building in your chest. It slips out instead — small, broken. His fingers brush beneath your eye, catching the tear before it falls. Even as his own hand trembles. “One word from you would’ve changed everything”, he whispers. “I would’ve burned everything down to keep you safe. Happy.”

You slowly break under the weight of his words, forehead falling to his chest. You feel the tension in him — not anger, not judgment. Just ache. His arms wrap around you.

“You were always my girl”, he breathes into your hair. “Even when you didn’t know it. Even when you were his. From the moment you fell asleep on my lap outside that club, you were mine.”

You tilt your head up, lips trembling. “I’m... I’m really s—”

“Shh.”

He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, the warmth of him seeping into your skin. “I know.”

And then, his lips charge closer — you meet him halfway into a soft, slow kiss. One that is both an ache and a release all at once.

It hurts to want him this much. It hurts to know what you did. It hurts to know that he still looks at you with so much love, even when he knows it all. It hurts, that despite everything, it’s still you.

You never thought you’d find peace again. Not truly. But now, the mornings are calm. The nights are quiet. The days pass without dread — light, easy, almost gentle. You and Satoru settled into this small life together, tucked away from the rest of the world.

He left it all behind — the clan, the title, the crushing weight of being the strongest. Here, he isn’t Gojo Satoru, head of the Gojo Clan or the face of sorcerer society. Here, he’s just Satoru. Your Satoru. The one who wakes up beside you each morning, arm draped around your waist, murmuring sleepy nonsense into your ear. The one who insists on cooking breakfast and makes an unspeakable mess in the kitchen. The one who still leaves the toilet seat up just to hear you scold him — and grins when you do.

Your belly is growing now — small, round, and full of promise. Sometimes he speaks to it like he already knows who your child will be. Sometimes he rests his head there and falls asleep. Other times, he lies awake with his hand on your baby bump, eyes full of wonder and fear, whispering that he hopes he’ll be good enough — for both of you.

There are things left unspoken between you. You’ve never asked what happened after he left the clan — or more accurately, what happened before he left. You suspect the truth, of course. There’s no way not to. But you don’t press. And he doesn’t offer.

Still, you think of Akihito sometimes. It’s impossible not to — he was a turning point, a fire you walked through to become who you are now. And sometimes, in the right light, Satoru looks so much like him. The same build, the same jawline, the same eyes.

But you know better. He’s nothing like him. Akihito, for all his love, always chose the clan in the end. His desires may have been selfish, but they were always entwined with duty. He loved you, yes. But he never chose you. Not truly.

But Satoru did. He always chose you — even when it broke him. Even when it meant walking away from everything he was. Even when it meant taking a life — his own blood — to protect yours.

When he said, “I was ready to do anything for you”,

...he really meant it.

#ઈઉ — ai writes #[ ♡ ] — satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk x reader #jjk x you

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wonryllis · 6 months ago

Text

HER VANILLA GREED (M) park sunghoon.

�� 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗐𝖾'𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌.

featuring. enemy!park sunghoon who gets a taste of you and now he can't get enough, consumed with greed that can never be satiated─ albeit barely just quenched for a while. directory?

warnings. smut!! kinda dom!sunghoon feeling crazy. enemies pouncing on e/o, prn with bits of plot, rough sex, unprotected (wrap your willy pls), swearing, mentions of multiple acts.

part of, hold your breath event. prompts include “that’s it, fuck, that’s a good girl.” & fucking someone so good that they struggle to kiss you back. ( wordcount, 944. )

JZLYN notes ╱ hope y'all enjoy it! & if you do please leave comments & feedbacks it keeps me going! & lastly please reblog!!

you loved vanilla and sunghoon loved your vanilla.

it's uncharacteristic of him to feel this way for his enemy, definitely; but after that one time he ate you out for a heated game of dare or drink, he has just gotten addicted. so so addicted that every time he catches a glimpse of you around the house he cannot help imagining the taste of you on his tongue, the waft of your scent dancing edges on him.

it was an accident─ a one time mistake if he may say. and how it turned into a regular thing? he has no recollection of it. the only thing he remembers are the spontaneous blowjobs in the kitchen to imprudently eating you out on the couch at any given chance you both got. which is whenever considering you live together.

oral had been the go to, for the past two months. no matter how turned on you both got, you just never threaded that line of linking more closely. making out and grinding against each other, sliding his cock against your panty clad pussy, jerking him off while he fingerfucked you; moaning into each other's mouth as you finished. but never hitting it in.

but tonight something changed─ something triggered.

a night together at one of the newly opened bars downtown. shots of alcohol in your systems and raging jealousy at others pawing for your attention away from each other. it was mutual, the way you both grew desperate and covetous. like you owned the other, your prized─ no, unwarranted possession.

“that’s it, fuck, that’s a good girl.” sunghoon rasps as he slides in, inch by inch, breath by breath. calloused hands gripping the tender skin of your waist, holding you up and pulling you closer by your hips. your legs wrapped around him like a cage of lust.

the veins in his cock throb with your warm cunt engulfing him. tight, slick─ and fuck it's full of your vanilla smearing all over his throbbing and twitching length.

mind a big mush, sweating dripping along sunghhon’s silver chain dangling between your thighs as he bottoms out. hissing out a line of curses at the feeling, his grip on you tightening.

“god your pussy’s insane─ can't believe ‘was gonna miss out on this,” sunghoon mutters out in a hushed whisper, words tumbling out in a single breath as he tries to compose himself. but it's so hard. his cock is so hard and keeping himself from completely ravaging you for his pleasure is making it even harder.

the sight of you is criminally arousing. your hands clutching at sheets above your head, dress tugged down and barely hanging low above your hips. skin flushed with sweat and your breaths coming out in soft anticipating gasps while you wait for him to start moving. it's atrocious how he does not feel disgusted at the even the glimpse of his enemy laying bare and inviting and with his cock inside her.

“park, move─” you let out a demanding whine. wiggling your hips against his balls in a futile attempt with his hands holding you still.

“you don't gotta tell me,” it does not take him a second to start thrusting. pulling all the way out till the tip and pushing back in a rough, brutal and almost hurtfully bruising smack. it's always been annoying to hear you call him ‘park’ instead of his name, triggering irritation above all. but something about the way it slips and rolls off your pretty little pink tongue right now just turns him on so bad, it's sickeningly annoying. it's sickeningly lewd.

sunghoon's pace gradually increases along with his sheer desperation to somehow want you more and more even when he's balls deep in you and painfully holding in the bursts of cum threatening to gush out amid each thrust.

his hands move to cup your cheeks, squeezing your lips into a pucker before he leans down to devour them in a messy and sloppy kiss. one that you can barely keep up with. mouth falling open in wild moans and your back arching so prettily into him, he can feel the hair on your skin standing, the slight trembles passing over you and heat emanating off in quick shivers.

it drives him crazy. your drooling reflection in his eyes as he pulls away to get off at the view of you struggling to remain lucid. his thumb skimming onto your wet glossed lips and smearing it over to your cheek.

you stick your tongue out at his touch, eyes closed in a sensual lick against his fingers and sunghoon loses it. grabbing your hair to tug your head back as he starts pounding into you, crazed and frantic.

“fuck─ why do you have to be so goddamn hot, fuck fuck fuck─ this is─ fuck─ ridiculous.” he grunts out in shuddering and shaky breaths. his head thrown back and mouth fallen open alike. he still cannot believe he's fucking you, and absolutely not how fucking sinfully good it feels. his enemy and roommate, two no-zones: crossed at once. and if that was not enough already, he did not have the patience to slip on a condom. and fuck does it feel like you'll milk him out dry.

“shit i can't stand looking at you─ you're gonna make me cum so fast,” each drag, each glide so torturously pleasurable.

“then cum. fill me up,” you mumble out, managing to graze your fingers along his chest and down to his lower abs. sunghoon groans at those words, his stomach churning and clenching up at the sensations.

he's gonna turn your vanilla into vanilla whipped cream he swears.

reg taglist. @s00buwu @lilyuwon @pockyyasii @nctislifue @shawnyle @enhastolemyheart @aaa-sia @criminalyun @oddracha @satan-223 @seochangbinnnnnnnnnnn @jayjw16enxp @laylasbunbunny @riribelle @ancnymcnzjy

event taglist. @sickntrd @matchacake2 @heebear @lostwonderwall @sunshine-skz @engenesengenes333 @soobheehoon @isagistar @heesky @jaeyungxrl

#event : hold your breath!#enhypen smut #enhypen hard hours #enhypen hard thoughts #enha smut #enha hard hours #enha hard thoughts #enhypen sunghoon smut #enhypen park sunghoon smut #sunghoon smut #park sunghoon smut

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danidrabbles · 8 months ago

Text

Cardinal

Pairing: Logan Howlett ("Worst" Wolverine) x f!reader

Rating: Explicit (for themes and smut).

Word count: 16.6k

Summary: At the edge of the world, someone from another keeps you from stepping off.

Tags/Warnings (Please, read the warnings!!): Post-Deadpool & Wolverine, female reader (female anatomy etc + 2 mentions of hair long enough to fall into your eyes), strangers-to-lovers, depression, suicidal ideations, suicide attempt and mentions thereof, addiction, drinking alcohol, drugs (mentioned not used), panic attacks, sobriety meetings, anxiety, recovery, co-dependency vibes, sprinkles of soulmateism, explicit smut (oral and unprotected PIV), happy ending (yay!!). If I forgot anything, please let me know!

Notes: Deadpool and Wolverine re-triggered my X-Men obsession and what started as a means to write some smut actually became this idea about two broken people who shouldn't even have met in the first place finding each other. There's a lot of me in this story, more than there's ever been I think. I'm sorry for this glimpse into my head, and I'm sorry if this isn't as Reader-insert as it should be, but... I'm not that sorry, you know. Huge thanks to @javier-pena , for not only reading this over and fixing so many embarrassing mistakes, but also for saying she'd read this even if it was 20k words and always believing in my abilities as a writer, even when I sometimes didn't.

If you want to read the smut as a standalone, you can! Just CTRL + F (or search in page) for 'Logan reaches for' and read away.

THE LOOKOUT

With closed eyes, you inhale the cool, December air, before looking down at your feet. Here, at the edge of the lookout, the grass has been trampled. You imagine friends taking bets on who dares get closest to the edge, lovers making memories, families taking pictures. It’s strangely soothing that maybe you’re not the first to stand here to do this.

Far below your feet, the water laps at the rocks. The force of it depends on the weather and tonight it’s violent, with big splashes and crashing sounds. The wind tugs at your coat, pulling you towards the water as if to help you along, making you look up again as you hold your balance. In front of you, the line of the horizon is dark but visible – it would have been impossible to make out if the moon hadn’t been as bright as it is.

It’s like you’re looking at the edge of the world.

During the weeks that fall had made way for winter, you scoped the place out a couple times. The first time you stood at this cliff’s edge, the place it took you to mentally scared you so much that you got back into your car and broke down in tears. The next couple times, things became more and more serious, as your life crumbled around you, and your feelings numbed, and nothing seemed to matter anymore.

Something had crept in while you weren’t looking, settling somewhere behind your eyes and spreading out to make a home behind your ribs, slowly but surely changing you. And once you realized it, it was already too late. It had grown large, became jilted and jealous, like it wanted all of you. It pushed away everyone and everything you held dear, until it was just you and that… something.

Especially during the quiet of the night, the lookout became soothing, a strange sense of familiarity enveloping you each time you were here. It was addictive and pretty soon, it became a daily routine to visit. But lately it’s been losing its shine, your feelings here dulling and darkening too. You’re exhausted, fed up, tired of giving it more of you.

Today you want it to be your last time here.

You’ve had countless hours to contemplate what it would be like, imagined – all but romanticised – how the cold water would paralyse your limbs if the impact wouldn't do the trick. You read somewhere that it’s apparently like falling asleep when the water finally fills your lungs. You’ll be gone, but the thing will be too.

The thought makes your eyes fill with tears, but not from fear. All you feel is relief, like it’s right, how it’s supposed to be. It makes you smile despite everything, and–

“Hey, stop!”

A voice behind you thunders through the silence and makes you shriek into the night, dirt toppling over the edge of the lookout below the shuffle of your foot. A string of curses follows, heavy footfalls behind you indicating that the intruder is approaching you.

“Fuck off!” you throw over your shoulder, your voice a roar with how it’s amplified by the wind.

After, your throat closes up, fighting the angry tears over the fact that you can’t even fucking kill yourself in peace. Never have you seen anyone here at night, never. What you hate even more is how it breaks your momentum. The haze that was surrounding you is pierced, and your body’s baser instincts kick in. Adrenaline suddenly pumps through your veins, making your legs tremble, your heart hammer, your body scream for you to step back from where you’re standing. Your anger, however, has you nailed to the floor.

You almost miss the much softer, “Hey,” as a man steps into your peripheral vision. You pretend like you don’t hear him, or see him – you simply pretend he isn’t there, focussing on getting back into your previous mindset.

But then he takes his hands out of his pockets.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you warn, hating how your voice comes out trembling – weak.

“Easy.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

You stand there together for what feels like hours. You will yourself to not let it affect you, setting your jaw to keep your teeth from clattering on account of the cold, allow the wind to blow your hair into your eyes without brushing it away. Even when it begins to rain, you don’t move, don’t blink even once more than you need to. From the corner of your eye you watch the man shove his hands back in the pockets of the brown leather jacket he’s wearing, and you quietly celebrate that your surroundings are fazing him more than they are you.

“You know–” he begins.

“I’m not really looking for a conversation.”

“Me neither,” he immediately counters, suddenly impatient, “so I’ll get right to it: You planning on jumping? Because if you think the water’s gonna be nice to you, you’ve got that wrong. You’ll end up in there feeling everything, that fall isn’t gonna do shit.”

Having expected a gentle approach, his bluntness and his tone knock the wind out of you. You cock your jaw, the shame creeping up your body the first bit of warmth you’ve felt in a while. Your cold fingers ball to fists as you will yourself not to care. Yes, his words and the way he's shatteríng your expectations with them sting, but you don’t even know this guy–

“And there’s nothing fuckin’ peaceful about it, it’s just panic. Right before you go too far…” He raises a fist and holds it against the center of his chest, “...there’s this burning right here that’s hell.”

“And what makes you such an expert?” you finally spit out.

“Died like that a couple times,” he says without waiting a beat.

The casual statement of something so bizarre beats your resolve before you know it, your head turning in his direction. “‘A couple times’?”

“I, uh…” You watch him hesitate, the moonlight illuminating the tick of his jaw, the bob of his throat as he swallows, the way his chest falls as he sighs, “Let’s just say I can’t die.”

Before you can stop yourself, you snort at that. “That must fucking suck.”

He barks out a laugh, “Got that right.” It startles you when his head suddenly turns to you, when he looks you in the eye for the first time. “But trust me, being down there isn’t much better.”

There’s something in the way he looks at you that makes you waver. You can’t really place it, or decipher why it makes you want to open up to him. Maybe it’s because you’re freezing and it’s your body betraying you, tricking you into moving so you can generate some warmth, moving your lips to keep them from going blue. Or maybe it’s simply because he’s a stranger and it’s so much easier to be honest when there are no consequences.

“Things just feel so…,” you begin, voice shaky. Every possible way to end the sentence crosses your mind, seemingly all wrong, before you settle on what’s closest to how you feel, “endless.”

To your relief, he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tell you to give it time that it will get better, or any of the other bullshit you’ve heard from all the other people that had been in your life and left a long time ago. You do find something else in the shift in his eyes, something you haven’t encountered before.

Understanding.

It might be worse. If anything, it’s overwhelming, making your eyes dart away from his as you sniff.

The wind still tugs at you, the waves still hit the rocks, but your moment seems to have passed. It’s a sobering conclusion, a twisted version of wrong place, wrong time. Or maybe it was him who was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Either way, the outcome is the same.

You take a step back, and another, but it takes considerable effort; you hadn’t taken your numb legs into consideration. You stumble, falling back on the dewy, cold grass, not quick enough to catch yourself on your hands. With a groan, you move to sit upright.

“Shit. Hey, you still with me?” The stranger kneels next to you, fingers lifting your chin to look into your eyes. “Jesus, you’re fucking freezing.”

“No s-sh-hit,” you retort.

He sighs, offering you a hand so he can pull you up. “C’mon, let's get you warmed up.”

– – – – –

Logan.

That’s his name.

It’s how he introduced himself, anyway, after he suggested you follow him. To his credit, he did offer to drive you, but you didn’t want to leave your car in the parking lot of the lookout. Logan waited 15 minutes for you while you put the blowers on the highest, warmest setting and waited for the feeling to return to your limbs. After, his brown truck led the way here – here being some hole in the wall, 24 hour diner. You could have not followed, but the drive was kind of mesmerizing; the night seemed darker than usual, and Logan’s tail lights served as a lighthouse.

Outside, the diner is all Christmas lights and flashing signs, but the interior is like something straight out of Twin Peaks; booths to the left, red barstools to the right, a girl that looks too pretty and too young to be here standing behind the counter. There were two other patrons you spotted along the way as Logan led you to one of the back booths. Once seated, Logan studied the pamphlets–or pretended to, more like, because as soon as the waitress came up he ordered two whiskeys and nothing else.

Between then and now, as you nursed your drink sip by careful sip, you hadn’t learned much more about him other than that he could knock back a glass of whiskey like he got paid to do so. And in truth, you like it this way; preferring silent company, the droning of the machinery behind the counter and the quiet hum of a song on the jukebox next to the entrance. The white noise helps to distract from the white noise in your head. Settling back into the leather cushions of the booth, you let some warmth seep back into your body. Opposite you, Logan does the same.

Some moments after you finish your drink, one of the waitresses walks up to your booth to ask you about a refill, like she’s asked Logan twice now. You’re handing her the glass when Logan says, “She’s had enough.”

Your head whips from her to him. “Excuse me?”

He doesn’t say anything, and from the corner of your eye, you see the girl leave. With your glass. Logan’s is on his lips, his eyes observing you over the rim, looking at you like he– Dammit. You sigh deeply, a sense of anger filling you. You don’t need this, least of all from him. When you stand from the booth, those eyes follow you, making you voice your observations,

“Quit pitying me, Logan.”

“I’m not,” he says before taking another sip. “You still have to drive.”

You quirk an eyebrow at him. “And you don’t?”

Logan shrugs. “It’s different for me.”

Anger is still prevalent in your voice when you ask, “Well, let me guess, it’s another case of ‘I died like that a couple times’?”

He hums.

“And how does that work?”

“Regenerative ability,” he sighs. Another sip before he elaborates, “X-Gene.”

The admission makes you plop back down in your seat. Well, that explains things – he’s a mutant. You’re not familiar with that world, but you know enough to know it meant that. It isn’t like you couldn’t have deduced it before, but truthfully, you kind of thought he was bullshiting you as part of some tactic. Now, his actions and words make more sense: He really knows what it’s like to... That’s why he had that look on his face. Suddenly, you see him in a different light–

“Now who’s pitying who, hmm?” Logan asks, giving you a thin-lipped smile that doesn't reach his eyes as he sets his glass down on the table.

“I’m not, I’m just… processing. So this...” you lift his glass, swirl the contents around, “...doesn’t even affect you?”

“It does. For a few seconds.” He plucks the glass back from your hand, and throws the whiskey back with one gulp. His pupils dilate, pushing the hazel of his irises out until his eyes are almost black for a second, two… before going back to normal. “But if I chugged the bottle, I’d pass out.”

“Well, so would I,” you say with a chuckle. “So maybe we’re not that different after all.”

Just as the corner of his mouth lifts, your smile falls, because… it isn’t true; you’re very different. You’re pretty sure you don’t have what it takes to do what he did tonight. To care enough to do it. To sit with a stranger and hear them bitch and moan about being denied a drink. A feeling creeps up on you, sticky and uncomfortable, like you’ve overstayed your welcome—burdened him.

“I should head home,” you say, standing again.

Lightning fast, Logan’s hand shoots out to close around your wrist. “That really where you’re going?”

“Yes,” you reply. When you pull your hand back, he doesn’t let up. You fish your car key out of your pocket with your free hand, voice tighter when you say, “Let me go.”

“Just promise me something,” he says, eyes as dark as they’d been earlier, yet his drink has gone untouched since. “Don’t go back there again.”

“Not making promises I can’t keep,” you say, giving him a wry smile. “To strangers, but least of all to myself.”

He sighs, and lets you pull yourself from his hold.

THE CRAVING

New Years comes and goes, and you quickly discover that it was foolish superstition to think that it might change how you feel.

You find yourself in some club, a drink in each hand. You hate to admit it, but Logan’s words scared you out of your original idea and the only time you can bear to think of how to move on from it is when alcohol soothes the embarrassing grief of your shattered, macabre fantasy. It’s not a good way to deal with things, but it works.

There’s a part of you that welcomes feeling anything at all, but that… something inside you is busy trying to squash it.

It’s getting somewhere, because you have no idea how much you’ve already had to drink, but you’re buzzing pleasantly. Adding to it, you knock both drinks back, slamming the glasses on the bar before spinning around and facing the crowd of dancing bodies. The music sucks, the dance floor is cramped, you’re tired… The truth is that you’re too old for this, but it’s easy to escape here, surrounded by strangers. You clumsily drag the back of your hand over your wet mouth, push your sweaty hair from your eyes, and join them.

The past couple weeks, you found yourself craving something. Contact. And here is where you can get your fill; a hand on your waist, lips on your ear, the music too loud and yourself too drunk to even comprehend what’s being said, but never more. You want them to get close, but never too close.

After some time – could be an hour, could be 10 minutes – you make your way to the bathroom. It’s quieter here, the dulled thump of the music making the time you spend there feel slow and syrupy.

When you exit the stall, you bump into someone.

It’s a man. The dark hood over his head obscures his eyes, but you can’t help but think he’s looking right at you when a bright, almost unnatural grin appears on his face. It draws you in like a magnet, more so when he says, “Need something to take the edge off?”

Curiously, you watch as he opens his palm, long fingers unfurling slowly until they reveal a small plastic bag in his hand.

“First time’s on the house.”

You have no idea what it is exactly, but your eyes widen. This is new territory for you, and all the possibilities it opens up are suddenly invading your mind. As if on auto-pilot, you reach for the place where you keep your money, the sound of the door opening completely lost on you.

A hand closes around your bicep, pulling you aside with a quick yank of an arm.

“She isn’t interested, pal.”

It’s another man, who effortlessly tucks you half behind him. Before you can protest beyond an indignant huff, there’s a sound, like a sword being unsheathed, and you catch a flash of red, and of knives. Frowning, you try to get a better look, but your view is obscured by the man’s shoulder. The hooded man seems undeterred, regarding the weapons with the same sickening grin, before leaving the bathroom, muttering something that you don’t understand on the way out. The sword sound returns, the man twists around, and–

“Logan?” you slur in disbelief.

Logan doesn’t reply, instead takes hold of your arm again, making you follow him out of the bathroom. There he stops the two of you to murmur something to a woman wearing the same clothes as him, before tugging you along again. You’re stumbling after him on account of his pace and the iron grip he has on you as he leads you to the back door. He pushes it open with enough force to make the hinges creak, a gust of wind blowing in your face. It’s a contrast to go from the crowded, sweaty club to the silent, cold back-alley where tall brick walls and employee cars cage you in. You shake your arm and Logan’s grip loosens – another and he lets you go.

“How did you even find–” You cut yourself off, eyes widening, “Oh, my god, are you following me?”

Logan scoffs, narrowing his eyes. “Oh, please, do you think I have time to follow you around all day?”

“You’re here, aren’t you? You and your fucking…,” you gesture wildly into the air at him, “savior complex.”

“I work here,” he growls. When you give him a look, he adds, “It’s temporary. ‘Sides, me and my savior complex are the reason that creep isn’t selling god knows what to you in that bathroom right now!” His voice is a roar, echoing off the walls around you.

“Maybe I wanted that creep to sell god knows what to me in that bathroom,” you say, doing a poor impression of his voice, before turning and walking away from him.

Logan sighs. “Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving.”

“And then what, huh?”

“I don’t fucking know, Logan,” you say, twisting around to face him again, arms spread out by your side. “Figure out a new way out of this.”

“Yeah? Third time’s the charm?”

“Why do you even care, huh? You don’t even know me,” you say. Almost immediately, you let out a bitter laugh as your own words hit your ears, a sad realization dawning on you. “But I guess that makes two of us.”

It’s not like you expected him to, but he doesn’t answer.

“You know I used to like myself? I used to smile, I used to have friends, I used to be more sober than drunk. But this feeling, it takes… everything.” You raise a fist, hold it to the center of your chest. “It takes everything I love, pushes away everyone I love, including myself. It eats me up, and wants more and more, until I’m something I’m not and until I’m so far away from that version of myself, my old self, that it feels easier to just fucking–” you pause with a wet gasp for air.

“Destroy yourself,” Logan finishes for you.

Your chest heaves, an unshed tear clings to your lash line. “Exactly.”

He takes a step closer to you. “Let me take you home,” he says, voice gentle.

You should hate the implications of that gentleness, but you don’t. In your drunk state of mind, it’s easier to admit it’s nice that someone understands, that someone’s there to stop you from going too far…

Tomorrow, when some of your pragmatism returns, you’ll deny this embarrassing thought ever occurred; if relying on other people worked, it would have worked a long time ago, and you wouldn’t be standing here with him. If you’re lucky, you might even forget this entirely, and wake up with a hangover that you’ll enjoy a little too much because it feels like a punishment–

“What about your job?” you ask with a sniff.

Logan’s palm finds the space between your shoulder blades with a gentle push, the warmth of it seeping in through your clothes, and he leads you to his truck. “They’ll manage without me.”

– – – – –

When you wake, your world is tilted sideways, a blanket is pulled up to your chin and there's a pillow under your head. They’re not your own; the blanket is itchy and the pillow’s too small. When you try to move your legs, they stick uncomfortably to the material below them, and you realize you’re on a leather couch. You squint at the light that comes in from a window across from you–

“Mornin’, sunshine.”

The voice startles you, eyes shifting to focus on the source: A man lying on his front on the floor, chin in his hands as he kicks his feet back and forth in the air.

“Wish I could say it’s a pleasure, but it hasn’t been very pleasurable. You’ve been barfing up the place since the moment you stepped inside. Kept poor Al up all night. Her ears are sensitive,” he adds with a whisper. “But don’t worry, she left about an hour ago.”

“Who are you?” you slur, blinking against the light.

“Logan.” He sighs when you frown. “I know, not how you remember. This is what I look like during the day; blessed with incredible good looks at night and, well,” he gestures at his face that’s covered in scars, "this, during the day. Bit of a reverse Princess Fiona situation–”

“Cut it out, Wade,” comes the sharp protest from next to you. With considerable effort, you turn your head and see the actual Logan, slumped back in a recliner next to the couch, rubbing some sleep out of his eyes while motioning for the other man to go.

“I’ll let you two talk.” Wade winks.

Logan stands when Wade does, walking from your field of view. Your head is scrambling to catch up, trying to piece together what happened last night, but only coming up with bits and pieces.

“How are you feeling?” Logan asks as he makes his way back to you, handing you a glass of water.

You flinch when the front door closes behind Wade with a bang, before taking the glass from Logan and taking a few thankful sips. “Like shit.”

“Yeah,” is all he says as he sits back down.

“What–”

“You fell asleep in the car. Didn’t know where to take you, figured the couch was the safest place.”

“Oh…,” you say, voice small.

You try not to think about being so wasted that you had to be carried out of Logan’s car, or about what Wade said earlier about the things that happened as soon as you stepped inside the apartment. During your silence, Logan’s fingers fiddle with the armrest, before his hand balls into a fist, and it unlocks something in your hazy memory.

“I have the weirdest memory of you having… a sword?”

You watch as Logan’s lips purse in amusement. His tongue rolls around in his mouth, seemingly contemplating something, before saying, “You probably saw these.” He holds up his fist, flexing his forearm before three blades shoot from between his knuckles like claws, accompanied by a shing!

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you startle, spilling some water on your blanket. Your head spins with your hangover and the bizarity of the situation. If it didn’t sound so much like how it did in your memory, you might think you were still drunk.

There’s so many things you want to ask, your intrigue almost winning out over your hangover until the sharp start of a headache gives you pause. Instead, you take another sip of water before rubbing your temple.

“It’s a story for another time,” Logan says, like he can read your mind, and you want to ask him that, too. His claws retreat, the cuts they leave between his knuckles immediately smoothing over until they’re gone. “I gotta go check if I still have a job.”

The words make you feel warm all over, the memory of your back-alley conversation coming back in full force. The thought of the things you admitted to him and that you put him in the position that he had to risk his job for you make you feel even warmer, your gaze no doubt laced with embarrassment and worry when you look at him.

“‘S not your fault,” Logan assures, standing and fishing his car key from the pocket of his jeans. “You don’t have to rush but um, make sure you close the door behind you on the way out. Gets jammed sometimes.”

“Yeah, okay,” you say, watching as he makes his way to the front door.

He takes a final glance at you over his shoulder, then leaves, accompanied by a bang.

THE PUZZLE

It takes you a little over a week to muster up the courage to go back. Admittedly, your courage is aided by another, foreign feeling. You don’t have a name for it yet, or maybe you’re afraid to call it what it is, but somewhere along the week, you became consumed with the thought that feeling like you did wasn’t all there was. That there is something beyond this.

Perhaps foreign wasn’t the right way to describe it, because it is something you’ve felt before – it’s just been long dormant. The last time, it lasted about a month before it all came crashing down, and you swore you wouldn’t fall for it again, but you can’t help it. The feeling’s too sweet, and the idea that there’s still some baser instinct willing you to keep fighting for yourself makes you feel like the sun is shining on you.

So yeah, maybe you’re just having one of your good weeks, where the thing sleeps – quiet while its presence still simmers. But you figured now’s your chance to take advantage of its unguarded moment.

Sneaking into the building is surprisingly easy. It helps that it isn’t anything fancy. You wanted to forego the humiliation of ringing the bell and him not letting you in, but standing in front of the door now, panting after climbing three flights of stairs, you don’t know if this is much better.

Just when you’re about to knock, the door swings open. In the opening, Logan has one arm in his jacket, head twisted to watch the other that’s caught halfway in the sleeve. It takes him almost bumping into you to realize your presence. “Shit, sorry.” He steadies himself with a hand on your arm, the touch leaving you as fast as it appeared.

“Hi,” you breathe, taking a step back to give him a little more space.

He nods in greeting. “Brings you here?”

It takes you a moment, caught off guard by him skipping over pleasantries and cutting right to the chase, despite your best intentions; it’s not that he’s ever been any different in his interactions with you.

“I came by because I, um, owe you an apology, for my behavior at your workplace and for, you know…,” you trail off, gesturing at the door.

“Barfing up the place!” comes a shout from inside the apartment.

Logan’s eyes close with a sigh, before he steps into the hallway with you and closes the door with a bang.

“That,” you finish sheepishly. “I’m really sorry.”

He nods in acknowledgement.

“I also wanted to ask, um, if you want to come with me to get a coffee. To make it up to you.”

Logan just looks at you, the leather of his jacket creaking as he crosses his thick arms in front of his chest. He raises an eyebrow at you expectantly. You hate how he somehow can see right through you, how he makes you elaborate, and honest.

“I want to quit drinking,” you say, fiddling with the sleeve of your coat. “It doesn’t make me better, and when I don’t do it I finally feel a little… normal. Maybe coffee’s technically just as bad, but it’s the only thing that’s currently acting like… like a reverse gateway drink? And I feel like you’re the only person I know that might get that feeling of–”

“I do,” Logan cuts in, voice softer than before – assuring. His arms drop from where they’re crossed and he starts making his way to the stairs. “Let’s go.”

– – – – –

You don’t know this coffee place, and from the way he looks around and shifts around in a chair that might be a bit too small for him, neither does Logan. Main reason you picked it is because the booths remind you a little too much of a bar – and you like the tall windows. The coffee’s pretty decent.

“Did they fire you?” you ask, picking at a loose corner of one of the laminated menus before setting it back in its holder.

“Boss commended me for helping a customer, but not so much for leaving before my shift ended,” Logan replies. “Got off with a warning.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Said that already, and I accepted,” he says. When he takes a sip of the coffee, he winces. “No need to worry about it anymore, okay? I would do it again.”

You nod, folding your hands around the warm cup in front of you.

“But, um, Wade hasn’t shut up about… the incident.” There’s a different tone to his voice, like he’s trying to lighten the mood. “His words.”

“You know, I kind of get the feeling that Wade doesn’t shut up about a lot of things.” It comes out a little meaner than you intend, but it makes Logan laugh and finally slump back in his chair a little.

“You’re a quick study.”

Offering him a short smile in return, you continue with the other real reason you came to see him, before you chicken out. “I also stopped by because I wanted to, uh… because I realized I never really… I never… I never thanked you, for um… And–”

With a shake of his head, Logan sits upright. “Y’don’t–”

To your horror, your eyes brim with tears, “Logan, I’m supposed to be dead–”

“So am I,” he counters. He lets the words hang between the two of you for a moment, until you look at him, before he continues, “I’ve been where you are. Past it, even.”

You don’t know what to say to that, if the lump in your throat will even permit you to speak, but it’s impossible to look away from him. Logan’s gaze is piercing, frown ever present, but it’s not from anger. Instead, it’s like he’s searching for something, the right thing, to say. The silence doesn’t bother you; if anything, it makes his words seem more genuine when he does speak,

“I had someone who was annoying enough to not give up on me when I could really use it. If getting a coffee with you that’s, frankly…,” he makes a face as he pauses, “a horrible excuse for a coffee, helps… I can do that. I want to do that.”

The corner of your mouth lifts as you blink away your tears. “Was it Wade?”

Logan lets out a chuckle, and it’s honest – fond. “Yeah.”

“Figured,” you say. “How did you meet him?”

Across from you, Logan stills. You swallow thickly, adjusting yourself in your chair. It’s an innocent question, but maybe it isn’t something he’d like to revisit right now. Logan’s mug squeaks when he grips it tighter, and he looks at you with something like defeat–

It makes you deflate. This must be what you looked like the night you met…

There’s no way to have prepared for what he tells you next: That he came from another timeline about three months ago, that he and Wade saved this one from being destroyed and almost got killed in the process, that he has nothing to go back to after the death of his team, so he stayed here.

There’s hesitation in it, like he isn’t telling you the whole story, though you don’t comment on it. He doesn’t owe you anything and you’re too busy putting all the pieces in the Logan-shaped puzzle in your mind together; his words and actions towards you are starting to make more and more sense.

“It’s a very brave thing the two of you did,” you say when he’s finished.

“Hmm, it was all Wade,” Logan muses. “He did it all for the people he cares about.”

“I’m sure you would have done the same if you were in his place.”

At that, he lets out a dry laugh with absolutely no joy behind it. “Do me a favor, don’t put me on a pedestal.”

You frown, but before you can comment, he stands. A knot forms in your stomach, worried you’ve offended him, but he clears up the uncertainty immediately.

“I gotta go but um, Wade’s friends–,” he stops himself, correcting, “our friends are coming over to watch a movie, next week, 7:30. I have no idea what crap they’re going to be watching but… it’s nice. It’ll be nice to be around good people.” Logan doesn’t wait for your answer, simply takes his wallet from his pocket and leaves enough money to cover the bill.

“Wait, no, I invited you,” you protest. “I should–”

“You can pay next time.”

When you nod, he says his goodbyes with a jerk of his head and makes his way to the door.

– – – – –

You see Logan two more times for coffee that week. He never lets you pay.

THE PANTRY

“–but it’s the best one!” Wade protests, DVD in hand.

“They fly a car into space, Wade,” Laura sighs.

“Launched off a jet,” he corrects. Like it helps.

You cover your mouth with the back of your hand, hiding the smile that appears at everyone’s babbling. Unbeknownst to you, you had found yourself invited to a double feature night, with Wade as the self proclaimed DVDJ. The credits had barely started rolling on A Good Day To Die Hard, or Wade had another DVD at the ready. It was met with the same amount of enthusiasm as when he presented the first.

It hadn’t been easy to make yourself go to this tonight. On your way, you’d thought of turning around at almost every step. Of course, that was all before you knew it would be this fun, and that you’d be relieved you hadn’t canceled last minute. Even meeting everyone hadn’t been as bad as you feared.

There’s Peter, Wade’s friend. Ellie, another one of Wade’s friends. Yukio, Ellie’s girlfriend. Laura, Logan’s daughter. Mary Puppins, Wade’s small, disgusting but adorable dog, who had greeted you with equal amounts saliva and enthusiasm, before falling asleep next to the TV, completely unbothered by the commotion. Unlike Althea, Logan and Wade’s blind roommate, who had taken one listen to the gaggle of voices and left. The elusive Vanessa, Wade’s ex-but-we-might-get-back-together you heard about a couple times, wasn’t there.

Logan had been right, it was nice to be surrounded by good people. Especially good people who were… unconventional. It made joining them less complicated, less performative, and as the evening progressed it made you a participant instead of a silent observer. Wade even called you, “good for the group dynamic,” and it made you beam with pride.

“Don’t they have like, rockets attached to the car?” Ellie questions, to which Yukio’s eyebrows knit together.

“Exactly!” Wade exclaims, mistaking her confusion for enthusiasm. “Citizen Kane wishes.”

There’s more grumbling from everyone when Wade pops the DVD into the player, and he grumbles something back about how Logan would back him up if he wasn’t in the bathroom because he, quote unquote, goes way back with some of these dudes.

You’re pretty sure he’s the only one who knows what he’s even talking about.

An empty bowl of popcorn rests in your lap, and as you put it on the table, you notice how sticky and greasy your fingers and palms are. When the opening credits begin to roll, you get up to wash your hands, assuring Wade he doesn’t need to pause the movie before you go.

The apartment’s small, so it isn’t far to the kitchen, but it’s nice to stretch your legs. You can still hear the sounds from movie night; tell-tale action movie music, comments of disbelief and Wade shutting them down. They’re more faint, though, more so when you turn the tap on and wash your hands.

Right as you’re finished, you hear a dull thud. You turn the water off, head tilted and at attention while you dry your hands. There’s another sound, like a muffled groan. It’s coming from the pantry, you realize, noting that the door is slightly ajar. There’s a shing! sound followed by a distressed grunt, and before you know it you’re walking over, wrapping your fingers around the door to pull it open–

You’re not sure what it was you were expecting, but it wasn’t this. Logan’s sitting on the floor, uncharacteristically small, curled up against one of the walls. His chest is heaving, shoulders all but going up to his ears with how he’s trying to draw in breaths. Next to him, his fist is balled against the hardwood, claws buried in the floor.

Fuck.

Dropping to your knees, you wedge yourself between his. “It’s okay, you’re having a panic attack,” you explain, your hands landing on his shoulders with a light shake. “You need to breathe. I’ll help you, just look at me.”

Logan’s head stays tipped down, a deep, rattling breath sailing from his mouth as he curls further in on himself.

“Hey!” you say sharply, cupping his jaw with two hands and tilting his face up, “Look at me.”

Logan’s eyes are wet when they meet yours, moving frantically as they search your face, tears spilling over when he blinks. Something changes in his gaze, like he finally sees it’s you, and his bottom lip begins to tremble. His hand lifts from where it’s buried in the floor, clutching onto your wrist like a lifeline.

“Breathe,” you instruct, trying not to flinch at the sharp claws in front of you. He doesn’t catch on immediately, so you overdo the purse of your lips when you blow out a breath before exaggerating an inhale through your nose, showing him what to do. It starts off shaky, a fresh set of tears falling from Logan’s eyes as he does as you instruct, but after a couple of times you find a rhythm together. The silver between his knuckles slowly disappears. “There you go, good job. Keep going.”

You sit like that, until the wild shift of his eyes stops, his pulse steadies beneath your fingertips, and eventually his eyes close with a deep exhale. His grip on you loosens and you take it as your cue to let go of him, slumping back against the wall opposite him with a sigh of relief. The both of you catch your breath, sitting together in silence until Logan breaks it.

“Came outta nowhere… suddenly I was back there… letting them down.”

“It caught you off guard, it happens–”

“I let them get killed,” he says, voice raw. “They were like– They were my family, they trusted me to be there for them and I… I was too caught up in my own bullshit. I should have been with them, I should be dead with them.”

Logan’s tears still come, but the words almost sound reverent; as if saying them out loud just to punish himself with his own shortcomings is a balm. He’s talking about his team from there, you realize, and something clicks. All this time, you thought this was about him being unable to die due to his mutation, but it’s more than that. It’s shame, remorse, grief, survivor’s guilt, all wrapped into one.

It’s the final piece of your mind puzzle that makes his picture appear.

“How– How can I ever atone for that?” he asks. “How can I ever–”

“Logan, you can't change your past,” you interrupt carefully. “You made your choices and they made theirs, and you honored them by– by…stepping up to the task, by doing what you did with Wade.”

“What if it wasn’t enough?”

“What if it was?” you counter. Your hand finds his knee with a squeeze, before adding, “You did what they would have done. And now you… you need to allow yourself to honor their memory without feeling like you have to destroy yourself to do it. You deserve that.”

Logan blinks at you, eyes still glossy. He looks devastated yet calmer than before, like the emotion is still there, but displaced. For a good while, you sit with him like that while his sniffles lessen and his breathing returns to normal… until there’s a loud explosion coming from the living room. It’s followed by cheers and hollers, and you’re both suddenly reminded of where you are.

“C’mon,” you say, patting Logan’s knee before using it as leverage to haul yourself up with a groan. You give him room by holding the door open for him. “Better get back before we miss the good stuff.”

Still on the floor, Logan exhales heavily. “Think this was the good stuff.”

– – – – –

Three weeks later, on your way to your third movie night, you catch Wade and Vanessa making out in the building hallway.

It stops you dead in your tracks and makes for an awkward meeting with Wade’s mystery woman, who is beautiful but very direct when she asks you what the fuck you’re staring at. Wade certainly has a type when it comes to the company he keeps… He quickly shushes the situation, introducing the two of you, and it immediately makes Vanessa’s expression twist into recognition.

“Nice to meet you,” she says, followed by an apologetic smile.

You respond in kind.

When Wade tugs at her jacket impatiently, they brush past you and make their way to the exit. “See you around!” she throws over her shoulder.

A grin forms on your lips, realizing what you just witnessed, and you race up the stairs. With Wade gone, you’re not sure if there will be a movie, but at least you have gossip to share with your friends.

THE MEETING

April flies by, rolls into May, and thing’s are… okay.

With some help, you find a therapist. It’s good, she’s good, but it’s difficult to be confronted with things that are painful, week after week, and to keep reminding yourself it’s all part of the process you’re going through.

Last week, after a particularly difficult session, you’d left her office being auto-piloted by dark feelings, like they knew exactly when to strike. You had turned corners and crossed streets, wandering as you stewed on everything you’d discussed – like your mind was playing a constant loop of your most painful moments. It was a small miracle you had heard your phone, and that you had the presence of mind to thumb the green button.

You’d answered without saying a word.

“Got any plans?” Logan had asked on the other side of the line.

“No,” you’d replied, coming back to yourself a little bit at the sound of his voice.

“Al’s making her meatballs – she and Wade can’t agree on if they’re famous or infamous. Thought you might like to come. If it tastes like shit, we’ll order in.”

You’d hummed, managing to ask, “What time?”

It had stayed quiet on the other end, and that’s how you’d known he was onto you, could picture the pinch of his brows, his lips forming a thin line. For the first time, you welcomed it—wanted so badly to reach through the phone, shake his shoulders, ask for his help and accept it, like he had done with you weeks ago.

“Sounds to me like now might be good.”

“Yeah,” you had agreed, the constricting tightness in your chest easing up. “Yeah, I’ll be there soon.” You’d released a shuddering breath, ear still pressed to the phone as you took in your surroundings before you auto-piloted yourself to a different destination.

“Logan?”

“Still here.”

“Thank you for calling.”

“‘course. Get here soon, I’ll stay on the phone.”

The afternoon had ended with Logan and yourself allowing Althea to boss you around in the small apartment’s kitchen, rolling meatballs, sharing stories — Althea’s recollection of something that happened to her in her 20s that involved her stealing a police horse while wearing nothing but a thong, made you cry from laughing.

The meatballs were the best you ever had, though you couldn’t be sure if they actually were, or if it was just the taste of the moment that was better than anything had been that day.

Sometime after dinner, Logan had nudged your shoulder to show you a little plastic chip. He flashed it at you long enough that you could read the words one month, before he pocketed it again. Then he suggested you come with him next week.

“I thought it was bullshit too, but it helps,” he’d explained. “Figured I couldn’t continue to drink whatever that stuff is you call coffee to… avoid my problems.”

You contemplated his suggestion. Things were going well for you in that regard, but your therapist had also recommended you go to one of these things, even if it was just for the community aspect of it. It just made it so… official. Your problems, but most of all, your recovery. You weren’t good at keeping promises to yourself, and this felt like a big commitment. Not to mention the speeches and other people’s problems...

But as Logan told you more about it, the location, how it had been for him, you sensed something else between the lines: He wasn’t just asking for you, he was also asking for himself. Maybe… this was his way of telling you he needed some support.

That’s how you find yourself inside a high school gymnasium a week later. It’s as gloomy as you expected. Slick floors, gray fold-out chairs set in neat rows, buzzing lights in a high ceiling, and a slightly raised podium with a whiteboard that reads a welcome message in capital letters.

Unsure of what to do, you follow Logan as he weaves through the crowd to find a seat. As you do, it strikes you that there’s a pretty even distribution of people, with many genders, ages and lifestyles represented. Eventually you take a seat; not quite in the back, but definitely not in the front.

The whole thing goes by in a blur, but where you expected to be overwhelmed, you feel… connected. Here you are, surrounded by people with different backgrounds, different lives, but all their stories have something you can relate to. Where you thought addiction was the common denominator, it’s actually the desire to turn your lives around that unites you the most.

“Before we end the night I want to circle back to last week, when we spoke about goals, or things we want to work towards,” says the woman leading the meeting – you’re ashamed to admit you already forgot her name. “Does anyone want to share something about that?”

It takes a lot to hide your surprise when Logan raises his hand.

“Logan! Come on up!” She sounds as surprised as you feel, beckoning him to her.

The plastic chair he sits on creaks when he stands and his boots squeak against the shiny floor as he does as she asks. He looks so out of place on a podium; both larger than life behind the lectern and lost to the space of the stage. He clears his throat as he retrieves a paper from his pocket and unfolds it while his eyes scan the room until they land on yours. You give him a little nod of encouragement, and it kicks him into gear.

“Not good at this stuff, so I’m going to keep it brief,” he starts.

It earns him a chuckle or two from the other attendees, and you can tell he doesn’t expect it when he looks up from his paper. Your hands clasp together with nerves as you watch him divide his weight from one leg to another, before focussing his gaze back down.

“My life has changed a lot over the past few months. For the first time in a long time, it’s not all bad. Coming here has been good. I’m starting to feel more like I did before–”

He stops his monotonous droning with a frustrated sigh, stuffing the piece of paper in his pocket and sounding considerably more lively after.

“I have people I care about again, and um, it scares me. ‘Cause I don’t want to let them down, and every day I feel like I will because of all of my… past shit.” He pauses and swallows hard before he continues, “They show me so much kindness and understanding, that… that even though it’s fucking hard, I want to be able to see myself the way they see me. And allow them to care about me without feeling like I… have to earn it all the time, without destroying myself to do it.”

You exhale for what feels like the first time in an eternity.

“So, that’s what I’m currently working on.” Logan sighs. “That’s it. Thank you.”

A small applause follows, and you quickly unclasp your hands to join in.

Your palms hurt after.

– – – – –

“It was really nice, what you said in there,” you say, fingers caressing a little plastic chip of your own that you keep safe in your coat pocket. You haven’t felt proud of yourself in a while, but tonight you do.

The evening is nice, the setting sun bathing the city in hues of orange and pink. Your pace is slow and comfortable, your arm occasionally brushing Logan’s when you make room for all the other pedestrians. You didn’t plan on him walking you home, but he insisted and you enjoy the company – it makes you a little sad when you turn onto your street.

Logan scoffs in reply.

“I’m being serious,” you say, knocking your elbow against his arm on purpose now. “It was nice for people to hear a guy like you say those things. I’m proud of you.”

You swear he blushes. “A guy like me, huh?” he asks, almost amused.

It’s your turn to scoff. “You know what I mean.”

“A mutant?” He looks at you from the corner of his eye.

“No,” you say, because it’s not what you meant, but the hint of seriousness in his voice and the fact he’s not entirely wrong make you track back. “Well, maybe that, too, but I meant someone who looks like you, allowing themselves to be vulnerable. Sets a nice example.”

Logan doesn’t shoot your comments down like you expect. Instead, he seems to consider your words, maybe he even silently accepts the compliment. “Think you have some things to say that could set a nice example, too.”

“Maybe next time.”

During the comfortable silence that follows, you’re reminded of something you’ve been considering for weeks now. You hadn’t paid much attention to it since that night, but as you worked through the feelings that got you to that point, the question kept coming back.

“I’ve been wondering something,” you begin. “The night we met... What were you doing at the lookout?”

Logan glances at you, contemplating the question. “When I had just, um, gotten here, it wasn’t always easy to adjust, you know? So I went to all these places that I knew from back there, to ground myself, to see that things may be different, but that they’re not that different.”

“You went there on your side?”

He hums.

“By yourself?”

He hums again.

“Did you…” You hesitate to finish your sentence, both because you’re not sure if you have any right to ask and because you’ve reached your building. You stop walking, and Logan follows your lead.

“No, no, no, I… I can’t explain it, it’s just one of those places I was always drawn to,” Logan says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans with a shrug. His brows furrow suddenly, his mind seemingly lost in something before his eyes flick back to yours. “Think it took me coming over here to find reason in it.”

It’s a thought that’s equal parts sad and lovely.

The silence that follows hangs between you, thick with something you can’t place, but Logan doesn’t look away from you, eyes scanning your face before they land back on yours. You can’t help thinking that maybe this is how he does it, and the question comes out before you can help it,

“Is mind reading part of the X-Gene thing?”

His eyes widen – amusement or surprise, you can’t say. “It can be.”

“Can you do it?”

“No,” he says. “And it’s for the best, fucking hurts when you can’t control it.” Then the start of a smile begins to form on his lips. “‘sides, I don’t know if I would have a lot of… consideration for people’s boundaries.”

It makes you chuckle. “Right. Not to mention some minds are probably a lot – imagine reading Wade’s mind.”

“Hurts to even imagine,” Logan says, gesturing for you to be quiet as he winces, but a smile breaks through anyway. When your shared laughter dies down, he jerks his chin at the building behind you, “This your place?”

“Wha–?” Going home long forgotten in the moment, you glance over your shoulder. “Oh! Yes.”

“All right,” he nods. “See you next week?”

“Definitely,” you reply.

“Oh,” Logan says right before you turn around. “Bring coffee? You owe me.”

You make a face at him. “You don’t have to– I’ll get you something else, I know you don’t like it.”

“I like it when I drink it with you.”

It’s incredibly hard to hide your grin. “Okay, I’ll bring coffee. See you next week, Logan.”

“See you.”

He lingers, watching you climb the steps, waiting until the door opens after you turn your key in the lock. It’s not until you close the door, when you can only make out his silhouette through the patterned glass window in it, that he walks off.

THE SUMMER

Walking back from a very successful job interview, you find yourself on your way to your friends with a big, plastic bottle of coke under your arm. It’s a warm feeling to know that you’ll soon have a job that suits you and that you have people to celebrate with; you look forward to seeing them and sharing this with them.

You’re invited inside with open arms, tight hugs, exclaimed praise and congratulations, and it makes you giddy, a feeling so foreign that you wish you could bottle it up right this instant. With a grin, you shake the Coca Cola bottle, before twisting the cap off. You let out an excited shout as you watch the foam shoot out from the top, bubbles and dark liquid pulsing down the neck of the bottle as cheers surround you.

It’s not champagne, but Althea grumbles about the soda ruining her floors, Wade gets mismatched glasses from the cupboard, and Logan clinks his glass to yours and tells you he’s proud of you.

It’s way better than champagne.

– – – – –

You’re in serious, desperate need of a new place…

The August heat is relentless, and the entire building’s AC isn’t working. It’s with considerable effort that you manage to make your way to your friends’ place, the promise of a constant, cold stream of wind the only thing that keeps you going. But when the front door opens, it isn’t with the welcoming, cool waft of air you were hoping for. Instead, there’s no temperature change, only Wade in his underwear.

“No.” It’s a little embarrassing how you literally pout, but these are desperate times. “Here, too?”

“If it wasn’t this fucking hot I’d be offended by that greeting.” He sighs. “Come in.”

Slightly defeated, you shuffle past the threshold, while Wade lingers. Mary Puppins trots by, an ice-pack wrapped in a towel secured on her back, and you catch a glimpse of Logan exiting the bedroom. He’s in black shorts and a ribbed, sleeveless shirt, and with a desperate groan, he lets himself fall back into the recliner in the living room.

“Tried everything, there’s no fixing that fucking thing.”

Wade makes a face, “Listen, I know what you’re thinking: Wade’s in his underwear, Logan’s emerging from the bedroom… But we didn’t fuck, it’s not that kind of st–”

“Who are you talking to?” you ask from behind him, glancing over his shoulder into the empty hallway.

“No one–You!” The door closes with a bang.

Confused, you walk further into the apartment. “Well, telling me you didn’t is just going to make me think that you did.” Wade darts past you and takes a seat on the couch, but you hang back and lean against the kitchen table to avoid sitting on leather.

Wade suddenly turns to face you. “Did I ever tell you about our time in The Void?”

“Wade,” Logan warns.

Wade’s eyes are sparkling with mischief and you can’t deny how fun it is to indulge the way he pushes Logan’s buttons. It’s a good distraction from how you’re drenched in sweat. And you’re actually curious.

You play your part, letting out a faux-scandalised gasp. “Did you..?”

“Oh, yeah, baby. Wolverine goes both ways. All the ways, really.” He grins. “We’re so alike.”

“Shut up. Both of you.” Logan groans, lacking any real threat as he adjusts in his seat and wipes some sweat off his brow. “It’s too fucking hot to be annoyed.”

It isn’t lost on you he doesn’t deny a thing.

– – – – –

Apartments look weird with nothing in them.

It’s what crossed your mind after you finished packing up your place three days ago, and it crosses your mind now as you look into the open space of your new one from the doorway. It’s a pleasant, late summer day; perfect weather to move, which was on your schedule for today.

“Incoming!” comes from behind you, followed by quick, heavy steps.

You jump aside as Ellie sails through the door, carefully setting a big box marked “Kitchen” down in its designated area, followed by Logan who is balancing three boxes at once. After a beat, Yukio follows, holding a single table lamp in her hand. It takes some effort not to laugh, not just because of how funny it looks, but also because you relate; after all the exhausting late nights you pulled packing up, that’s also the kind of energy you’re bringing to this.

It’s nice of them to help, and instead of shoving that feeling away in fear, you allow yourself to bask in it. You don’t get long, however, because more help has just arrived.

Wade. With Vanessa. Hands interlocked.

It draws everyone’s eyes to the doorway. Wade looks almost bashful, and it baffles you how someone who can say the most insane things unprompted, all without batting an eye, could blush while holding hands with a girl he likes. To his credit, he shakes it off quickly.

“All right, all right,” he says. “Stop ogling me and my girlfriend and get back to work everyone!”

– – – – –

“So it was like an experiment?” you ask, stirring the pot on your stove before taking a careful bite of food off your wooden spoon.

Tonight’s your first night hosting at your new place – Family Dinner, Wade had dubbed it. With fall setting in, you had an idea of what to make, but it still made you nervous to have everyone in your space. Logan saw right through you, offering to come over early to help you prepare.

Once he had arrived, it hadn’t taken long for him to admit he wasn’t much of a cook, so he mainly chopped vegetables as you chatted; you about your new place, Logan about his new job as a boxing instructor, Laura going off to college. You don’t remember exactly how the subject of his adamantium came up, but he was telling you freely about it.

“They needed someone who could regenerate fast enough to bond with it,” he explains. “I was in a dark place. Figured I didn’t have anything to lose if it didn’t work.”

You nod in understanding. “Do you… remember much about it?” You put your spoon down, then put the lid back on the pan.

Logan’s knife stops hitting the cutting board. “Yeah, I… I remember every second of it.”

You look at him then. His eyes are still cast down at his task. Unsure of what to say, you think about what you’d want to hear, and you find it might be best to say nothing at all. Instead, your hand finds his shoulder. Logan’s head turns to you, and you feel like the look you share is more important than anything you could’ve told him. His hand covers yours with an appreciative squeeze.

“But I’m trying to leave that there so I can focus on remembering what happens to me here.” As soon as he’s said it, his hand quickly slips off yours, adding, in a rush, “Here in this timeline, I mean.”

You smile at him, but a strange feeling settles in the pit of your stomach. “That sounds like a great idea.”

– – – – –

“I need your help with something,” you say, balancing your phone between your ear and your shoulder while you turn a birthday card over in your hand. Deciding you don’t like it, you throw it back on the pile of cards and continue your grocery shopping.

“Just say the word,” comes Logan’s reply from the other end.

“I need you to steal something out of the apartment for me.” There’s a silence, and you purposely let the feeling of trepidation linger.

“Am gonna need you to say a little more than just that.”

You laugh, “Wade’s been talking about getting a little frame for his polaroid. You know, the polaroid that you held on to for him in The Void, after the two of you fu–”

“Yes, I know the one,” he interjects with a huff. He pauses, sighs, then says, “Consider it done.”

THE PARTY

“There you are!” Wade shouts after he opens the door. He pulls you into a hug that you return with a wide smile. Over his shoulder, you see that the apartment’s crowded, bustling with people who are there for his birthday party.

“I got you something,” you say, offering the small package to him after you step inside and hang up your coat.

“Wouldn’t have let you in if you hadn’t,” he admits as he closes the door behind you with a bang. Wade takes the package from your hand, shaking it next to his ear but hearing it make no sound in response. “Is it a cock ring?”

You can’t help but laugh at that. “Unfortunately, they were all sold out.”

“They always are,” he says, making a disappointed face. Bottom lip tucked between your teeth, you watch as he tears at the wrapping paper to reveal his gift. He makes another face when he sees it. “Well, now I feel like an asshole. This is really nice.”

“Logan helped me kidnap it,” you explain, pointing at the picture. “And the little red hearts on the frame, well, they’re your color, but they also reminded me of how much you care about people.”

When he looks at you after, it’s with genuine emotion… but Wade is Wade. “Never thought I’d say this, but I’m kind of happy you walked in here barfing up the place.”

A strange mix of embarrassment and gratitude claws its way up your neck. “Thank you.”

“We should take a new one,” he decides suddenly, pointing at the picture. “You both should be in it.” His head turns, watching as Logan approaches the two of you. “But let’s be realistic, his shoulders are so broad he wouldn’t even fit in the frame, much less his bul–”

“Stop talking about my dick, Wade,” Logan snaps.

“I was saying only good things! Jeez, so sensitive…” Wade turns, putting the picture on the kitchen table behind him where it joins all the other gifts.

“Did he like it?” Logan asks, voice low.

“Yeah,” you smile.

“Good,” he replies. “Was a nice idea.”

You eye all the other gifts, some clearer who they are from than others. “What did you get him?”

The corner of Logan’s mouth lifts as he points at a roll of silver duct tape with a small red bow on top, making you fix them both with a confused look.

“It’s an inside joke,” Logan shrugs.

Wade’s eyes sparkle, but in a rare turn of events, he doesn’t elaborate, only adds, “It’s classified. I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.”

“And I have top level clearance, lieutenant,” you reply. You exhale through your nose in an amused laugh when Wade makes a surprised face that indicates you’ve gotten the reference. “What, you thought a Tom Cruise impression could save you?”

“No,” he grins, and as if on cue, the doorbell rings, “but that can. Birthday Boy duty calls, but I want it on record that I could do Top Gun, easily, while Tom would never be able to pull off Deadpool.”

– – – – –

The party settles into something comfortable, soft music in the background of lively chatter. Yukio has just finished telling you about a Professor Layton cosplay she’s doing when you excuse yourself, both your glass and your social battery empty enough to look for a momentary out. Finding your way through the crowd, you make it to the kitchen, filling your glass with water and taking a few sips.

While you do, the music suddenly gets louder, taking over for the steady chatter. You turn around, leaning back against the kitchen counter, and watch as Wade drags Vanessa to the middle of the apartment. People make room for them, exchanging looks while Wade wraps his arm around her waist, takes her hand in his and begins dancing with her. With a laugh, she slaps him on the chest, before settling into his embrace anyway. Some follow their lead, but your eyes stay glued to them. Wade spins Vanessa under his arm, the smile on her face bright enough to light up the entire room. In return, he looks at her with so much adoration he’s almost glowing himself. It fills you with warmth to see the both of them so happy.

It hits you how you haven’t thought about this in a while. You’d decided long ago that the future wasn’t something you had to worry about, but suddenly you’ve arrived, like you’re in some alternate reality where your future is now, and that it would be nice to share it with someone. The sting behind your eyes catches you a little off guard; mixed feelings of time that has been taken from you, but also of time you’re getting back with the life you now have.

For a while now, you’ve suspected the thing inside you is gone, that there isn’t much to feed off of anymore. If it is, it would make sense that there’s room for something else.

Wade and Vanessa make it look easy, even though you know it’s been far from easy for them. You suppose that’s what it’s like, especially as you get older. It’s less about big gestures, more about small ones; someone to make you laugh, to spin you under their arm, who knows how to apologize, seeks you out during your quiet moments–

“Do you dance?”

You startle, head turning towards the voice next to you–

“Logan,” you breathe.

It’s like you’re seeing him for the very first time. He’s standing so close, almost touching you but not quite, heat radiating off of him nonetheless. The plaid shirt he’s wearing isn’t even buttoned and still the fabric is pulled taunt over his shoulders and the thick of his biceps. He’s grinning, his nose pulled up in an adorable scrunch, the corner of his eyes crinkling - you never noticed before, but there’s a hint of green between the hazel.

It hits you so suddenly that you have to grab the counter to keep your balance. Everything that’s been happening, that you’ve been feeling, all the times something happened between the two of you that you couldn’t put your finger on… it falls into place with a well-timed, completely unrelated question and a glance at him.

You like him.

All you can do is blink at him, dazed, unable to speak, even more so when he leans in a little closer, mistaking your silence for misunderstanding. “I mean, not that I– You and Wade were doing a bit earlier, it’s a reference to–” Logan straightens suddenly, his expression slipping into concern as he watches you, “Are you okay?”

You feel warm, so aware of all his attention on you that you’re afraid he might be able to see your pulse blink rapidly below the angle of your jaw. “Yeah,” you reply, voice hoarse, looking away from him to blink the leftover wetness from earlier out of your eyes.

Anxiety claws its way into your chest, your mind coming to terms with what it’s puzzled together at such a sickening pace that there’s an immediate knot in your stomach. The party has instantly lost its shine, and you look down at the glass in your hand, gulping down its contents. You need to be alone with your thoughts, you need to think about this before–

“I gotta go,” you say in such a rush that it almost sounds like one word while you set your glass on the kitchen counter.

Logan’s eyes follow you as you push past him, grab your coat and reach for the doorknob. “Wait–”

“Bye, Logan.”

THE TABLE

Once at home, you change into something more comfortable, your mind racing while you peel your party clothes off, toss your bra aside, change into an oversized shirt and plop down on the couch after.

Despite having already established that your mind was occupied with other things for a very long time, it’s laughable in hindsight that you never noticed your feelings before. It’s not like you don’t know what Logan’s like; he’s kind, funny, supportive…

…broad, handsome.

Shit.

Why did you have to come to your senses? Things were better before that moment. Logan’s your friend, whom you met in the most unconventional way possible. It’s ridiculous to want more than what you have when what you have is good. Or to think that he would want more.

But he might.

Because you may have been occupied with depression, anxiety, recovery, and everything in between, but you were there; you remember the time you spent with him, the way he looks at you, drinks the coffee you like, laughs at your jokes, seems to know exactly when to call you, seeks you out in a crowd.

But it would change everyth–

Actually, not a whole lot would change, if you really think about it. You already see him all the time, you’ve seen the very worst of each other, overcome a great deal of hardship together, you make each other better, his friends are your…

friends.

You didn’t say goodbye to Wade.

The thought comes suddenly. It was his birthday party and you didn’t even say goodbye to him before you left. You’re a terrible friend. Dread sinks into your limbs, and you reach for your phone to type out a quick, apologetic message. Just as you hit send, there’s a series of loud knocks on the door, and it makes you freeze up where you’re seated.

“Are you in there?” a muffled voice calls out.

It’s Logan, you realize, and a plethora of fake excuses as to why you left the party early present themselves to your mind as you quickly make your way over to the door.

The first thing you notice when you open it is that he’s dripping wet from the rain, clothes soaked through and his hair flat. There’s a deep furrow in his brow, and it’s different from how he usually looks; he looks actually mad.

“Logan, is everything–” you begin, concerned, but he cuts you off by pushing past you and letting himself inside, boots stomping against the wooden floor.

“Jesus, here you are. Why’d you leave like that, huh? Saying goodbye, your eyes all wet. I went after you and you were fucking gone, it scared the shit out of me. Didn’t see the car at the lookout, but I went to look for you anyway, and you weren’t in the water, thank fuck–”

“Wait, you went–” you pause, the mental image of Logan running out into the rain to the cliffside making your eyes widen. “Did you think..?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, shoulders slumping.

“Shit.” Your heart is racing when you step closer to him. “No, I wasn’t… I don’t want that anymore.”

“Then what the fuck was that all about?”

The desperation and misunderstanding in his eyes is unmistakable, and you hate that you made him feel like that. “I was just… I needed a moment, after seeing Wade and Vanessa like that,” you say, trying to provide yourself with more time to think, unsure if you already want to broach the subject of why you really left.

“You… like Wade?” Logan asks, his frown deepening.

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you at the unexpected question. “No. I mean, I adore Wade, but not like that. He’s with Vanessa.”

The answer does nothing to change his expression. “And you want it to be different?”

His line of questioning confuses you. “I– No. Logan, this isn’t about Wade or Vanessa, but it’s about… what they have. Something that’s real, but imperfect, and that’s what actually makes it perfect, and I just… I was in a really bad place for such a long time, I didn’t give myself time to even think about… I haven’t felt myself wanting for so long,” your gaze flicks up to his. “Seeing them just made me realize there’s so much left that I still want.”

Internally, you curse the way he always makes you say too much, because you can see the understanding wash over his features. His expression softens, the balled fists by his side loosen, and his eyes search you, as if to see if that thing you want is him. There’s no doubt he finds his answer; you’re ever the open book when it comes to him, and your pulse quickens while he silently observes you.

Logan reaches for you so quickly that you can barely prepare for it, a hand on your waist to pull you in, another on your cheek to tip your face up and guide your mouth to his. A shaky breath sails out through your nose when your lips meet, your eyes fluttering shut and your palms sliding up his damp but warm chest to curl in the soaked fabric of his shirt. It’s eager, and the angle is off, but it’s quickly adjusted with a brief parting and a near in-sync tilt of your heads in the other direction.

Logan pulls away, but stays close, and you almost feel his words before hearing them, “Been… thinking about doing that.”

“Really?” you say, breathless and amused. “When did you, um, start wanting to do that?”

“Few weeks ago–Fuck, no, more than that. Almost did, that day after your first meeting, after you told me you were proud of me,” he admits. “But I wanted to give you time, space. Wasn’t sure if you felt–”

“I do. Didn’t realize it before, but I fucking do,” you assure him, another tug on his collar trying to pull him back to you. His admissions, knowing he wants you too, only make you want him more, like you have to make up for all the time you wasted not doing this sooner.

Logan’s hand on your waist holds you off. “I just don’t know how to… how to be this,” he confesses softly.

“That’s okay,” you say, your nose brushing against his. “I don’t either.”

He inches forward like he intends to kiss you again, but seems to reconsider, swallowing hard before saying, “Wouldn’t be the first time we figure it out together, huh?”

The words make you surge forward to close the gap between you, your brows creasing, attempting to convey everything you feel with one press of your lips to his. Logan’s hand slides from your cheek to the back of your head, pulling you to him in a way that seems to mirror your efforts. Something lights up inside you, something you lost long ago, and it makes you bold, opening your mouth under his to get a taste of him.

His grip on you tightens with a groan, spurring him into action and walking you backwards into the dark kitchen, the only illumination the slivers of moonlight that come through the kitchen window. You jolt when the back of your thighs hit the table, before you’re scrambling to get on top of it, two hands at your waist helping to hoist you up. Your thighs widen to make room for Logan’s while you push the green flannel shirt off his shoulders, struggling to peel it off his arms to the point you have to break away with a laugh to really get it right. It lands on the floor with a wet sound, before he reaches for the back of his shirt, curling his fingers around the collar and pulling it over his head.

Logan’s sturdy, warm to the touch and surprisingly pliant when you can’t help but let your fingers flit along the corded muscles and protruding veins while he toes off his shoes. His hand flies to the back of your head to fist the hair at the nape of your neck when your lips explore, find his jaw, and travel down his neck. A soft sound sails from his mouth, a barely audible moan that carries over into something deeper when your lips brush a spot just above his clavicle. Using the grip he has on you, he drags you back up to his mouth, doing some more of his own exploring when his warm tongue strokes against your own.

“You’re so good to me,” he murmurs with a buck of his hips against yours. The thrill of having him pushed up against you, half-hard, warm, full of promise, makes you moan, teeth clacking against his when you do. “Always so fucking good to me.”

It makes you want to protest, from the very moment you met, he’s the one always being that to you, but it dies on your tongue when Logan’s flicks over the tips of his fingers. His impatient hand finds its way between you, disappearing under the waistband of your underwear and stretching the material to make room. His name comes out as a whimper when his spit-slick fingers easily glide through the soft skin between your legs. He curses, another buck of his hips pressing his hand closer against you, and your kiss turns messy and uncoordinated when he dips one finger to touch your clit.

“This okay?” Logan asks when you gasp, drawing languid circles between your legs.

“Yeah, it’s just– Oh, god.” Two thick fingers find your entrance, swirling the wetness there around. “Been a while,” you manage to finish your sentence.

“I’ll make it good for you,” he promises. “You want that?”

All you can do is nod, and Logan presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth before he pulls his hand back. It’s paired with a wet sound that makes your cheeks heat, more so when you watch him get on his knees and yank you to the edge of the table, the quick turn of events and the casual display of his strength making you a little dizzy. Logan’s nose presses into the fabric between your legs with a sharp inhale, before quick, practiced moves work your underwear down your legs. One eager hand places a thigh on his shoulder as another holds you at the bend of your knee. You lie back, arching as you hurriedly pull your t-shirt over your head, leaning up on your elbows just in time to watch him bend down.

The feeling of Logan’s hot breath sailing out over your sensitive skin alone is enough to make you gasp. He drags his lips and nose across your folds, easing you into it as much as his lack of patience will allow before tasting you with a swipe of his tongue. It isn’t tentative or testing, but firm and sure, and clearly for his enjoyment as much as yours when he repeats his action and groans into you. The vibrations of it and the gentle scratch of his facial hair only add to the liquid feeling in the pit of your stomach. Letting go of your knee, he curls a strong arm around your thigh, spreading you open then pulling you flush against him while he sucks your clit into his mouth.

“Oh, that feels really good,” you spur him on, your heel digging in between his shoulder blades. You watch him with hooded eyes, shifting your weight to one elbow so you can cup your breast with a whine.

Logan’s eyes slip shut in focus, working his tongue up and down your clit and making you arch into his mouth. Reaching for you blindly, he slides a hand over yours on your chest, fingers fitting between your own and squeezing while his tongue slides lower to lick over where you’re dripping for him. He lets out an appreciative hum as he repeats the move until your thighs clench and shake around his ears. His tongue dips inside you, curling up against the slick walls of your cunt, and his name tumbles from your mouth, soft, pleading, making his eyes shoot open to meet yours.

The sight of him looking up at you like that from between your thighs, with dark eyes, the tip of his nose glistening with your wetness, will probably haunt you for the rest of your life.

Logan shushes your begging, pulling away and watching as your pussy clenches at the sudden lack of attention. “Let me give you something to come on,” he murmurs, before fitting a finger at your entrance. It meets absolutely no resistance, a second finger sliding inside with just as much ease, and he sets a steady, deep rhythm before his mouth returns to your clit.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck–” Your head rolls back between your shoulder blades, mouth open on a silent gasp, but he draws your attention back to him with a curl of his fingers, finding a spot that makes you go rigid for a second. It all builds so fast, so suddenly. The hand on your chest shakes Logan’s off, finding the crown of his head and sliding your fingers into his hair. He’s too strong to really make purchase, but you try anyway, using your grip to roll your hips against him. The sound of his groans, every flick of his tongue and every squelching, delicious curl of his fingers all send you closer and closer, until his hand presses down on your belly, and…

“Logan,” you manage, voice sharp with a warning that comes too late when he makes you tumble over the edge.

It’s so much after so long, the force of it making you fall back against the table, something between a gasp and a shout tearing from your throat. He holds you tighter, to keep you in place and guide the desperate roll of your hips against his face. Your orgasm quickly slips into something bordering on oversensitivity, and you let out a dry sob that makes you slap a hand over your mouth when Logan’s tongue travels a path from where his stilled fingers disappear inside you, up to your clit. He stays there, gentle, uncharacteristically patient as you slowly come to a twitching halt.

He’s a blur when he comes back into your field of view after standing up, towering over you to watch as you come back down to earth. Becoming sharper with every heavy blink of your eyes, you notice the smile on his face is smug, that the hair surrounding it is a shade darker than the rest. You sigh softly when his fingers slip from you, the feeling of them sliding wetly over your clit making you tremble, but his touch doesn’t leave you completely when he moves to stroke the outside of your thigh.

“How’s that?” Logan dares to ask.

“Hmm, no speaking yet,” you protest.

Reaching for him, you slide both of your arms up over his broad shoulders, wrists crossed in the nape of his neck to pull him in for another kiss. It’s slow, and deep, the taste of yourself shared between the two of you as your tongue slides over his. The table protests with a creak when his hands land beside your head, more when his chest pushes down on yours and you wrap a leg around his waist to get him even closer. The hair scattered across his broad chest teases your nipples and the hard ridge of his cock strains against his jeans and presses up against your slick cunt. It makes your jaw go slack, stoking your desire and making you burn with the need to make him feel as good as he just made you feel.

With a push against his shoulders, you take him along as you sit upright again, accompanied by another creak of the table. Mouth still on his, you slide a hand down to cup him over his jeans, the weight of him against your wide open palm making you pulse. Logan grunts when your hand squeezes, and your mouth slides off his, kissing his jaw, sliding back down his neck. He cups your head, keeping you in place while watching your hand.

“Feels nice,” he husks, voice so deep it makes you want to push him aside and get on your knees for him, but then he asks, “Are you gonna let me fuck you?”

“God, yeah,” you say with a nod, watching as the mark you just sucked into his neck disappears far too soon while you continue rubbing him over the denim. “Want you inside of me.”

“Jesus–Then get it out,” he instructs, guiding your hand to his belt.

If you weren’t so turned on you might wince at how eager you are, at how quickly you tug the buckle open and pull the leather free. Logan groans when it relieves some of the pressure, letting his forehead rest against yours. Together, you watch your hands make quick work of his zipper, your fist closing around his cock while your other hand works his pants down until he can kick it off and under the table.

He fits nicely in your palm, heavy and ready, sticky at the tip. With a purse of your lips, you let your spit trickle down in a straight line, and he hisses when it hits him. Your free hand flattens against his stomach, sliding down along the hard planes of his body and following the vein just below his belly button down, until it meets your other hand that loosely strokes up to the root of his cock. Logan arches into you when you stroke back up with a tighter grip, all but getting on his toes to chase your touch. Using both of your hands to get all of him, you twist your fists in opposite directions once, twice, before circling his tip with one thumb. Your other hand curls around the underside of him, dragging some of your spit down to his balls with the tips of your fingers.

“F–fuck,” Logan stutters when you play with him there, cupping him in your hand as well as you can and squeezing his shaft when it twitches in response. His eyes slip shut as his palms land on the outside of your thighs with a smack, fingertips digging into your soft skin.

It makes you jolt, then grin, giddy from the sharp sting and the power you have over his pleasure. “How’s that?” you echo with a teasing lilt.

He does have the words to answer, albeit a little slurred, “‘S good, sweetheart.”

The nickname tacked on at the end takes root in your chest, blooms bright and makes you ache. You translate your appreciation into tightening your strokes and spreading more of the precome that steadily leaks from his tip around.

“C’mere,” Logan says softly, taking over for you with one hand, giving himself a few strokes before pushing your thighs further apart and shuffling closer to line himself up with you.

You’re so wet that the head of his cock is practically already slipping inside of you, but your hand clasps around his bicep when he really starts to breach you. After giving you a shallow little thrust, his hips draw back, before pushing a little further, gauging your reaction.

“Just like that,” you sigh, watching the careful slide of him in and out of you. “Keep going just like that.”

He gets you opened up like that, giving you a little more with each wind of his hips. Logan’s hand finds the back of your neck, his palm splaying out and keeping you close enough that you’re practically sharing air with each sigh and moan. Eventually, your knees have to draw up to his flanks in order for him to keep going and you wind a leg around his hip to close the final distance with a press of your heel into one of the firm cheeks of his ass. A long breath sails out from between your lips when you pulse around him, slowly adjusting to having all of him filling you up. You can tell he has to put considerable effort into letting you, wood groaning below you when he clutches onto the table.

“Fuck, it’s a lot,” you say, and when he grins against your mouth you can’t help but kiss him again – just a peck. The hand at the back of your neck squeezes in reassurance as he continues to let you lead, and it’s a small gesture, but it makes you feel warm all over. You melt into it his touch, your body relaxing as the pleasure of the stretch of him takes over.

“Can stay like this a little longer if you want,” he says, but the strain in his voice says something different.

“Hmm, no, you can move.” You’ve barely said it, or his hips are drawing back, and it would have made you laugh if it didn’t feel so fucking incredible. He almost slips from you completely, before sliding all the way back inside with a grunt. The table scrapes along the floor, and vaguely you register one of your chairs falling over in the process. When he repeats the action, the furniture squeaks again below you. “Just don’t break my table.”

The sound he makes in response is non-commital, and when he fucks back into you and nudges against something wonderful, you can’t say you disagree. Grabbing hold of his shoulder and using the leg you have wrapped around him, you roll your hips against his, and he begins to meet you halfway until you work up a rhythm together. The table protest further, a shrill sound filling the room after each slap of skin–

With a frustrated groan and accompanied by a startled squeal from yourself, Logan lifts you. The surprised laugh that threatens to bubble up your throat quickly morphs into something heavier that comes out with a rasp when he makes it all look unusually effortless. Attempting to brace yourself, you sling one arm over his shoulders, the other winding around his neck so you can rake your fingers through the hair at the back of his head. It’s a struggle to keep your balance, a helpless heel digging into the back of his thigh to keep yourself upright. Quick to aid, Logan slides an arm under you, fingers splayed across your ass as your knee hangs off the inside of his elbow. He turns a quarter, presses you up against the wall, and doesn’t miss a beat as he continues fucking you.

“Jesus, Logan,” you say, voice almost a growl and barely recognizable as your own.

With your new position, you can see him better, the both of you lit from the side with the window to your left. The moonlight paints him in a tapestry of light and shadows when the wind blows through the tree branches, momentarily amplifying the glint in his eyes and the flex of his chest and arms like a strobe light.

The different angle he finds with his cock is a little too good, the feeling of the thick base of him stretching you open with each thrust making you dazed and talkative, “It’s so deep like this, can–oh, my god–can feel you everywhere.”

Logan curses at your words, squeezing your waist and pushing you harder against the wall. There’s a deep-voiced appreciation of how good you feel in there too that doesn’t quite make it from your ears to your brain because somehow he’s still speeding up. His head ducks down to your chest, mouthing at the soft skin of your breast before closing his lips around a nipple.

You whine, using the grip you have on him to roll your hips against the piston of his while you pant into his crown. Though the sound he makes against you when you do it makes you beam with pride, it’s not something you can keep up for very long, your hold on him slacking after a few thrust until you slip back against the wall.

Logan pulls back when you do, tightening his hold on you while his eyes glide from the bounce of your tits that glisten with his spit to down between your bodies.

“Touch yourself,” he instructs, grunting when you immediately do as he says by bringing a hand down between where you’re joined. Your fingers spread in a V-shape around where he fucks into you, collecting some of your mixed arousal before using it to rub your clit. “That’s it, sweetheart, fuck, make yourself come.”

You nod, rapidly feeling everything zeroing in on the fingers that draw tight circles over your clit and that spot deep inside you that Logan’s finding with every thrust. “Yeah, fuck, I’m–Don’t stop, don’t stop, please–”

He’s coming before you are, tucking his head below your chin to let out a deep, drawn out moan against your neck that ends with his teeth grazing your skin. It’s so much, the pressure of him grinding himself into you with twitching, barely there thrusts, the heat of his release as it fills you where you’re gripping him like a vice, and as your fingers still twirl between your legs you come, and come, and come.

The leg you have wrapped around his hip slips off, but before your toes can even scrape the floor, he catches your thigh, cupping your ass with both hands now to keep you up, and close. With a soft, satisfied sound, you let your forehead fall against Logan’s shoulder, tasting the salt of his sweat with every light press of your lips there.

It takes you a moment to notice your back has come off the wall, that Logan is walking the both of you into your living room and to the couch. He bends his knees, dropping you between your pillows, where you land with as much grace as you can muster considering you feel like you’re made of lead. The soft couch is pleasant against your body, your sore limbs sinking into the cushions.

Logan fits himself between your legs again, widening them around his broad shoulders before his lips find your overstretched thighs, leaving marks and kisses up up up, until his tongue slips back into your pussy. Your back arches off the couch, hands shooting down to fist his hair with a whine while Logan’s hand fists his cock. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you can tell he’s already getting hard again, and his tongue is making something swirl low in your belly that’s making you pant, and...

It’ll be a long night.

THE PEARL

It had taken a lot of convincing and downright groveling, but Wade had allowed you to bring a movie for movie night. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust your taste in movies, his main gripe with your choice was that it wasn’t a Christmas movie – mandatory for December. Wade’s right, but after you explained that it’s the movie you always watch at the end of the year (and after Logan and yourself conceded that yes, his birthday was technically also your anniversary) he’d agreed.

Now that you’re actually watching it, you suspect he’s genuinely invested, because after a handful of comments about The Hulk, he’s been quiet for longer than you’ve ever heard him be quiet.

In the scene on the screen, Mark Ruffalo’s character Dan and Keira Knightley’s character Gretta are taking an evening walk around New York City, dancing, singing and sharing music with each other as they do. Eventually, they stop and sit next to each other on some steps, watching as the city continues to move without them.

“...the most banal scenes are suddenly invested with so much meaning, ya know? All these banalities, they're suddenly turned into these… these beautiful, effervescent pearls,” Dan says, wistfully looking on as New York bustles around him. “I gotta say, as I've gotten older these pearls are just… becoming increasingly more and more rare to me.”

The arm Logan has slung around your shoulder tightens, and the couch creaks softly as you lean further into his side, your cheek squishing against his warm chest.

“More string than pearls?” Gretta inquires with a frown.

“Yeah. You got to travel over a lot more string to get to the pearls.” There’s a pause as he turns to look at her, “This moment is a pearl, Gretta.”

She gives him a hint of a smile. “It sort of is, isn't it?”

“All this has been a pearl,” he admits, sharing a look with her.

A finger curls under your chin, tipping your head up until your eyes meet Logan’s. He gives you the same look you just saw on the screen, his eyes soft as they take you in, the hint of green between the hazel illuminated by the light of the television. A thumb swipes over your bottom lip fondly, before he leans down to kiss you.

It takes a lot of string indeed.

Sometimes even interdimensional string.

– – – – –

(THE END)

If you made it all the way here, thanks for reading. Seriously. Please come say hi and/or share your thoughts via ask/messages/reblogs/whatever you feel comfortable with. I hope to share more writing soon - emphasis on hope, I'm not making promises, just an educated wish.

And lastly, if you're struggling with mental health problems, please don't wait for a handsome stranger to sweep you off your feet. I know from experience that it can be incredibly difficult to reach that hand out, but I also know from experience that things can get better. There are ways to get help and you deserve to get help 🫂

#dani writing #logan howlett x reader #wolverine x reader #logan howlett x you #wolverine x you #james logan howlett x reader #worst wolverine x reader #logan x reader #x men x reader #worst wolverine #wolverine fanfiction #wolverine smut

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daylighted · 3 months ago

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meet jensen ackles, your regular hollywood washup who weaseled his way back into your father's life after ghosting him for twenty years. to be fair, he had a career he was trying to pursue! a man with many dreams and wasted talent, jensen has a handful of bad habits keeping from reaching the potential that everyone in his life reminded him that he was abandoning. this comes as no surprise, though, considering he's only ever existed in your mind as a warning story; never a face or presence to connect the name to, just the foreboding tales of his mistakes in college. don't be like jensen, your father would warn . . . but he never warned you about liking jensen.

sneak into his room? YES | NO

navigate the trigger warnings by which title has the aforementioned number by it !

part one - friend from college ¹ your dad's estranged best friend from college, jensen, comes back into his life to find you, his daughter, as an unexpected factor in it.

part two - swallow the smoke ² it wasn't supposed to be more than a one-time thing. a little slip in your judgment. but jensen seems to have taken more of a liking to you than he thought.

part three - bite the pillow ¹ the last two days with jensen are going to be torturous if he keeps giving you those eyes across the room, right under your dad's nose.

part four - hide away the signs ¹ jensen says goodbye, but he's not going without a taste, and definitely not without a way and a promise to see you again.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤreply with ☠ if you want added to the taglist ! <3

#dahlia's ☆ journal #dad's best friend!jensen #best friend’s daughter!reader #jensen ackles au #jensen ackles #jensen fucking ackles #jensen ackles series #jensen ackles angst #jensen ackles smut #jensen ackles x reader #jensen ackles x you

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lieslab · 20 days ago

Text

It's not like me to be so mean, you're all I wanted

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Pairing: Chan X gn reader

Summary: Your battle with substance abuse causes your boyfriend to pull away from you.

Genre: Angst

Word Count: 3.6k

Addiction, anxiety, and depression resources

Trigger warning: Mentions of drugs, alcohol, vomit, overdosing via fentanyl, depression, anxiety, and death.

A/N: Requestee, this was one of the hardest things I've written in a while. There's a high and then a fall, plus the way addiction can affect the people you love. Addiction is difficult, but there is always hope and plenty of things to assist in one's recovery <3

_ _ _

“So that’s it? You’re leaving me? You’re just like everyone else! You promised you’d stay! You swore you were different from the rest!” The words laced with hurt. You stood teary-eyed in front of your boyfriend, trying to understand.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, causing his adam’s apple to pulse. He blinked rapidly and his head shook. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it, Chan?”

“I promised I’d stay and you promised to get better. You said you’d be open to getting help. You’d try. That was part of our agreement and you’re not trying.”

“I am trying!”

“Trying to do what?” His voice raised and then softened. “Kill yourself? Because that’s all I see. You’re being reckless and I have begged and begged and begged you to stop. I collapsed to my knees and begged. I’ve pleaded, I tried, and you won’t stop.”

“That’s not fair!”

“And neither is watching the love of your life waste away to drugs and alcohol!” He snapped. “Do you think I want to come home after work and find you unconscious? To find you laying in a pool of your own vomit!”

Your bottom lip trembled. Each arm curled around your torso, trying to silently console yourself, but it wasn’t working. The lump in your throat expanded and tension grew. You didn’t know what to say.

“I’m not going to stand here and wait for you to die. I’ve tried telling you. I’ve tried to get you help. I don’t know what else to do.”

“I’m trying,” you repeated weakly. “I’m really trying, Chan, but it’s so hard.”

“Trying to what? You’re not going to rehab. You’re not interested in support groups. You won’t talk to any kind of professional. Do you know what happens to people who can’t stop? They die! Fentanyl is laced in their drugs and then they die! They overdose on whatever they’re using and then they die! Why can’t you understand that it all ends with you dead?”

“That’s not true! My dealer would never-”

“If your dealer really cared about you, they wouldn’t be providing you with such substances!”

“Well, maybe I just want to fucking die!”

A broken laugh fell from his lips. The tops of his cheeks reddened from crying. He sniffled and wiped his eyes. “You don’t think I don’t know that? I have tried so hard to help you, but I can’t help someone that doesn’t want to be helped.”

“C-Chan…”

He shook his head and spun around. Panic caused your heart to skip a beat. You followed him, rushing forward to grab his hand. “Chan, please. I’m sorry, I’ll try harder and I-”

“It’s too late.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve already made arrangements with the guys. I’m staying with them until I can figure out where to go. I’ll come get the rest of my stuff when I can.”

Desperate fingers reached out for him, but he pulled away. Your sense of stability tilted, the floor caved beneath you, and your heart burst. You watched in a mix of shock in silence as he headed to the front door. He refused to make eye contact with you as he wiggled into his shoes.

He didn’t even bother tying them properly. So desperate to get away from your darkness, he fled like a thief in the night. In his hands, he carried your beating heart with him. You didn’t know how to be whole without him. You didn’t know how to be whole without substances, either.

At some point, your sense of self deflated and you were lost. Miserable and depressed, unsure of who you were, too anxious to consider the future, too sad to escape the past, you felt doomed. Trapped and caged in; a prison sat over your head.

And substances? They made you feel so alive. They took you to a place where the past didn’t haunt you. Your thoughts didn’t feel like a hammer to your head. Your skull didn’t crack and your brain didn’t ooze.

Light as a feather, free as a bird, and as empty-headed as a jellyfish; you floated in the current of substances. Brain chemicals altered and you changed. Chan changed too, but you ignored it. How could you give up that feeling? The feeling of freedom, when your life stopped feeling like a punishment, and it started to feel like a fuzzy, warm bliss.

Some of them made you feel like a shooting star. Bright and powerful. The star of the show, the intense high, spiked energy, a boost of euphoria. The world worked in your favor.

Others turned you into a never-ending machine. Hours slipped into days and the energy never stopped. Sleep weaned away. You could talk forever, solve any problem, and anything was possible.

A soft velvet coddled you. Alcohol made the floor tip and tilt. Giddily and giggly, you walked around with unsteady limbs. Bumping into walls, flopping on furniture, letting the days blend and melt together.

It all felt so good on the inside, but it took a toll on the outside of your body. Flushed skin, dilated pupils, and wide eyes, you looked unrecognizable. Fingers twitched, the body worked on its own accord, trying to process whatever substance you placed in it.

Brush your nose with your fingers once. Twice. The world turned crystal clear. You knew who you were. You knew what you wanted. Every word from your mouth turned magnetic. You finally knew what to say, who to be, it was a handcrafted enlightenment from God.

Another day, another injection in a forearm. A heart hammered in your chest, pounded against your lungs, but each beat felt like clarity. A stomach growled for food, but despite it, you weren’t hungry. You never were. You needed to move.

You smiled at Chan. You smiled, but he knew. He always knew when you looked at him like that. Purple eye bags, empty eyes, a smile that felt a little too unnatural. Your eyes didn’t scrunch up like they normally did. You pretended to be fine, but he knew you were using. If he couldn’t see it, he could smell it, and if he couldn’t smell it, he could feel it.

You turned into a ticking time bomb. Days blurred together, but the drugs made you tick. You became everything all at once and then nothing at all. Because the high never lasts forever, so you crashed. Hard.

The inside of your head, a constant pressure. A water balloon grew and burst. A half-eaten sandwich sat without a plate on the marbled counter. Withering lettuce, odd chunks of tomatoes, deli meat that lost its moisture overnight. In the middle of your path to greatness, you fell and each time it ended, the emptiness came back. Piles of wrinkled dirty clothes littered the bedroom floor.

A quiet silence after a storm. The shattering realization that without the high, without the thrum, you were nothing. Broken. Empty. A walking shell of a human and you didn’t know who you were. It all came crawling back. The nerves. The anxiety. The stress.

Pale skin and shaky fingers. Your stomach twisted in pain from hunger. Your head pounded and you laid slumped over in the bed. Unsure if you could get up without feeling nauseous, you lied there. You tried to swallow, but your mouth turned cotton and became dryer than the sahara desert.

Tired and soaked in a light sweat. Your jaw ached from clenching it so hard the night before. During those times, you knew you should have tried to eat something, but you didn’t. You crashed, you fell, and you hit the ground hard. An empty sleep pulled you back under.

You tried to stabilize your reality, but it became disoriented. Distant. Hazy. Your clear cognitive abilities turned to mush. Drug paraphernalia sat in the distance. Chan’s mellow voice floated softly from somewhere.

He alway provided a tenderness that you didn’t deserve. You lied straight through your teeth. You didn’t try. You didn’t try anything because you loved the electricity and the buzz. You chased the high time and time again. You’d been chasing it for so long, the withdrawal would be hell.

So you snorted, you injected, and you drank. You floated, you crashed, you numbed your emotions, and you threw up acidic stomach acid the next morning. You didn’t know how to stop it. You didn’t want it to stop.

When did it become wrong to crave peace?

~ ~ ~

The sight of your face down body called Chan’s heart to sink. Alone with you in the bathroom, you didn’t move along the tile floor. A faint sigh escaped his nose before he reached down, gently shaking your shoulder. “Baby, wake up.”

He gently shook you again, but you didn’t respond. When you didn’t move, he pushed your stiff shoulder, forced you onto your back, and froze. You laid with your eyes wide open and glassy. Cracked lips parted, tinted with a faint blue hue. In a panic, he shook you harder, but you didn’t respond.

He couldn’t breathe, let alone think. Each breath caught in his throat. He blinked rapidly, trying to pull himself away from the sight of you. “No, no, no.” He grabbed your other shoulder and shook.

Your head shifted slightly, but your empty eyes didn’t blink. Bloodshot with bursted capillaries, your chest didn’t lift and fall as it should have. Shaky fingers reached up and softly patted your cheeks.

“Hey! You’re freaking me out. Wake up. Wake up! Baby, no! No, no, no.” Tears leaked down his cheeks. “Don’t leave me here! Don’t do this to me!”

He ripped his phone from a worn denim pocket and dilated the emergency number. A woman on the other end responded to the call instantly. Grief soaked his voice as he repeated your shared address. Warm tears streamed down his cheeks and soaked into your shirt.

He folded his hands, placed them in the center of your chest, and performed chest compressions. As time went on and he answered questions from the phone, he ignored the burn of his forearms. Your body jerked beneath him, but your glassy eyes didn’t leave the ceiling.

He didn’t see any signs of drinking, but he knew the substances you abused regularly. Surely, something would be around here somewhere. The paramedics could save you, right?

You weren’t meant to die this young. Not at this age. Surely, not alone on the cold bathroom floor. The body beneath him turned stone cold, but it used to be full of life. He remembered the way you squeaked and squirmed when he gently tickled your sides.

Laughing and stealing kisses, right after he snuck home after work. Entangled legs, pulsing hearts, and love oozing between you. No substances, just warm lips, and gentle touches. He thought the two of you could build a home together and it’d last forever.

A safe space, a haven for you to grow old together, it wasn’t meant for you to die in. Not yet. What about the future? Every version of yourself that you were supposed to morph into? What about them?

“Why isn’t it working? Why aren’t they coming back? Why aren’t you coming back?” The words broke in the back of his throat.

“Sir, please-”

“Shut up!” He screamed at the phone. He grabbed it and chucked it across the room. The device bounced off the ledge of the tub and clattered on the inside. “You weren’t supposed to leave me! You promised you’d be here forever!”

His fingers clutched the front of your shirt tightly before he collapsed over you. Sobs wracked his body as he cried. Tears filled his eyes and he couldn’t breathe. You wouldn’t be back. Imprinted on him, there’d be no coming back from this.

“I failed you. I failed you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, j-just come back.” His forehead pressed against the center of your stiff chest. He breathed, but your breaths never came.

You still smelled like you. The same shared scent of floral fabric softener and faint hint of laundry soap. A bottom lip trembled as he cried over you. He cried because he couldn’t save you. Because no matter how hard you tried, your inner demons destroyed you.

Each substance tells a story; seeped in misery and soaked in pain. You clutched your vices tightly, trying to combat the things you weren’t ready to face. Some people think it’ll never kill them, but then it does.

Silent and fast. The words slur and stop. The body goes limp. It all just stops. A brain flickers and pulses, desperate for oxygen, but the receptors go numb. The oxygen ceases and the color fades.

Blue explains blue skies and rolling foamy waves along the tide. Children’s laughter and splashing water. Sunshine-filled days for the beach. The warmth of your skin and squawking seagulls, but it also stands for the opposite.

When the breathing slows and ceases, oxygen fades from the blood. Cracked lips turn powder blue, quite a few shades away from the usual oxygenated blood. It hits the tips of your fingers, too. It highlights the desperate screams of family members finding their loved ones overdosed and unable to breathe.

Empty eyes and limp limbs. Pin-pricked pupils and lonely deaths. Is it worth it? Is it ever really worth the high? Do you chase the high, or does the high chase you? Playing with such fire, someone’s bound to get burned.

You jerked upright in a cold bed with a gasp. The previous night, you lulled yourself to sleep with alcohol and blurry memories. The stretched white smile across Chan’s face and two deep dimples. Eyes the color of every quiet thing you missed.

Your headache knocked the moment you sat up, but you ignored it. Nausea swirled along the interior of your stomach, but you didn’t bother stopping it. Tripping over your feet, you rushed from the room, barely having the time to put on your own shoes.

You had to find Chan.

~ ~ ~

Back in Felix and Seungmin’s dorm, Chan laid on the couch unable to sleep. The pair provided him with soft pillows and blankets, but he still couldn’t sleep. He wanted to, but he just couldn’t.

Did it make him an asshole for leaving you? The thought echoed around his brain over and over again. Surely not, but then again, it did. He left you when you were the most vulnerable, but he really had tried.

He made doctor appointments that you refused to attend. He talked to therapists, but you refused to hear them out. You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make them drink it. You were the same way. He tried, but you weren’t budging on your stance.

He didn’t mean to hurt you, but he had to think about himself, as well. He started to lose sleep, wondering and waiting when he’d come home and find you dead. He didn’t want to find you deceased.

Due to your misuse of substances, you lashed out and grew angry. At times, he’d come home and find the apartment in chaos. Clutter from cabinets sat all over the counters. Your fingers twitched and you paced.

Mumbling beneath your breath, shaky fingers rearranged things again and again. He tried to lead you to bed, but you shook him off. Insisting you were on the verge of something great. He didn’t understand it, but in your haze, you did. It all made perfect sense.

He hated watching a synthetic personality appear. It wasn’t you and it certainly wasn’t the person he fell in love with. Empty eyes and greasy hair. In your shared bed, he stayed awake, trying to listen to the rise and fall of your lungs.

The air conditioner hummed in the background and a faint light pulsed from behind his head. In the kitchen, the neon green stove clock switched numbers every minute. The hue created a faint shadow along the wall.

He hated the thin cushions beneath him and he wanted his bed. He craved you. All of you. Your body and the way your lips used to feel against his. Soft, hydrated, and alive. You used to be so alive before the drugs and alcohol.

Your laughter jump-started his heart. For so many days, after the two of you moved in together, his jaw ached at the end of the day, all from smiling too much. Where did that ache go? Where did you go? Your warmth, your liveliness, the person you used to be.

He didn’t know how it all started. You accumulated your substances from somewhere. He wasn’t worried when you started drinking alcohol, but then it increased. Drastically. One shot turned into five. He had to babysit you when you drank, you were messy.

He didn’t mind rubbing your back while you vomited. Nor did he mind using a warm rag to wipe vomit from the creases of your mouth. When your alcohol intake increased, he confronted you, but you refused to talk about it.

His head swam through past memories with you. His other hand lazily ran through his hair. Fingers curled around the strands and massaged his scalp, repeating all the motions that you used to do. He missed you.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

He jerked upright at the sound of a knock on the door. Worried it was something important, he rushed to his feet and quickly turned on the light switch. The living room came to life. He jerked open the door, and there you were.

Soaked in tears and snot, your fingers shook. A bottom lip trembled and you stood in an oversized hoodie and sweatpants. Chan’s eyebrow raised, shocked that you had found him. When he finally realized it was you, he stepped outside the screen door.

“How did you-”

You didn’t respond as you threw yourself at him. Your arms wrapped around his back, pressing his beating heart against your chest. Your eyes shut and you squeezed him tightly.

“Woah, what’s this about?”

“I-I had a nightmare.”

“Are you okay?”

“I died and you found me.”

His arms froze, halfway around you. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his cotton t-shirt. “I know I’m not perfect and I’ve put you through hell, but I’m begging you to give me one more chance. Just one. I-I can’t have you find me like that, Chan.”

He didn’t respond right away. Crickets chirped in the distance. A pale moth bonked off the screen door, trying to reach the light. He didn’t respond, but his arms nestled around your body. A safe nest, a moment of comfort, and your heart swelled.

“I don’t want to come home and lose you again,” he finally whispered. “I don’t want to put myself through that.”

“You were right. You were right about the fentanyl and the drugs.” You pulled away, blinking back streaming tears. “I-I saw myself dead. I was so pale and y-you were so broken, Chan, I-”

“It’s okay.”

“No,” your head rapidly shook, “it’s not. It’s not okay and I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. It’s not right. I haven’t treated you right and I’ve been a horrible partner to you. You’ve tried so hard to save me and I’ve been so fucking selfish and I-”

Your knees wobbled and you broke. Bursting into tears, he grabbed your hips before you could hit the ground. You sobbed against his shoulder, finally letting out the hurt you’d been running from. You clutched onto him just like you always had.

“It’s okay,” he whispered as he tucked your head beneath his. “You’re alive and you’re still breathing. I’m right here, I’ve got you.” A warm hand trailed along your spine.

He kissed your cheek, trying to calm you down. The two of you stayed like that for quite a while. You were certain you smelled like strong vodka, but if Chan could smell it, he didn’t care. Instead, he hummed softly, trying to calm your heavy sobs.

At some point, your eyes drooped. You breathed softly and tried to relax. After a while, he pulled his head back. “Are you tired?”

“Mhm.”

“Come inside here for the night. Seungmin and Felix won’t mind. Stay with me and we can figure out where to start tomorrow.”

“I don’t wanna upset them.”

“Relax. You’re safe here and you know it.” He reached down, scooping your exhausted body into his arms. Your head shifted, slumping against his shoulder. “I’ve got you, don’t worry.”

Inside, he used his hip to shut the door and shifted a hand beneath you to lock it. When he finished, he headed back over to the couch and slowly sat down. You leaned back against his chest, letting your legs tangle with his.

His hands curled around your waist and held you tight. “Cozy?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good.”

“Chan?”

“Yes, baby?”

“I know I haven’t said it recently, but I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

As the two of you shifted to get comfy, the headache in your head became the least of your worries. Instead, you focused on the gentle thrum of Chan’s heart. Behind you, his whalloped and yours fell into a steady beat beside it. Your fingers curled along the edge of his shirt, wanting to hold onto him.

He hummed you to sleep and, for the first time in a long time, it was the first night you hadn’t been lured back to sleep via substance abuse, but rather the warmth of someone who loved you, despite it all.

| ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ |

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tinysunshine · 2 months ago

Text

━━━━━━ ✧˖° 𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍’ 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐖𝐄𝐓 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌

‎ ‎ [ 𝐥𝐞𝐨𝐧 𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝𝐲 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ]

female reader, inclusive language. minors dni. slightly dead dove.

kinks: daddy kink, dirty talk, leon is submissive, oral sex, cum eating, rough sex, face sitting, one mention of leon in panties, masturbation, mentions of mommy kink (not with reader), protective leon, anal play, panty stealing, fingering, creampie, some humiliation, cumming untouched, light dom/sub, kinky soulmates <3

warnings and triggers: fauxcest, age difference, leon is a perverted old freak, reader is a camgirl and does only fans, dubcon if you squint, noncon fantasies, leon is extremely pathetic and is simping hard, slut shaming, mentions of intoxicated sexual acts, sexual blackmail, reader is kind of a bad person, porn addiction, one mention of drug use, alcoholism, mommy and daddy issues

word count: 9.2k

porn with plot, slight alternate universe.

He’s too old for you. You’re too good for him. Whatever weird thing that’s going on between the two of you - that’s all it can be. Roommates. Friends. And even then, Leon knows that it’s pushing the limits of what’s acceptable.

→ You sell nudes for a living and Leon is the hot, older man who lets you move in with him. He’s the sweetest pervert you’ve ever met.

It starts, because you need a place to stay.

Leon hardly knows you. He knows your name, yeah, and he knows that you have a great rack. Perky tits and a pretty smile, lips that are always pink and glossy. You smell good, and one time you reached around him to grab a straw on the bar top and he felt your soft body press against his, and -

Okay, all Leon really knows about you is that you’re hot. Really fucking hot, like a girl from the porn he used to watch, back when he really hated himself. Don’t get him wrong, he still does harbor deep feelings of resentment for everything that makes him who he is, but it’s not as bad as it used to be.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway.

He met you at a bar. His bar, and by that, he means his home away from home - the local fucking bar, a few blocks away from his apartment actually. Every good drunk knows it’s mandatory to have a bar they can get to without driving, because every smart drunk knows that in order to properly drink to their heart’s delight, they’ve got to have a safe way to get home. See? Leon called himself smart - he doesn’t hate himself nearly as much as he used to.

But he also just hasn’t figured out the whole Uber thing. Oh well.

Leon, his bar - right. You’re always fucking there. Leon doesn’t understand why, because it’s a shitty place, with phone numbers scribbled on the back of the bathroom stall doors. Once, before last call, Leon swears someone followed him into the bathroom and asked if there was a glory hole. Or - maybe he followed someone into the bathroom and - doesn’t really matter. There’s no glory hole at this place, and it isn’t until after you move in, that Leon realizes you only came to this bar so much because everyone was paying for your drinks. Leon was paying for your drinks. Smart girl.

You’re a lush, that much is true. You drink a lot, and you can’t handle your liquor - but that’s part of your appeal. Just a little. It’s one thing, for a little slut like you to drink like a grown man and not show any signs of it, but that’s not you. You drink dirty shirley temples and cherry coke and jack and your eyes get misty and you slur your words and Leon always has to walk you back to your apartment that you share with three other girls. But the best part about drunk you, is that you’re always asking to suck his dick.

You’re my friend, you told him once, even though Leon doesn’t really agree with that. But fuck it, right? He could always use friends. Especially friends that are as hot as you.

Makes the other guys at the bar jealous, when you show up every Friday night with your stupidly small purse, not big enough to even hold a wallet, just lip gloss and bubblegum and, Leon, you think they take Apple Pay? Leon doesn’t fucking know, and it doesn’t really matter, because he’s paying for your drinks anyway. Can’t figure out Uber, you think he knows what Apple Pay is?

That’s how it starts.

You show up every weekend to a bar you don’t belong at, take a seat next to Leon who always arrives before you and is half drunk by the time you get there, and the rest of the night, he buys your drinks. He doesn’t know a lot about you, that’s true, but you do talk a lot. Chat his ear off. Nothing important ever comes out of your mouth, but you overshare a lot of details that mean nothing. It’s cute, and it’s not like Leon’s got anyone else to talk to. It goes on like this, for months, until Leon finally asks you what you’re doing at this shit hole in the first place.

You blink at him, fake lashes a little crooked since you fixed them in the bathroom. Oh, right - Leon knows you’re a little slut because you sucked him off in a bathroom stall. There’s no glory hole at this place, no - but he put his leather jacket on the ground so you didn’t bruise your bare knees when you let the head of his cock bruise the back of your throat.

“I live close,” you explain, looking at Leon like a clueless little kitten. He swears your nose scrunches up, so fucking cute, and then he downs the rest of his drink before the way your makeup is smeared around your eyes turns him off.

Leon thinks differently of you after you swallowed his cum. After you did that. Not that he slut shames or anything, but - what you did was kind of slutty. He feels bad about that thought, even if it turns him on, so when he walks you home that night, he tells you he’s not a creep, that you can trust him - he’s a cop.

Not that you needed that information to trust him. You’re a little naive, and you’re obviously old enough to drink, but Leon wonders what’s wrong with you. Girls like you should be on dating apps, getting guys your age to buy you dinner or take you to the movies. Or looking for men even older than him, to spend money on you and buy you those heels with the red bottoms. Leon doesn’t remember what they’re called, just that ball busting porn seems to center around that brand of shoes.

You shouldn’t be blowing strange older men in gross bar bathrooms. He thinks about how long it took you to tie a cherry stem with your tongue and how he had to pay attention like it was the coolest shit he’s ever seen, and he feels annoyed all over again - but at the same time, a little charmed?

Anyway. You’re practically a stranger. Leon doesn’t even know what your pussy looks like when you move into his apartment. It happens so fast.

One night, you come to the bar looking like shit. There’s no lip gloss on your lips, just some dry looking color and for the first time, Leon understands what overline means, and your eye makeup is smeared around your eyes, and your hair is - not done? God, Leon is the most judgmental bastard in the world. A hypocrite too, judging you like that - since last night he spent about four hours jacking himself off to porn of girls who look just like you. So much for a porn free lifestyle. It's your fault he broke his porn freak streak.

With his non dominant hand, since the other was preoccupied with jacking his cock off - he typed up, spelling errors and all, exact features of your body to get better results. He was dedicated.

Yunggbh bslut gets fucked by old sdaddyh, for example.

Some results did come up, by the way. Last night was a good night. Anyway.

He asked you what was wrong, and you sniffled, demanded a vodka lemonade, and told Leon your troubles. Here’s what went down:

You acted like a little slut. Which, in this case - meant you were just being yourself. It’s okay, baby, Leon remembers saying, As your friend, I’m being honest. Okay? You just couldn’t help yourself, and that’s okay. God, it’s like the blind leading the blind. Leon, obsessed with a girl much too young for him, with scummy, dirty, awful, perverted thoughts about her, pretending to care about her problems so she might touch his dick - telling said girl that it’s okay she fucked her roommate's boyfriend, because she was just being herself.

It’s kind of beautiful. Meant to be, in a kinky, weird way, Leon thinks, ordering another drink for you and himself. Anyway, the point is - you have to find a place to stay, and you’re not sure where to go.

Leon, shit faced, says you can live with him. And that’s how it happens.

────

You get under his skin.

You’re insane, annoying. Smoking hot. Leon didn’t know they made girls that look like you in real life, thought the women he saw in porn and online had to come from a factory somewhere, but he doesn’t see a shipping label anywhere on your body. You’re a little rude, although when someone is as hot as you are, society calls you bratty. Well, Pornhub does. Maybe not society.

Leon can complain all he wants, but that’s actually not something that’s annoying to him - Leon likes brats. Has watched enough bratty stepsis porn in his life to be okay with it, at least.

And anyway, it’s all his fault. Leon hardly knew you when he asked you to move in, which was one of his most pathetic moments. Just a drunk mistake, but how dumb are you, to move in with a man you don’t know? Sure, Leon has paid a small fortune for your drinks over the last few months, has walked you home, listened to you babble about dumb reality shows, assured you that he was a cop, and he knows what color your nipples are - but maybe that was just a long term, elaborate plan to get you to trust him so he could…traffick you or something. Fuck.

You’re so goddamn naive. But, hell - maybe he is too.

You’re a distraction - you come with a big, red warning label that Leon didn’t notice when he brought you home, because how could he? You might be a walking red flag, but you’ve covered that flag in enough pink and glitter that it’s impossible to see the true color of it.

On purpose? Leon’s not quite sure. All he knows, is that he can’t escape you.

Can’t escape the girly mess you leave all around his apartment in the form of little socks with tiny cartoon characters on it, the mugs you collect that take up space in his sink. Can’t escape the smell of your sweet perfume, the way it lingers in his car and on his clothes.

And that shit is really long lasting, because he just came home from the bar and he couldn’t even flirt with any women. Tried to get the number of some blonde in an attempt to distract himself from thoughts of you, and all she had to reply with was asking how old he was, and to tell his girlfriend that she has good taste in perfume.

Bitch. I don’t have a girlfriend, Leon wanted to say, but didn’t know how else to describe you. Even to himself. What can he say? I’ve got a little twenty something year old living in my house. Yeah, she lets me fuck her sometimes, but she’s not my girlfriend. It sounds bad to him, and he's the one living it.

Because that’s the progression. Yeah, Leon let you move in, and now there’s pieces of you all over his apartment, his car, his mind. Feels like you’re literally under his skin sometimes.

Tonight, he gets home, kicks off his boots, hangs up his leather jacket - and he runs a hand through his hair. Leon is tired. Tired of working so fucking much, tired of pretending like he has a life outside of his little thing with you, annoyed that when he was about to score with that busty blonde milf she threw the fact that he smelled like perfume in his face and tried to humiliate him - and he hates that he liked that too. Made his dick chub up a bit. What the fuck is wrong with him?

You’re not in the living room, so Leon figures you’re in your room - and he avoids that door. Likes you and all, just doesn’t want to deal with you right now. Besides, you could be filming, because - oh right, did he forget to mention? You make amature porn of yourself and sell it for money.

Yeah, that’s partially why Leon hates his life so much. You bring out the worst in him, bad habits and all. It’s just porn, Leon, you really don’t watch it? You’re so fucking old, I swear.

Of course, now he does watch it, but you're such a little brat - Leon's been looking at porn since before you were born.

And, yeah - he does think that little fact is hot.

Leon’s pretty sure he’s got blisters from how much he whacks off nowadays. Imagines you in your room, and sometimes presses his ear against the door when you're filming something. Can hear you, the little beep of your camera, the sound of your pussy, so wet while you rub yourself off and post the video for men even more pathetic than Leon to buy and -

Alright, alright. He can’t pretend like he’s not subscribed. He is. Feels a weird sense of intimacy, knowing that the mattress you lay on when you stuff toys inside of yourself is his, that the walls that your moans echo off of are paid for by him, that the cup you drink water out of after deepthroating a pink dildo on live chat is his, gifted to him by his aunt but. Whatever. He notices every curve of your perfect body, that stupid little Playboy bunny belly button ring you wear. He'll jack off in his room, then he times leaving his room, hand still salty with his spunk, to meet you in the kitchen while you're still in whatever sexy little outfit you filmed in.

“Thirsty?” He'll say, pretending like your ass cheeks aren’t hanging out. He’ll reach around you, grab a bottle of water from the fridge. “What are you wearing? It’s cold out. You need me to turn the heat on?” He’ll ask, as if he didn’t anonymously buy you that outfit from your wishlist. He’s such a fucking sick bastard.

But tonight - you’re not in your room. Leon can tell, because the light is off, and normally you’re awake this late, watching movies or dirtying up his kitchen that you won’t even bother cleaning. He won’t accept your money for rent, because he’s not that pathetic, can afford to pay for this place - but he thought you'd at least pick up after yourself. Instead, you leave messes everywhere that Leon has to clean, after he gets off work. Doing laundry naked, which you do, probably once a month, makes up for it. But sometimes you shrink his clothes.

And anyway, knowing you’re in his home, lazy and freeloading, probably playing with your pussy while he fights the urge to shoot himself in the head at work - it kind of turns him on. He’s got no clue why. Imagines you forcing him to fuck you or else you’ll tell mom and dad on the way home from work so he doesn’t drive his car into upcoming traffic and end his miserable existence right there. Porn brain. Thanks to you. Do you know what you’re doing to him?

You’re in his bed. You’re in a pair of purple panties that are the perfect amount of tight and your shirt has a weird picture of a stuffed bear on it. Leon’s half hard already, but he pretends like he’s annoyed. “Why are you in my room?” He asks, standing in the doorway. He waits for you to move, but you don’t. Of course you don’t.

Instead, you spread your legs, turn off whatever you were watching on his television. Probably deleted all his recordings too, because he’s old enough that he still does that. Has cable, that is. You asked what that was once. Leon got so hard, he almost cried when he made himself cum in the shower.

“Lighting was better in here. During sunset, you know,” you say casually, as if he’s supposed to know what that means. And then - oh. He does. You filmed in his room? You spread the lips of your little cunt and rubbed yourself to orgasm on camera on the phone that Leon added to his phone plan in his bed, and -

He pretends to be cool about it.

“Alright,” he says, sitting beside you in his bed. He leans against his pillows, watches you sit up and push your messy hair away from your face. Leon is pretty sure he sees a wet spot on your panties. Not to mention, the bed sort of smells like…pussy. It’s delicious. Gross, in a way that makes Leon lick his lips and fight back the desire to pull you up his body so you’re sitting on his face. He wants that, to taste you. Has only got to do it once, but wishes you’d make him do it everyday. Force him to. He probably needs medication.

You shirt is see through, but you break his imaginary boundaries and cozy up to his side. Grab his arm and lift it, tuck yourself against him and then place his arm around you. It’s hard to believe you’ve known each other less than a year, that you’ve only lived together for a few months. “Where’d you go tonight?” You ask, and Leon wonders if you get jealous. Knows he does, when you put on your slutty little outfits and go out with your friends.

Knows his cock got harder than it did when he went through his Viagra stage, which was before he met you, when you brought your friends over and teased him in front of them. When a pretty redhead, your bestie you said, laughed at him and then asked for a ride in a cop car which he can’t do, unless he wants to lose his job, and he doesn’t, because he wants to keep you and -

“Bar. Almost hooked up with some chick,” he says, trying to appear…like anyone but himself. He can’t tell if you’re jealous, but you throw a leg over him, definitely feel the bulge in his jeans, but you don’t say anything. Didn’t your parents ever teach you not to cuddle with roommates? Not to fuck them? Probably not, since they didn’t tell you not to move in with strange men who have fantasies about younger women controlling their lives. Anyway, Leon’s winning here, why should he complain?

“Why didn’t you?” You ask, tone bratty. Should get smacked in the face for that, instead, Leon just gropes your ass.

“She thought I had a girlfriend. Smelled your perfume,” and because he can’t stop nagging, he’s old, he adds, “Because you’re always spraying it in my car and I told you not to,” and you laugh. Well, giggle. It’s so sweet and so cute and your nipples are hard against him, and Leon just lets out a deep breath.

“I knew that perfume was long lasting. Need to write a review on the Sephora app. Anyway, Lee,” and since when did Leon say you could give him that nickname? He groans. “You can fuck me, if you want. Since I ruined your hookup,” you offer, pulling yourself onto his body. You’re straddling his hips, and then you take his hands, slip them under your shirt and place them on your perfect tits. Leon moans, because he’s pathetic, bucks his hips up and loves that you’re already so wet. He can feel the heat from your cunt through his jeans. You’re ready to go. Ready for him. He can see your arousal on the fabric of your panties.

He’s only a man, okay? He takes you up on that offer, because of course he does. Tonight, he wanted that woman that looked like she wouldn’t mind a bit of mommy play, but everyday? Leon wants you. He takes his clothes off, takes your clothes off, imagines all that stepsister porn shit in his brain while he rails you, because he’s broken, sits up and maneuvers you so you’re under him, fucks you so hard your head hits his headboard and wonders idly if you’re filming this for whatever little hustle you’ve got going on. Secret cameras exist. You’re a pro, really, you are, and you scratch his back and suck his neck and call him Daddy, and Leon likes that but not tonight.

“You got any siblings?” He says, one hand by your head, balancing his body so he doesn’t crush you, the other gripping the headboard. You tighten your legs around his hips, smile a little goofy, and keep his cock nice and snug and tight inside of you. He feels your walls hugging his cock.

“Yeah,” you say, and Leon wonders if you check his porn history. Same wifi and all that. Can people do that? Because you say, “A stepbrother.”

Leon cums inside of you, paints your insides with his seed and when he pulls out he uses that dumbass bear shirt to clean you off. He goes to shower, feeling manly for banging his hot, young roommate, when you call out, “Can I have my lace panties back? The ones with the white hearts on them. They’re pink. Think they’d look cute for the video I wanna film,” but Leon cuts you off. Opens his shower door, turns the water on and stands outside while it warms up.

Quirks a brow. Pretends to be clueless, wonders why you’re just laying in bed still while his cum is probably sticking to your cervix.

You laugh, sit up in bed and toss your dirty shirt into his hamper.

“I know you took them from my laundry basket,” you say, but you’re not judging. You’re cool with it, and ultimately, that’s why Leon likes you so much. Girl of his dreams and all. Leon feels comfortable with you. He’s never felt like this around anyone. You're the least judgmental woman that Leon has ever met.

The shower is hot now, but he walks to his closet and opens his sock drawer, grabs the panties that you’re asking for and tosses them to you on the bed. You cackle.

So much for limp dick Leon. He jacks off again in the shower, all thanks to you.

────

Honest truth? Leon has never lived with a woman. Not like this.

He says it’s hard to live with you, because he’s a negative bastard, but he really doesn’t know if it’d be like this with any woman. Isn’t sure if it’s normal for stuffed animals to cover every square inch of the house, doesn’t know if all women sit on their roommate's bathroom counter and get their little toe marks on the mirror when they do their makeup, because his bathroom lighting is better. One of these days, Leon swears you’re going to ask him to switch rooms with you, and he honestly doesn’t know if he’d be able to say no.

You’ve lived with him for six months now.

Today, Leon’s off of work. And you? You’re driving him crazy.

You’re ruining his couch, drenched yourself in coconut oil after your shower and you’re completely naked, drying off on the couch which really means just destroying the leather. And Leon’s dick is hard because he accidentally sat on your bunny stuffed animal, and you smacked him on the arm and - yup. It’s that easy these days. He's that easy for you.

Doesn't hurt that you're naked and shiny.

“Do you have an Instagram, Leon?” You randomly ask, while he sits on the ground of his own living room since you’re hogging the couch. He’s flicking through channels, leaning against the end of the couch where your feet are, and he swears you're purposely bumping your cute, pink painted toes into his head. Ruining his hair, you little brat.

He makes no move to change seating position though. Too busy dealing with the emotions of realizing that he’s upset you haven’t called him Lee in weeks.

“No,” he says, scoffing because he’s a drama queen. Probably picked that up from you. All he can think about is the fact that you smell like a tropical vacation, one he’s never taken, and that you’re all oiled up and so is your pussy because you shaved. He could slip right in. Taste you, feel you melt on his tongue, bend you over and rub the head of his dick through the oil on your thigh and fuck you in your ass -

��You’re so old,” you reply, sitting up. Leon turns his full attention to you, sits on the couch, loves the way your stomach has a roll and that you’ve got stretch marks on your tits yet you’re so young and so hot and so tight in the way that only women your age are. Don’t get him wrong - he likes older women too. It’s more about the personality of a woman then the looks that get him going, but you? You’re every wet dream he’s ever had come to life. Put the girls in the porn he watches to shame.

He wants to lick your pussy. Instead, he says, “Can I see your account?”

Leon plays dumb. He’s got an Instagram, no pictures and his user is rookiecookiecop, but he only uses it to jerk off to pictures of girls in bikinis that look like you. He doesn’t get it, all this talk about don’t objectify me from girls your age, when all you lot do is show your body off online in skimpy clothes. Begging for attention. At least you make money off of it, link in your bio and everything.

To be fair though, sometimes Leon logs on and watches fridge organization videos, or loyalty test street interviews. Podcast clips, depending on the algorithm of the day. God forbid he accidentally finds one of those Republican blonde chicks hot. You can’t tell someone's political affiliation just from their bikini pics, but a mistake like that will fuck up his Explore page for sure. But they're entertaining enough, all those videos, while he’s warming his dick up with a hand in his pants in his bed at night.

You hand Leon your phone, and your page is cute. Coffee everyday, pink hair clips and little keychains on your purse and lots of cleavage and little skirts and friends just as hot as you. Pictures of the dinners Leon has taken you out to, or when he drives you in his car somewhere, or when you watch a movie together. His arm is the only thing showing in these photos, of course, but his chest feels full of something like love, because he’s a pathetic idiot loser pervert, but it’s kind of nice you want to document your time with him. His arm looks sexy too. His new protein powder must be working.

A lot of guys comment on your stuff, and then Leon can’t help but ask, “Why don’t you have a boyfriend? Why do you type in all lowercase?” You laugh at the second part, scoot closer to him, take your phone back and set your phone on the coffee table and place a hand in the middle of his chest to push him down. You shrug, before climbing up his body, settling on his face.

Your confidence - it’s fucking sexy. Treating Leon like you own him. You sort of do, he’ll admit it. He wants you to know it too.

“‘Cause I got you,” you say, possibly the most romantic thing Leon’s heard in fifteen years. “You're such a good friend. Take good care of me. You don't judge me," and then you add, "Lick my pussy, Daddy?” And Leon does. ‘Course he does. You’re his roommate, his crush, the girl of his dreams - but most of all, you’re his baby, aren’t you? You give him hell, need his protection, live with him and he provides for you and -

He sucks your clit into his mouth. On his face, you cum three times, all from his tongue which makes him feel pretty good. You’re the only girl he knows who is so willing to have her ass played with, his perfect little slut, so he fingers your hole and nearly gets a charley horse in his bicep when his arm tenses up keeping you in place in his face. It feels good, holding you down and prodding at you. He wants you to squirt, but he’s not sure he’s got the skills for that quite yet.

Probably needs more practice. He’ll ask you for some more later.

But Leon’s pretty content right now, smothered under your pretty pussy, two fingers knuckle deep in your ass, your soft skin suffocating him because you’re right about the oil, you feel baby soft. Which works, being his baby, because you keep calling him Daddy and Leon loves it so much. You moan like he’s the best mouth you’ve ever had, which is sweet, since he hears you get yourself off in your own room constantly, and you get much louder than you are right now.

You don’t squirt, but you’re satisfied. Thank Leon for the orgasms and his enthusiasm (ouch) before walking off to your room. You don’t offer to return the favor or anything, but it’s okay.

Leon came in his boxers, untouched. Forget all that shit he saw online about how to fix a dick that won’t get hard. No need to cut out alcohol, no need to take magic pills, no need to eat healthy or workout less or stop porn.

Apparently, all Leon needed was to meet someone like you.

Phew.

────

“There’s no more alcohol,” you say one night, cutting up strawberries on the kitchen counter top with no cutting board. Leon’s got to ask about the way you grew up - it’s like you know nothing about living as an adult, but who’s he to judge? Your immaturity works in his favor. He, and he knows it's sick, wants you to rely on him.

“Okay,” he says, mood a little sour from yet another shitty day at work. Another shitty day in his brain, so bad he sort of thinks he should look in his bathroom cabinet and see if those pills a doctor prescribed years ago for depression might still work. “Go buy some. You need some cash?”

You snort, which is unattractive but cute, and Leon feels a little better just being around you. You’re eating fruit salad for dinner, and even though he bought the groceries and he just came home from work, you don’t offer him any. Makes his dick stir, at your selfishness. He needs therapy, badly. But a quick fix, he realizes, can be found at the bottom of a liquor bottle.

He just can’t believe all the alcohol in the apartment is really gone - just figured you stopped looking after checking one cabinet, but. He can’t take that risk. It’s a Friday night, anyway.

“Wanna come with me to the store?” Leon asks, shutting the fridge door after he sees nothing on interest. You nod, and then you hand him what he thinks is a strawberry, but it’s just the leaf part. You want him to throw it away, so he does.

“Yes,” you say, so excitedly it actually almost makes Leon smile. You like him, want to hang out with him, want to be around him. Someone like you - sweet and pretty with a pussy that makes more money than his brain and his brawn, and you want to spend time with an old fuck like him. It’s flattering, honestly.

So he drives to the store. Leon doesn’t open your door to the passenger seat, and you get all upset, huffing and sighing until Leon asks what’s wrong. “You didn’t open my door,” you bitch, and he rolls his eyes, hands you his phone that’s already connected to the bluetooth because he knows you, and he knows you want to play Katrina, Sarina, what is it again? Sabrina Carpenter? Yeah, that’s it. Leon thinks she’s pretty cute.

“I’m not your boyfriend,” Leon answers, maybe a bit too rudely, because you don’t have a snarky comment back like usual. Instead, you just dramatically look out the window while the new Britney Spears sings about trying out fuzzy pink handcuffs. Drama queen.

You go to a corner store, because Leon doesn’t want to deal with an actual grocery store right now. Not when it’s dark outside, not when you’re in an outfit that you can’t even bend over to grab a basket in without your whole ass showing. It’s hot, shows a lot of leg even in the car, but Leon cares about you and he has a jealous streak, even if he got off last night to the thought of someone who wasn't him giving you the fuck of your life (while he watched and played clean up boy), so he opens the car door for you and takes off and holds out his jacket so you don’t flash anyone on the way out of the car. You smile a little.

“I’ll buy you anything you want,” he teases, because it’s the cheapest 'date' in the world, and then you grin. There's a little lip gloss on your teeth, and Leon wants to lick it off. “Cigarettes?” You ask, teasing right back. Heard Leon’s drunk and coked up rant last month, about how unsexy it is when women smoke.

As if he didn’t, in his youth, ask someone a woman to put cigarette out on him. He’s got mental problems and he knows it.

He tells you no to the cigarettes, puts his jacket back on, walks you inside the store and lets you go nuts. He picks up a basket that’s falling apart, stuffs it with too much junk and too much alcohol, and he’s a really bad person because he’s so much older than you, should be showing you good habits, but the honest truth is that he doesn’t have any. Not one. Can go months without eating a piece of broccoli, okay? He only buys healthy shit for you, like the fruit.

He walks around to find you, can see the way the other men at this corner store are looking at you, and it makes him sick - because he wonders if that’s how he looks. Is it? Like a wolf, licking his chops, ready to pounce on poor Red Riding Hood? The fact that he even remembers that fairy tale sort of makes him embarrassed, so he focuses on finding you in one of the aisles, where you’re looking at the calorie difference on powdered sugar donuts or chocolate ones. You settle on an apple pie scone thing, put it in the basket.

“You’re an alcoholic,” you comment when you look in the basket, a little too loud, and Leon forces out a laugh. People are looking at you both, probably wondering why you’re shit talking him, or why you’re even standing together to begin with. He wonders if he looks old enough to be your dad. Hopes he doesn't, but maybe he does. People look your way, but Leon ignores them, knows you’re trailing behind him on the way up to the cash register.

Everything is fine. Normal. The smell of your perfume lingers in the air and the sound of your little heels on the ground are comforting in Leon’s ears. He gets his ID ready while he waits in line, as if he really needs to show it with his greying hair and the lines on his face when he smiles. But then -

You shriek. Leon turns around so fast, and when he realizes what happened, he drops the basket he’s holding on the ground and looks to you. You look so scared, and it’s all happening so fast but Leon realizes what’s going down and he feels an anger he’s never experienced in his entire life.

He feels like a bad guy all the time, true - but the fact is, he’s really not. Sexual deviance aside. He had dreams of serving his community, wants to help and wants to do what’s right. He’s done good for so many people in his career, and just because he has a crippling porn addiction and an Only Fans model living in his home doesn’t mean all the good he's ever done didn't happen - or that he doesn't have an ounce left of it in his body.

Leon doesn't like what's happening, and he's not going to stand for it. Fuck no. Not when you're so upset. Some loser just smacked you on the ass - and this time, it wasn't him.

“I recognize you,” a random guy says. Ugly, reeking of marijuana and something stale. Since you moved in, Leon’s sense of smell has changed. So used to vanilla and floral and expensive and sweet that anything bad is extra noticeable now. You've changed his life. “You’re that girl, hey, John,” he calls out, and his buddy turns around. “She’s the girl I’m subscribed to.”

You’re getting recognized at the gas station. The men standing there know what your pussy looks like, know what your nipples look like, know what you look like when you cum. Leon looks at you, and you’re about to cry, but he knows violence isn’t going to solve anything. He thinks fast, but he’s always been good at that. Leon steps towards the guys.

“Subscribed to what? You want to explain to me what the fuck you're talking about?” He asks, and you grip his arm but he shrugs it off. Hears you tell him to let it go, it’s not worth it. But Leon’s not going to do that. No, he’s not ashamed about what you do - doesn’t think you should be either. Thinks these two punks, two guys your age that are so fucking stoned they don’t know they’re seconds away from Leon pulling the cop card and calling someone to drag their ass to the station for a drug charge.

But every cop knows - better to just scare them. So he does.

“I’m her father, and you just smacked her ass in front of me. In public. Some man, huh? You want to tell me what that subscription is? I should beat your ass just for looking at my daughter wrong."

Leon doesn’t even know what he’s saying. Words just fly out, and he scares the fuck out of the two guys so bad that they both drop their shit and leave. Leon pays for the stuff you want, a hand on the small of your back while you try to calm down, and then he opens your car door and helps you with the seatbelt, feeling oddly protective.

But once he sits on the driver's seat, starts the car, you break down in tears. Sobbing. Little sniffles, rubbing your face full of makeup onto the white sweater you have - and Leon knows that it’s ruining it. Staining it. He’s the one that washes it.

“Sweetheart,” he says, the nickname rolling off his tongue. “It’s,” he doesn’t know what to say. “It’ll be okay. I’m sorry I didn’t hit them, or beat their ass, or whatever you wanted me to do but,” but you let out a wail, and undo your seatbelt, throwing yourself over the center console to wrap your arms around his neck.

“That was so scary,” you say, and Leon feels so fucking bad. “It’s one thing when it’s virtual, you know? But in real life. It's just awful,” and you cry and cry and cry, and all Leon can think of is - duh. It’s horrible that this happened to you, makes him want to shoot both of those dicks in the, well, dick - but you had to know that real people were looking at your pics. Your videos too. Truth be told, Leon should’ve asked this a long time ago but - where are your parents? Do you seriously not have a decent adult to guide you?

“I know, baby,” he says instead. You go back to your seat, makeup smeared, and Leon knows he’s falling hard for you because he doesn’t think it makes you unattractive. He still thinks you’re beautiful, just. A beautiful raccoon.

He takes you home. Carries the bags from the store. You sit on the couch and pull a blanket over your lap, one of your fuzzy ones that are too small for Leon to use but fit you just right, and he puts the snacks and some of the liquor away. He’s about to take a swig out of a bottle to calm his nerves, when he hears your voice from the living room.

“Leon,” you whimper. He walks over to you immediately. “Do you subscribe to any other girls?” Your voice sounds like you’re worried about what his answer might be, and he doesn’t understand why that’s something you’re worried about right now.

You know that Leon likes you. Look at everything he does for you. He's made it clear that even if you didn’t let him fuck you, he’d still let you live here - but at this point, you really could afford your own room somewhere. You’re friends. Why would it matter if he subscribed to -

Wait.

Other girls?

Does that mean you know that he’s subscribed to you? He flushes red, flustered as he sits beside you on the couch. Hands you a little bottle of vodka to swig out of that he carried in from the kitchen, and you do. Don’t even make a face or anything. Maybe you are related. You hand the bottle back.

“I know you subscribe to me. Rookiecookiecop. Who else could it be? You've said that before when you told one of your stupid jokes.”

Leon shakes his head, takes a swig of his own. “Could be anyone. Lots of cops. I don’t,” but he gives up. Shakes his head again and taps a finger on the bottle he's holding. “Fine. I do. Just you, though. Why’re you worried about that?”

You shrug. You look so sad and small all of a sudden, and Leon just wants to wrap you up in your stupid blanket and rock you to sleep. He doesn’t know if it’s fatherly, or a feeling a boyfriend would get. It doesn’t really matter - he just wants to take care of you.

“I just don’t know why you don’t like me like that. Like…more. I know that you’re hot and you’ve got your shit together,” and as these words leave your mouth, Leon genuinely thinks you’re pulling his leg. That you’re teasing him. Because - you’re out of your mind. You think that he’s got his shit together? He can’t even walk past your laundry basket without grabbing a pair of your dirty panties. He let a random girl move in, he secretly subscribed to her online porn page. He’s a depressed alcoholic who shouldn’t have access to a gun for his own mental health, and you -

You’re beautiful. Sexy. Caring, when you want to be. Leon loves you, but he doesn’t know what that means. Doesn’t know what that looks like. So he scoots closer, puts the bottle down on the coffee table, wraps one arm around your shoulders and then places his other hand on your thigh, so he’s all in your space. Your fake eyelash is falling off but he doesn’t even care, really. He presses a kiss to your nose.

“You’re so wrong,” he whispers, because that sums it up. “About everything. You have no idea, the things you do to me,” and he’s going to regret saying this, but he has to let you know. Would feel guilty, keeping this truth from you. “You’re too good for me. You see that, don’t you? Could do so much better than all this. I can’t be your boyfriend, because you deserve someone better, baby. Okay? But I’ll be what you need me to be, as long as you need it. Just you,” you nod. You understand. Leon doesn't even need to finish his speech.

You kiss him, and you’re good at all sex acts but you could use some work with your kisses. Too much saliva, that Leon slurps up because it's you, and this is the closest he's ever gotten to a woman spitting in his mouth. Your teeth knock into each other for a second. Leon loves it. Reminds him of his first kiss, and his dick swells up in his pants. “Lee,” you whisper against his lips, and Leon missed that nickname but he still cringes, cups your face with one hand, uses his thumb to try to clean some of your makeup up. “Want you to be Daddy tonight.”

Leon can do that.

────

You like to call Leon Daddy, and he gets it. Understands the appeal, because anytime he sees a woman over thirty with big tits he wants to call them Mommy. There’s something comforting about choosing your own authority figure - to just relax, turn your brain off, have someone else make all the rules for you.

Leon wouldn’t consider himself dominant. Sometimes he worries he’s only two porn categories away from having a foot fetish, truth be told, because he just likes the feeling of someone else taking control.

And, because he paid for your pedicure last month and you let him look at your toes close up to see where his hard earned government money went. You're so sexy to him, you bring out new fetishes - and Leon thinks that's beautiful.

He loves your bratty behavior. Loves that you tease him about his drinking habits and his porn addiction and his age, loves that you disregard his needs unless you need something from him, like cash to get your nails done or to buy something dumb at the mall. He’s pretty sure that even with all the money you make, he’s the one solely funding your coffee habit. You’re selfish, and rude, but you’re so hot and you’re so young and Leon likes that about you. Loves that he can take care of you, be your Daddy, someone you trust and look up to - even when he bends to every single whim you have, and sometimes feels like your bitch boy more than anything else.

Your dynamic gives him a chance to be the pathetic loser he wants while also tricking him into thinking of himself like a winner. Because yeah, you might wear his balls around your neck because even when you don’t sleep in his bed, he lets you keep your stuffed animals in his bed all night with him just in case you come in there if you have a nightmare, but you’re dumb enough and sexy enough that everytime he gets a chance to play with you he feels like the man. Other men can only dream of living the kind of life he lives with you, and for the first time, Leon really does feel like he’s a winner.

He’s such a loser.

You wanna be babied tonight? Leon will do that. He carries you to his bedroom, eats up the way you compliment his big, strong arms, is supposed to be in charge but you tell him exactly what to do. How you want him to fuck you, how many fingers you want him to use when he opens you up, if he’s allowed to give you any hickeys (no, and it’s just a slap in the face at this point because Leon’s never marked you up - but you’ve done it to him, make it impossible for him to get laid by anyone else).

“Daddy,” you say, when Leon gently takes your clothes off, positions himself between your legs and softly licks up your slit. You’re not even wet yet, which means this Daddy thing is more than just sexual for you. Truth be told, Leon did always figure you had no relationship, or a strained one with your father. On Father’s Day this year, you did a 24-hour broadcast on your camming account, and Leon’s pretty sure any woman doing that has daddy issues that run bone deep.

But who’s he to judge? Imagining that he’s your father can get his dick so hard, sometimes he can literally cum without touching himself.

“Yeah, baby,” Leon assures, licking your pussy and running a finger lightly around your clit, teasing before he drags his finger down and pushes it inside of you. Your back arches off the bed like it feels so fucking good, and maybe it does, but Leon doesn’t know how it compares when he knows you shove ten inch dildos in your pussy on camera. He’s bought you one before. “Daddy’s here.”

“Fuck me,” you say, like you changed your mind about the foreplay. You’re wet enough now that Leon doesn’t feel bad for fucking you without getting you all properly good and wet, so he positions himself on top of you, spits in his hand and rubs it on the tip of his aching hard dick, because yeah, he’s already that turned on, has a hero complex and the fact that you were all over him with tears, well - he's a cop for a reason.

And then he pushes his dick inside of you, and you cry and scratch his back so hard that he hisses - but he knows he just stretched your tight little cunt out without much warning. It's what you wanted though, what you demanded from him, right?

“Tell me something sweet,” you beg, and Leon looks down at you, taken aback. You’re always the flirty one in bed - saying filthy, sexy things. Bending yourself into crazy positions, but right now you really seem upset. Maybe you’re more emotionally disturbed than Leon thought. Maybe you really do have problems that lead you to live this kind of lifestyle. Maybe Leon’s a worse guy than he thought -

But you being so vulnerable is making his balls tighten, much faster than usual, and he fucks you so brutal and so rough and the only sweet thing he can think of really isn’t that sweet at all.

“Perfect little slut,” he manages to say, pulling out so he doesn’t cum inside of you. "You make a real pretty cumrag." If you’re filming tomorrow, he feels bad about giving you a creampie - doesn't know if you can get it all out in time to get a close up of your pussy. Not fair to you. So he pulls his dick out before he can cum, jerks himself off for a second before he busts his nut all over your sweet little stomach and that sexy belly button ring. He’ll help you properly clean it when you're both done.

Leon sucks. He didn’t get you off. Came in about five minutes. But -

“Lick the cum off. Finish me off,” you whine, so Leon does, licks his own seed off of your stomach, your skin warm and soft under his tongue. To be honest, he doesn’t taste that bad, which makes sense why you’re so obsessed with sucking his dick. Protein powder for the win again, he supposes. Leon cleans you off, and then he licks you out. You cum from his tongue pressed hard in your hole, his thumb circling your clit.

He’s Daddy, so he carries you to the bath and lets you tease him about being a grown man in a pink bubble bath. It’s your bath bomb that you're both using, but, yup, you guessed it - Leon likes the humiliation. Dick half hard and pressing into your back while you two relax together and raise the cost of his water bill. You love your baths. Take one almost every day.

“You feel better?” He asks, rubbing up and down your soft thigh. Leon kisses your head.

“Yeah,” you say, a little happier than before. “I really like you, Leon. You take such good care of me. You’d make a really good boyfriend.” You’re silent, while Leon absorbs the compliment that gets rid of about two years of emotional trauma inside of him. Then you break the silence.

“Why’d you tell those guys you were my dad?” You giggle, and Leon shrugs. He’s embarrassed, because he doesn’t even know himself. “First thing I thought of,” he admits, and you lean back against his chest. All is right in the world. Until -

“Don’t get mad, Leon, but,” and then you tell him. You tell him the truth.

That you’ve secretly been filming every single time you've had sex with him. You explain that it gets the highest views, and you always crop out his face, and now that people know he’s your dad they’ll probably tell the internet forums, because after all, you are a very popular creator. So it works out, you say, that Leon pretended to be your dad today. People online are into that kind of shit, you tell him, and pretty please don’t be mad.

Leon, he’s - he doesn’t even know. Doesn’t even know what to fucking say. You’ve been secretly filming him fucking you, putting it online and -

That’s a crime. That’s literally a fucking crime. Men go to jail for that sort of thing. For a long time. Leon is speechless. He feels betrayed. Violated. Even worse, you pocketed all the money you got from those videos?

You must take his lack of talking to mean he's not mad. So you start lathering yourself in soap, chatting about the pink flip phone you want Leon to buy you, one you saw on eBay a few weeks ago, so you can get one to match his artifacts. Leon wants the bath to swallow him down the drain.

“I,” he says, pulling away from you just slightly. “I don’t,” he can’t form a thought. “No.” But he says it like a question. “You know that’s illegal, don’t you? I could lose my job.”

And then you turn to him, eyes big, the makeup almost all washed off after crying. Your lips are in a pout, and you rub your ass against his cock. You're manipulative, Leon sees it now. You're smarter than you look, and Leon feels queasy and...a little scared?

“Daddy,” you say, and he guesses you're back to that now. You know how to play him. Forget selling pictures of your body - you need to make a fucking online course to teach women how to get away with murder.

“Please?” Another pause, and you lick your lips like you’re thinking and it makes Leon want to groan. “I mean, if you told anyone, they’d know it was you. Plus, if you really did get fired, we could probably just make more videos for more money. It’s not a big deal.”

Leon feels like he hates you a little bit. Feels like he walked into a trap, a prison with his eyes closed, and now he's stuck.

But somehow, by the end of the bath - Leon steps out with his dick painfully hard, dries the both of you off, and pulls his phone out while you cuddle up to him in bed. He buys you the phone you asked for, all while you read the comments and requests from your viewers and subscribers out loud to him.

“Put your dad in panties,” you read, literally throwing your head back in a laugh. Leon is red in the face, but the truth is?

He’s never been so hard.

And he’s pretty sure you do have access to his porn history -

How’d you know his favorite category was Blackmail?

#leon kennedy ㅤ♡#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x y/n #leon kennedy x you #resident evil imagines #resident evil x reader #leon kennedy imagine #resident evil smut #resident evil x you #leon s kennedy x you #leon s kennedy x reader

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keeryhours · 6 months ago

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the needle and the damage done - chapter one

Older! Rockstar! Eddie Munson x female! reader

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Eddie Munson Masterlist

Summary:

37 year old Eddie Munson is a washed up rockstar - reckless, wild, and heavily addicted to drugs. His drug use tore apart his band and his family. It’s up to him to make things right.

A bit of a prologue. Eddie destroys his own life.

Warnings:

(18+), HEAVY warning for drugs (weed, psychedelics, cocaine, pills, heroin), alcohol, addiction, one slightly smutty part, p in v, pregnancy, birth, medical conditions, rockstar and addict behavior, cycle of trauma, ANGST, mention of shitty parents, broken families

Word Count: 3k

A/N:

I hope you enjoy this new series! Please mind the triggers and warnings!

—

Corroded Coffin was Eddie’s first baby.

He started that band in middle school with his closest friends. He gave it his everything all throughout school, to the point that he repeated his senior year three times and still never graduated.

But that didn’t matter, because it paid off. Corroded Coffin made it big. Huge, in fact. Like playing three sold out shows in a row at Madison Square Garden big.

You had been there from the beginning, too. Friends since 3rd grade, growing up together in Forest Hills trailer park. Where Wayne and Eddie always gave you sanctuary from your own shitty parents.

You and Eddie started dating in 10th grade. It felt like it had been forever coming. You had both been crushing on each other since the beginning, both too scared to say anything about it. But one day, after a Hellfire campaign, Eddie cornered you in the drama room and asked you out. The rest was history, as they say.

You started working at Benny’s after graduation, waiting for Eddie to catch up with you. A few years later and Eddie was coming in with the mail screaming - the tapes the guys had sent off to record labels had paid off. One wanted to meet them.

It was a whirlwind of fame and music after that. Things happened so quickly it made your head spin. They recorded an album, released it to critical and fan acclaim, went on a tour. Eddie swept you off your feet and you spent 4 months living on the tour bus, seeing the country with him and the guys. Every show sold out, fans lining up outside after trying for even a glimpse of the band. They were usually happy to stop for autographs, unless they had to be somewhere, an interview or a magazine shoot.

The suits insisted it would be better for the band’s image if they all appeared single, but Eddie was having none of that. He paraded you around like his personal trophy, showing you off to anyone who would see. It was a little embarrassing, but you loved him.

Eddie pulled you onstage at the final show of the first tour. You were terrified to be on stage in front of so many people, already embarrassed about whatever Eddie was about to pull. But then he dropped down to one knee, pulled a ring out, looked at you like you were the only person in the world, and asked you to marry him. You said yes, of course.

Your wedding was perfect. You wore a beautiful white gown, form fitting with lace sleeves. Eddie wore a black tux. Gareth was his best man, Robin your maid of honor. It was a pretty small wedding, just your closest family and friends, but it couldn’t have been better. It was everything you’d dreamed of since you met Eddie.

With rockstar-dom came certain expectations, certain…hobbies. You and Eddie had always loved to share a joint or a bowl together, sometimes even fooling around with psychedelics. It was always an amazing time. But with fame came access to anything your heart could ever desire. And Eddie loved the drugs.

It started out slowly. He’d drink himself stupid at the after parties, climb on the bar and throw chairs and get rowdy, get into fights sometimes. He only behaved if you tagged along. But the fans loved him, the guys thought he was a blast. That was just Eddie, wild, just how he was. The life of the party, until he wasn’t.

Coke was the first new thing you ever tried together. Eddie definitely didn’t need to be any more hyped up than he already was on his own, but he loved the stuff. He’d carry the little baggie in his pocket at all times, pouring a little on his hand for a bump when you or he needed a top up. He’d spread fat lines on a mirror in his hotel room, passing you a rolled up $100 dollar bill to let you go first, ever the gentleman. Then you’d fuck like rabbits the whole night, doing more lines whenever you started to come down. For the first time in your lives, you had all the money and all the drugs in the world. The party never had to stop.

Next was pills. Oxy, Xanax, Adderall. Eddie really liked the pills. He always kept some on him, would sneak off to crush one up and snort it if he needed the high extra fast. You didn’t know. You thought they were just for parties. You didn’t know it had become a daily thing, a crutch.

1993, you were 26 years old. Corroded Coffin had been successful for the past few years. Everyone loved them, especially Eddie as the frontman. He knew how to put on a show, knew how to have a good time. You couldn’t go anywhere without being followed by fans and photographers. It threw everything off balance when you found out you were pregnant.

It had been an accident. You were terrified to tell Eddie. You didn’t want to ruin his fun, or get in the way of his dream. But this baby was happening whether you were ready or not. And you knew it was time to get sober. After his show that night, you asked Eddie to come back to the hotel with you instead of going to the after party. He had been reluctant - he loved the after parties - but he agreed. Back in the hotel room, you sat him down, the look on his face completely terrified of whatever you were about to drop on him.

“Eddie…” you had started, holding his ringed hands in yours. “I’m…I’m pregnant.”

His eyes had gone wide. Maybe if you had known then what you knew now, you would have noticed how his pupils were blown. You didn’t even know he was on anything at the time.

“Baby, that’s…” he shook his head, and your heart sunk. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want the baby. “That’s fucking incredible!”

It was your turn to widen your eyes when Eddie stood, pulling you into a tight embrace and lifting you off the ground, spinning you around. “A baby! Wow.”

“You’re not upset?” You asked once he’d sat you back down, a huge grin on his face.

“Upset? Why would I be upset?”

“Because of the band,” you said. “Your freedom.”

“I don’t care about all of that,” he said, hands on either side of your face. “I care about you. I care about this baby.” He lowered a hand to gently caress your stomach. “You’re my whole world. And now my world is about to double,” he laughed. You couldn’t help but return his smile, tears welling in your eyes.

“I’m so happy you’re happy,” you said. “I‘ve always wanted a family with you.”

“Me too.” He placed a gentle kiss on your lips, then started covering your whole face in kisses, making you giggle. “I’m so fucking happy.”

A baby girl, Evelyn “Evie” Grace Munson was born August 1994. She was Eddie’s twin, born with big brown eyes and a head full of dark brown hair that got curlier the longer it grew. She was an angel of a baby, slept perfectly and hardly ever fussed. She was even a well behaved toddler, shy and reserved. She clung to you and Eddie and her Uncles Gareth, Jeff, and Grant.

Eddie’s drug problem ramped up after Evie’s birth. He was still able to hide it, to cover it up with his partying, but it was getting worse. He was starting to take oxy on a regular basis, snorting coke or taking adderall to counteract the downer’s effects. He was pretty much fucked up all the time, but he was functional enough that no one worried. And he did his best to keep it away from you.

After it all, you felt like an idiot for never noticing.

December 1998, you welcomed your second daughter, Rhiannon Raven Munson. She also looked just like Eddie, brown hair and big brown eyes. The Munson genes were strong, apparently. She was a fussier baby, suffering with colic. There were countless sleepless nights walking the halls with her, bouncing her and trying to get her to just sleep.

Evie adjusted to her big sister role perfectly. She loved her new baby sister, even if she wanted to treat her like a doll and push her around in her toy stroller.

After Rhiannon’s birth is when things really spiraled, although you were still oblivious. But the guys started to notice, because he was less careful around them. He started spending more time away from home.

This was when Eddie did heroin for the first time.

It was just snorting it, he didn’t think it was a big deal. But god, the way it made him feel. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced, like he had literally gone to heaven. It was the best thing he’d ever felt in his life.

He never wanted to stop.

Eddie was railing lines before shows, smoking heroin as soon as he got off stage before heading to the after party. You were home alone with the two girls.

He would come home late, long after you and the girls had gone to bed, climbing into bed with you and kissing all over your neck and shoulders until you turned around in his arms, kissing him deeply as he slid his hand beneath your panties.

“My pretty girl,” he’d mumble against your lips, pulling your body into his own. “Gonna make you feel so good tonight.”

Eddie was always incredible in bed, but being hopped up on coke always made him insatiable. He’d fuck your brains out, have his hand held tightly over your mouth to not wake the kids as your eyes rolled back and you came around his cock again and again.

July 2001, Ivy Maeve Munson was born. She was born prematurely and with a congenital heart condition, and spent months in the NICU. You left her side as little as possible, Wayne babysitting the girls while you spent every possible moment at the hospital. She had heart surgery at 3 weeks old, which thankfully went perfectly. Eddie had to leave for band commitments, but spent as much time as he could by your side. He didn’t mention the pills he was popping behind your back, or the heroin he was smoking in the bathroom of the studio.

Things really hit rock bottom after Ivy’s birth. You didn’t know if it was the stress of her health problems or what, but something had changed in Eddie. He wasn’t even trying to hide his drug abuse anymore.

She was only a few months old when he injected heroin for the first time.

The rush was nothing like snorting or smoking it. The first time he did it, with some of his rockstar friends, and the drug hit his veins for the first time, he had never felt happier. Not on his wedding day, not holding his daughters for the first time. It was like there wasn’t a single thing wrong in the world, everyone around him felt like his closest friend, he loved everyone and everything. He was wrapped in the warmest, most comforting hug, his stomach was filled with butterflies like the first time he’d kissed you. Only better.

He slumped over and let it take him.

His addiction became obvious to everyone around him after that. His bandmates first - they’d get into constant arguments over Eddie showing up late too high to play guitar, forgetting the lyrics and slacking off on songwriting and practices. It was getting embarrassing for the whole band when he’d act a fool in public now, usually getting into fights with someone every time before they’d have to drag his passed out form back home.

The first time you found his kit, you confronted him in the living room, throwing it down on the table. “What the fuck is this, Eddie?”

Fear struck into his very soul. “Baby, I-“

“No.” You shook your head. “What the fuck, Eddie?”

“I-I swear I can explain-“

“I don’t think you can.” You looked down at the drugs and paraphernalia, tears in your eyes. “What have you been doing to yourself?”

“It’s just some fun, okay?” He said, hands combing through his curls in his stress. “It’s not a big deal. It’s just some fun.”

“This is heroin, Eddie. There’s needles here.”

Eddie opened his mouth, his hand outstretched like he was going to come up with some excuse, but he really didn’t have one. He dropped his arms to his sides. “I’m sorry.”

You wiped your tears away, angry and scared for your husband. “What if the girls were to see you fucked up on this stuff?”

Emotions swam behind Eddie’s eyes. “That wouldn’t happen. I promise that won’t happen.”

“Because you’re gonna stop, right?”

Eddie didn’t say anything.

“You’re gonna stop, right?”

“I…” Eddie looked around. “Of course I’m gonna stop, baby. I can stop any time, it’s no big deal.”

It was a big deal, and he couldn’t stop. In fact, his addiction only got worse and worse. He started stumbling onto stage doped out of his mind, unable to perform and forcing shows to be cancelled and tickets to be refunded. His public breakdown took over the tabloids, which was humiliating for everyone involved. And despite his promise, he came home high every day. The girls were scared of him like that, they were withdrawing from their father day by day, but he didn’t even know what was going on.

You broke up with him countless times, saying you couldn’t handle it anymore. But he would always come back, banging on the door in the middle of the night, crying and withdrawing and swearing he was done and wouldn’t touch the stuff again. You’d take him back, help him through the sickness, and things would be okay for a week before he’d be right back to it.

The final straw was when you found him shooting up a speedball in the bathroom at the house. You had freaked out - “The girls could have walked in on you! What are you thinking?!” - and Eddie was too doped up to even have a conversation with you. You called Gareth, Jeff, and Grant to come get him, because you were officially done for good.

You found out you were pregnant again after that. It was a complete surprise - Eddie was 37 and you were 36. There had been no plans for more kids. Three kids was a handful, and Eddie was his own shitshow right now. You hadn’t even talked in a week, and last you’d heard he was still heavy on the dope.

The guys were getting sick of him. The band had gone on an indefinite hiatus because Eddie couldn’t get his shit together. Everything he’d dreamed of, everything he worked for was falling from his grasp faster than he knew what to do with. But he still couldn’t put the drugs down.

You showed up at Gareth’s house, walls up as you prepared for the conversation, prepared for the state Eddie would be in when you saw him. Gareth answered the door with a somber expression on his face, and you knew it wouldn’t be good.

“He’s on the couch in the den,” he said.

You were familiar with the house, so you walked down the hall and to the room yourself. Eddie was passed out on the couch, hair a mess, sweaty, dirty clothes he’d probably been in for days. Track marks visible on his strong arms you always loved having wrapped around you.

You nudged him, and he slowly woke up.

“Babe?” He said, voice hoarse. His pupils were constricted, eyes bloodshot. He’d clearly had something recently. His facial hair was scruffy, unkempt. He reached for you, but you pulled away.

“I need to talk to you.”

He sat up on the couch with a groan, rubbing his head. “What…what’s up?”

“I’m pregnant again, Eddie.”

He dropped his hands, looking up at you. “No.”

You pulled the tests out of your hoodie pocket, handing them over. He took them with shaking hands, examining them. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” you said. “I’m 6 weeks. It’s still early.”

Eddie shook his head. “I can’t- we can’t-“

“I’m giving you an ultimatum.”

His eyes shot up to you. “What?”

“An ultimatum,” you said again. “Either you go to rehab and get clean, for good…or me and the kids are out of your life. For good.”

Eddie’s mouth opened and closed, looking for something to say. “You- you can’t do that.”

“I can,” you said. “And I am. Because this is out of hand, Eddie. You’re an addict. You’re going to kill yourself doing this shit. You’re not 22 anymore. This is sad. It’s sad watching you do this to yourself.” You wiped away a tear. “I love you more than anything, and I’m just watching you destroy yourself.”

Eddie looked up at you sadly. “Please. Please don’t take my kids from me. Please don’t leave me.”

“I have to do this,” you said. You took a deep breath. “If you want to get clean, you know where to find us.”

With that you turned and left the room, leaving Eddie alone with your words. He knew something had to change. He was killing himself with the drugs. But he also didn’t want to stop. He never wanted to stop. They felt too good, made him feel so alive in a way he never did in normal life.

As you drove home, you wondered if Eddie would take your words to heart. You’d broken up with him plenty of times over his drug use in the past three years, and it hadn’t changed anything. Not a damn thing.

If losing his family and his career wasn’t enough to scare him straight, you weren’t sure anything would.

tag list

@kellsck @birdysaturne @emxxblog @iheartgrayson

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januaryembrs · 1 year ago

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NEARLY BROUGHT ME TO MY KNEES | Spencer Reid x Prentiss!Reader [2]

Description: FIVE times Spencer thinks he might like you + the ONE time he knows.

Word length: 20k

Trigger Warnings: death, murder, Lauren arc, spencer's addiction mentioned, Diana's schizophrenia mentioned, vomit, alcohol, blood, usual criminal mind warnings. mommy AND daddy issues in the prentiss family.

previous chpt | next chpt

‘so sweet with a mean streak

nearly brought me to my knees.’

The one where he tries flirting

Emily tutted at her as the girl blindly shoved the Lucky Charms in her mouth, her tongue staining a gross blue-green colour from the additives as she read from a battered copy of Anna Karenina. Bugsy had been living with her for just two weeks now, since her impromptu fleeing from the altar, and Emily’s certainly had a good insight into the life of the twenty three year old.

Yes, it was her birthday next week. No, she didn’t act her age anymore than she had at twenty.

“Bug, slow down.” Emily urged, a rogue orange marshmallow dribbling down her chin as she plunged the spoon in before she’d even swallowed the last mouthful, “You get sick when you eat too fast,”

Bugsy waved her off with the utensil, not even ripping her eyes away from the page in front of her, scooping up the marshmallow with the side of her finger and popping it into her mouth.

Emily rolled her eyes, downing a few sips of her coffee and heading for the stairs, knowing her ride would be here any moment and she still had yet to change her shirt from the one she’d spilled toothpaste down not ten minutes earlier.

“Niko needs breakfast when you’re done,” The older of the two shouted down to the breakfast table, a streak of tabby grey running under her feet at the sound of food. Bugsy had insisted she bring her new feline friend into Emily’s apartment, and as much as she’d hated the way she nearly tripped over the chubby bastard almost every day they’d been here, she certainly had a fondness for him.

Bugsy hummed in acknowledgement, though she scraped the edges of her bowl clean by the time the cat in question hopped up onto the counter in search of her leftover milk.

“This is not for you, you have too much already,” She scolded, shovelling the last few sugary pieces of cereal into her mouth right as the door knocked.

She dogeared her page, gulping down a quick sip of Emily’s coffee, cringing when she caught it was much too strong for her liking, and heading for the door, her sister yelling to her again.

“Bug, can you get that- wait- are you wearing pants?”

She certainly wasn’t, having rolled straight out of bed in a pyjama shirt and underwear, and towards the promise of breakfast, nor as she swung the front door to the apartment open before Emily had a chance to rush down the stairs.

Spencer could have laughed when he saw her, all too reminiscent of the first time he’d met her. The boxers that hugged her legs beneath a large top he was entirely convinced was not hers, though her face lit up in excitement to see him.

“Good morning!” He thrust a coffee to-go into her hand, still warm even from where it had been jostled around in his car.

“You’re my saviour,” She grinned, sipping on the sweet beverage with bright eyes, “Cute sweater vest-”

She was quickly manhandled behind the door by two firm hands, Emily’s face enraged as she glared down at her sister where she was now out of sight from the doctor.

“What did I tell you about wearing pants? Huh? You nearly gave Mrs Jensen a heart attack last week,” Emily hissed, as Bugsy shrugged, remembering the look of horror the old woman across the hall had given her when she’d taken the trash out in a hoodie and booty shorts.

“It’s Spencer,” She poked her head around the door, despite Emily’s shoving, like she was taming a wild animal, “You don’t mind, do you?”

He shook his head, an amused and easy smile on his face as he watched the sisters bicker, not entirely unlike the way he and Emily tended to pick at one another.

“Not at all; I agree pants are loathable,” And he wasn’t lying. He tried to go for looser fitting trousers or sweat pants, hating the way the tight fabrics restricted his legs, rubbed his skin, making him want to itch and squirm inside his body.

“Don’t you start,” Emily pointed at him, huffing as she stepped out of the apartment, “You know she gets all worked up and weird on sugar,”

“Hey, I’m the last person to deny someone a coffee,” He replied, and the two turned to head back to his car, not before he threw the younger woman a look over his shoulder and a wave.

“Go save the world, kiddos.” She waved back, sipping her coffee indeed with bare legs that would have a nun blushing, “Curfews at nine, Doctor Reid, I expect both of you home for dinner!” She nudged the door closed with her hip before Niko could run out after Emily, and Spencer chuckled to himself, shaking his head.

“See, told you,” Emily sniggered, rolling her eyes, “Weird,”

Though that wasn’t quite the word he’d have used.

–

A killer, so far as they had been able to profile from the four bodies, was targeting women he picked up in night clubs in Atlanta. Most of the team, except Derek, had outgrown the clubbing scene, though Spencer didn’t quite think he’d ever been in it to start with. They all went to O’Keeffe’s usually once a month or so for a quick drink, but it was not big on his list.

Rossi, Reid and Derek stared at the puddle of blood on the sidewalk, wincing as Emily leaned over the balcony, the five story drop making her tug her lip in between her teeth.

This woman must have been terrified by something, someone, to see this as a better way out.

“Maybe she fought back,” Hotch speculated behind her, drawing her attention back to the cleaning equipment scattered over the floor, entirely different to the last three crime scenes where they had been arranged neatly into a triangle, “And when Becky fought back, his routine was compromised, cause he knew the police would respond,”

“Or she could have jumped,” Emily responded gravely, shaking her head at the carpet beneath her boots, “Her nervous system is pumping adrenaline, her fight or flight response kicks in?” Both were equally plausible options, but not ones they had time to entirely pick over.

“He’s struck two Fridays in a row, and if his routine’s been interrupted, it might compel him to strike again,” Hotch said, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his brow furrowed deeper than it usually was.

“It’s Saturday, the clubs will be packed tonight,” Emily replied, her eyes sad, worried.

“Take a look at the classes the Unsub might have taken, we need to generate a suspect pool as soon as possible,” Her boss ordered, and she nodded heading for the door before she stopped, looking at him with a grimace he didn’t quite understand, “What is it?”

“Bugs-my sister used to work as a shot girl in a club.” She said after a moment of thought, “She could smell a rat from a mile away; said most girls who work in bars get this sixth sense about guys with bad intentions, so they know when to cut them off earlier than most,”

Emily looked at him for a moment, and he seemed troubled, hesitant as she was to even tease the idea to him, before he sighed, rubbing a hand over his forehead.

“Call her in.” He said through an outbreath, gritting his teeth the way he did when he was in between a rock and a hard place.

Rock being another girl murdered by tonight with a huge opportunity to catch the guy in the act missed. Hard place being a twenty-three year old risking her skin for his team for a third time. He hated the paperwork she brought him, hated the look on her face the day Spencer and Derek had dragged her out of that chapel bloodied and shaken even more.

“But she wears a vest under her clothes, and she stays with Reid and Morgan,” He reasoned, “And just purely scouting; if the Unsub strikes, she gets out there like any other civilian.”

Emily nodded, her hand routing through her pockets for her phone already, “Couldn’t agree more,” She said, hitting the call button with a sigh. She just hoped this time her baby sister wouldn’t be making any drastic calls like throwing herself in the Unsub’s way. Though, Emily knew Spencer wouldn’t let her take another hit for him ever again. Not after the way he’d seemed so distraught the moment she’d been dragged from that room, his eyes all but glistening with tears when he’d seen her on the bed, bloodied and beaten for his sake.

No, Emily could stake her life on the fact Reid would go down swinging before that ever happened to her again.

“When you think about the nature of serial crimes, it’s amazing there aren’t more predators in clubs,” Spencer said, hoping the pretty girls he’d managed to snag into conversation didn’t hear the way his voice stuttered. This was so far out of his depth, the entire club atmosphere suffocating him worse than any tight pants ever could. The music was too loud, the heavy bass making him wince, the air was too close, too warm, the bodies that kept shoving past him made him want to shower for two hours straight and then wash his hands as well. He’d turned down the drink Derek had offered him, knowing the exact amount of bacteria that swarmed the ice behind the bar, on the rims of the glasses, on the taps-

Spencer was more than overwhelmed. And talking to beautiful women was not helping his flushed demeanour whatsoever.

“I mean, excessive amounts of alcohol, countless opportunities for date rape drugs, not to mention suprisingly risky behaviour being pursued,” He counted off, his satchel strapped tightly to his side, “All right, so who wants a flyer?” The three women turned their nose up in awkward smiles, the tallest pushing past him with little more than an outright scoff, the other girl following her like lost dogs, “Nobody? Okay, all right,” He said, his face crestfallen at their reaction, though he wasn’t so unused to it. Girls tended to react that way when he spoke, his entire high school career had been the same. Infact, the only girl other than his co-workers who ever bothered to listen when he spoke was-

“I’ll take one,” A voice came from behind him, the same one he had incidentally been thinking of since they’d left Emily’s apartment, and he could already tell she was smiling before he whipped around to see her slinking through the crowd.

He was ready to retort something clever, but felt his words congeal in his throat. He had thought, that day when he’d stopped the elevator and seen her in a sodden wedding dress, that he had seen her at her most beautiful. Yes, her makeup had been tracking down her face with her tears, her hair sticking to her cheeks, her expression weepy. But she had reminded him of a star, glistening with the rain, the water shimmering off the snow white fabric, it had taken his breath away then, even when she’d thrown her arms over his shoulders, as if he was the only thing that she could grab on to for safety.

But that dress was nothing like the one she wore now.

It was nothing extravagant, and truthfully he’d seen at least ten girls in this club alone that had gone way more lavish than she had bothered to on such short notice. But, Spencer couldn’t help but take her whole image in as she shoved her way in front of him, an easy smile on her face.

“Beats boxers and pyjama shirts, huh?” She twirled cheekily, warming under his gaze that blinked heavily at her. The dress had been an old thing she’d bought for a frat party, when she’d felt particularly sorry for herself and was going out looking for a bonehead jock to take home. It fit her nicely, complimented the areas she wanted it to, hid the others. A good fail safe option for a last minute night out like this. Covered the kevlar vest Hotch and Emily had wrangled her into.

Not her finest moment, being jumped on by her older sister as her boss forced the bullet jacket over her head; the new girl, Jordan, staring in discomfort as she’d cursed both of them out colourfully for ruining her outfit, but the way Spencer seemed to gulp heavily made her smile wider.

“You look…” He swallowed again, his fingers digging into the flyers in his hand. Hot. She looked hot. Hot enough that he felt his face flush with the same feeling, he hoped she couldn’t see the way he blushed beneath the club lights, “Beautiful,” He settled on, because ‘hot’ was an entirely Derek word to use.

“So you keep telling me,” Bugsy preened under his gaze, grinning like she knew something he didn’t. Grabbing one of the flyers from his sweaty palms gently, she took a look at the general sketch, not noticing the way he had yet to tear his eyes off her, “Alright, this the guy?”

“Yeah, we think he has a mark of some sort- like a birthmark or a scar over his left eyebrow,” He informed, corralling her towards where Morgan stood, his own eyes widening at the girl’s attire.

They knew she was coming to help scout the scene, they didn’t realise she’d come so ready. Derek immediately felt stupid for doubting her.

“Woah, did someone call the fire department, because you’re about to set the damn sprinklers off,” He teased, her face lighting up at the man she knew had a way of making her feel a million bucks every time he saw her.

Emily said he had little sisters of his own, and maybe that was how he knew just what to say. He had many years of experience being the best big brother.

“Oh, please, you guys spoil me,” She snickered, though her eyes scanned the crowd for a general scope of the club. Safe to say she did not miss the eight pm till four am shifts she used to pull, nor did she miss the drunk bodies swaying around her, the men who would get handsy, the girls who would get scrappy, “So, how’s it going?”

“Not good, I gave the profile to one woman and she asked if I was the unsub,” Spencer sighed, running a hand through his rogue curls, the humidity of the stuffy bar making them tighten around his ears just that bit more. “How are you doing?”

“Well, I gave out all my flyers,” Derek said smugly, though Spencer’s eyebrows raised, a smile teasing at his lips.

“Oh yeah? How many phone numbers did you get?” Bugsy snorted at his words, looking between the men with a smirk.

“None, I’m working the case here, kids,” Derek tutted, to which Spencer and Bugsy looked at eachother with identical doubt, flicking their gaze back to Morgan. He huffed, “Okay, four were offered, but I didn’t take any of them.”

Spencer’s jaw dropped, face scrunching in confusion how Morgan was so charismatic with women even when he wasn’t trying.

“Alright, I’m gonna go grab more flyers from the van. You,” He clapped a hand on Spencer’s shoulder, “Need to relax, man. Remind me to teach you the basics on picking up girls. And you,” Derek pointed to where Bugsy nodded patiently, “Make sure wonder boy doesn’t get eaten alive. And stay together.”

She nodded again, watching him leave through the crowd; already a woman grabbed on his arm for his attention, where she watched him politely decline with one of those flirty smoulders he’d mastered.

“I don’t get how he does it. I mean, I get he has the whole body of a God thing going for him,” Spencer sighed, as the two of them went back out into the crowd, scanning for a group of girls who looked particularly sober enough to listen, “But, he just has this way, you know. I’ll don’t think I’ll ever have the way,”

“Don’t put yourself down like that,” She chastised, nudging him affectionately with her elbow, “You’re very beautiful yourself, you know? You don’t need some stupid way, you just need to be yourself,”

She said it as if it was nothing, as if it hadn’t just hit him in the chest that she thought he was attractive, though he still remembered that first day they’d met when she assumed he was a stripper.

His heart swelled in his chest.

“You really think so?” He asked unsure, waiting for her to laugh in his face and tell him it had just been a tease, she was good at those. But she was never cruel. Never to him. He didn’t know why he’d expected it.

“Absolutely! I’ve seen like three girls already giving you goo-goo eyes. Believe me, you got the looks,” She simpers, watching his eyes scan the crowd to look for the supposed culprits.

“So, what, it’s my personality they don't like?” He asked, though he knew that was more than likely the case. He’d always been told he buzzed in people’s ears like a fly, like he was simply background noise the greater population wanted to tune out.

He knew that would be it. It didn’t stop the small stab of hurt in his stomach however.

“If someone doesn’t like your personality, that is a them problem, Spencer, not you,” Bugsy was quick to snap, the joking lessening in her eyes as she caught his dejected expression, “Girls like it when you talk about something you enjoy, something you know what you’re talking about. Which should be easy, since you know everything. What do you feel most comfortable talking about?”

“Statistics,” He said with a nod, to which she looked at him fondly.

“Okay, we have statistics as a backup option. Anything else?” She looked at him, the light bouncing off her eyes in a way that had him pause to think.

“Magic?” He offered, and she smiled even wider, if that was even possible.

“Magic! Perfect, girls love feeling magical,” She beamed, nudging him again with her elbow, and the two of them walked over to the bar, “Show me then, Gandalf. What moves would you pull on me if I was a girl?”

He blinked at her, “Are you … not a girl?” He asked, pure bewilderment on his face as he stole a few napkins from the counter.

She snickered, “Okay, if I wasn’t me. If you didn’t know me,”

“If I didn’t know you, I’d be way too nervous to even talk to you. And you definitely wouldn’t want to talk to me,” He said as he fiddled with the paper between his obnoxiously long fingers, folding the sheets into miniature shapes.

She chuckled at him, shaking her head. It had never been like this with them before. Sure, she teased him, like she always had, but he was teasing back. Complimenting her with a seriousness beyond just being nice.

Something was different in him since the day Cyrus dragged her away. And if that hadn’t done it, then seeing her every morning for two weeks had changed the boyish anxiety that had lingered even then.

“Stop stalling and show me these tricks of yours,” She bit playfully, though the grin she gave him was genuine as she saw something mischievous flash in his eyes.

“Patience is virtue, patience is virtue-” He murmured, fiddling with the short, plastic straws they kept at the bar, “Now for this to work, I’m going to need a beautiful assistant. Do you think you could find one for me-”

She smacked his arm, and he snickered. She shook her head, fighting her own laugh overcoming her.

Maybe she was right. Talking about something he loved made him feel entirely at ease, like he controlled every angle their conversation took, and the air between them had taken this odd electric turn he wasn’t expecting like someone had pumped a thousand volts under his skin.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” He replied, holding out one of the straws, about as plain and simple as it would be if it were in a drink, “But I will need some magic words,”

“Ofcourse,” She drawled, her cheeks hurting from how tight she was smiling, “What are they?”

“Magic words are, ‘I’ll be there’” He instructed, fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves as he watched her frown, and he pointed the straw at her mouth like a microphone, “You got it?”

“Yep,” She responded, even though the confusion read clear as day on her face. He tapped the straw on her nose and cleared his throat.

“3, 2, 1,” He tapped it to her temple, then to each of her shoulders, “Go on a date with me?”

“I’ll be there,” She responded, and in a strobe of light the single instrument became a trio of origami roses, stuffed into the straws as stems.

Her brain caught up to her as he gently placed them in her hand, her eyes gazing at him like he had just presented her with a 24 carat diamond, though in reality it was nothing more than a silly trick with napkins and plastic.

“Spencer,” She said earnestly, and he could have sworn her voice quivered for a split second, before she shook her head at him, punching him on the hip gently, “You are the most humble man I’ve ever met. You do that to any other girl and you’re getting laid, I’m telling you,”

He rubbed his chin bashfully, both of them catching the way the waitress behind the bar watched him with large, blue eyes Bugsy could have bathed in. She was gorgeous, and she stared at Spencer as if she’d been the one given roses.

Attracted. Interested.

“Talk to her,” Bugsy whisper-yelled, nodding over to the barmaid who busied herself with another order, though they both saw the way her flicking glances to the two of them as she scooped ice, “She would have seen if a guy like that frequented somewhere like here, talk to her,”

“What- no-” He protested, but his eyes widening as Bugsy leaned over the bar to flag the woman down with that playful charisma of hers, not missing the way a few heads turned as the dress tightened around her ass as she bent forward.

He felt his chest flash with anger, glaring at the men, hoping it was enough to ward them off. Her hand enclosed around his wrist, drawing his attention back to the bartender who watched him with a sweet face. He had to admit she was attractive.

“This is my very best friend, Spencer,” Bugsy told the woman, who smiled at him, and the Prentiss girl lifted his hand up to wave at her like he was a ragdoll, “Spencer, wanted to show you something, didn’t you, Spence?”

Raising her eyebrows at him, nodding to the flyers in his hand.

“I’m gonna go dance,” She fibbed, knowing she was going to go scout out the crowd to see if any guys fit the profile, nudging him a little harder than before, “Remember what we talked about. I’ll be by the DJ,”

Grinning encouragingly, he watched her swoop into the crowd like it was second nature, not missing the collection of guys who watched her every move; she captured the room when she moved, when she smiled, when she politely excused herself past a group of girls that tried to pull her into their circle with friendly cheers.

He did another one of his tricks for Austin, he’d come to learn was the name of the girl behind the bar, but it hadn’t felt the same, not even when she gave him her number unprompted, even as she flirted, smiled prettily, batted those sea blue eyes at him. It wasn’t the same.

He worried for a moment that the electricity he’d felt was reserved only for Bugsy, but he squashed it down faster than he could confront the idea.

2. The one where he nearly dies

“I don’t know how to do this,” JJ confessed, her bluebell eyes filled with tears as she stared out of her boss’ office and into the bullpen full of officers, scientists and even the damn military tearing through pages and pages of resources for answers.

Anthrax. A weapon of mass destruction they’d already had a small dose of, was on the move through the BAU’s own city. And they each had strict instructions to not alert their loved ones.

“I can’t stop thinking about Henry,” She whimpered through a strong facade as she turned to Hotch, and she saw the same guilt eating him up in those dark eyes of his that rarely let anything slip.

He had Jack. He had Haley, even with the divorce papers signed so long ago. He had people at risk too. And yet she couldn’t stop seeing her precious little boy’s face as he lay back in his pushchair and enjoyed the sights of the park, the same park that had just been targeted with an airborne disease-

“He goes for a walk almost every single day at Potomac Park,” She sniffed, the nausea chewing away at her brain as she recounted the lesions on that poor teenage girls skin, that's going to be Henry, that’s going to be Will, “What type of mother am I if I don’t atleast call and tell them to stay home?”

“JJ, we can’t,” Hotch said, though he felt his own dam start to tear down as he tried not to think of what could possibly happen to his own sweet son.

“I know, but-” Her throat bobbed, “It-it’s not just me- Emily’s worried about Bugsy. She told me she cuts through the park on the way to her lectures- she has one every day this week- Hotch-”

It was true. She had caught Emily in her own turmoil as the woman sped off to grab a drink seconds after chugging down the dose of Cipro they’d all been given that morning. She’d caught her filling a glass of water until the liquid started leaking down the sides and went over her shaking fingers, and even then she’d had to tug her friend out of whatever rabbit hole the words ‘Media Blackout’ had sent her down.

“I understand you both have people you want to protect,” Hotch was the voice of reason, as he always was, and it stung her to see his face so cold since she knew he was drowning his own sorrows behind it, “But if we all called home and used this information to give us an advantage other people don’t have, is that the right thing to do?”

She bit her lip, knowing he was right. She just prayed on everything she had Will would stay home with Henry today, Haley would have a movie night with Jack, and for whatever she had seen in Emily’s eyes earlier, a pure, unadulterated self-loathing, that Bugsy at least took the day off teaching.

JJ prayed, and prayed, and prayed.

–

She shuffled her notes together as she marked papers at her desk. They let her take the office to herself since she’d been at the University for five months now, gave her free reign of her lectures without having a supervisor like they had the first eight weeks or so. Bugsy enjoyed, surprising as it was to her, the feeling of somewhere that wasn’t the laboratory. Emily and Spencer had forced her to apply for jobs when they caught her binge watching real housewives for the sixth time back to back, of course lacking any bottoms.

Emily didn’t know why she thought twenty-four year old Bugsy would be any different. They had thought at least that Derek holding her hair back on the night of her birthday party as she threw up copious amounts of jello shots on the sidewalk would be an eye opening moment, but it hadn’t deterred her in the slightest. She had just chucked a handful of gum in her mouth, patted the man on the back and asked Emily to hit up the drive thru on their way home.

It wasn’t until she got the job did she feel a little bit more responsible, like what she was doing actually affected the people around her. Teaching first year college students was so very different than she’d expected, she was the authority figure.

She could hear her mother laughing at her now.

She almost smudged the little smiley face she’d drawn beside one of her student’s B+ as the phone rang on her desk, because she had an office phone believe it or not, and she cleared her throat, trying to sound as grown up as possible whilst also trying not to grin how excited she was to use her new landline.

“Miss Prentiss speaking, who’s calling?” She said, almost not recognising herself as she squeezed her gel pen in delight. She had this grown up thing down to a tea.

“Hi, Bug.” Spencer’s voice sounded out of breath, and she heard his converse slapping against a linoleum floor fast, as if he was pacing, “I got a quick hypothetical to run through with you,”

“Y-yeah, sure- Where are you?” She asked, her brows furrowing when he gave a wheezy cough, “Spence?”

“I’m not allowed to tell you, but I’m fine- for now,” He winced as he said the last part, as if it had slipped unintentionally, as if he knew what was coming next. He could practically hear her brain ticking over, “So, when you’re in the lab-”

“What do you mean for now?” She cut him off, standing up from her desk, already collecting her pencils back into their little pink case, “Where’s Emily? Is she okay? Is anyone hurt?”

“Everyone’s fine; as I was saying, hypothetically, when you’re in the lab where would you-” He talked over her right back, his slender fingers flicking through the piles of work, hoping he stumbled on a formula, a sticky note, a damn cheat sheet, anything.

“Don’t avoid my question, Spencer,” She snapped, and she could already feel the worry lines on her forehead.

He sighed, hoping she couldn’t hear the way his chest rattled and he choked down a cough. It would only make her worry more.

“I promise I will tell you what’s going on if you just answer my question,” Spencer rushed, feeling his face growing sweaty, opening the entire cabinet of drawers. “Okay?”

She nodded, biting her nail, as she sat back down. “Okay fine, shoot,”

“Where would you put your valuable items if you didn’t trust your lab partner while the two of you were working together?” He asked, wiping his brow with his sleeve as he held the phone tight to his ear with his shoulder.

She paused for a moment, “Well it’s standard practice that all jewellery comes off before we get scrubbed, so as not to contaminate anything. I usually put my scrunchie through my rings and tied it back into my hair so they wouldn’t get stolen. I knew some guys who put their watches around their ankles. Basically anywhere we could feel it on us,”

He cleared his throat again, and she heard him take a few steps, “How’s grading papers going? Did you get a fax machine yet?”

He was trying to change the subject, trying to take her mind off whatever it was he was doing that required such an urgent and peculiar question.

“It’s going good, I miss you bringing me coffee; it was like I had a maid who helped me with my crosswords,” She said, biting her bottom lip squeezing her thumb in the middle of her fist to slow the nerves. He tried to pretend he wasn’t smiling hearing that. “Now tell me what’s wrong. Did you go running without your inhaler again? I told you to leave a spare at ours so I could rescue you if you ever-”

“Bugsy, you’re a genius!” He cried, ignoring the way it made his throat burn, “Remind me to tell you every single day how smart you are- I have to go,”

“Spence- Spencer-” She tried to cut in, but he had already put the phone down.

So much for not worrying her, she thought, as she got on the phone to Emily within seconds.

Bugsy all but burst through the hospital doors, apologising when she nearly knocked a stack of files from a nurse's hands, wishing she had an inhaler herself after she had ran all the way from the car park, including the three flights of stairs.

After calling in sick the rest of the day, and practically volleying her rucksack into the passenger's seat of her car, she had blindly called Emily four more times until the woman answered with a frightened lilt to her voice.

Spencer was headed to the hospital. Spencer was headed there on full blues with lungs full of an even deadlier strain of Anthrax. Last Emily had heard he was getting worse. Bugsy put her foot down on the pedal even harder.

She knew the speeding ticket would come any day, and didn't even want to think about the state of her parking. All she cared about the second the lady at the desk had said what room he was in was seeing he was okay, that he wasn’t growing lesions or choking on his own blood or having half of his brain boiled alive.

Bugsy felt a small spike of panic, if it could even get worse, as she yanked the curtain back to see him asleep, a cannula tucked into his nose, a hospital gown tied over his shoulders.

Diving for his file that was attached to the end of his bed, she looked through his information to check what meds he’d been given. He once told her he was allergic to narcotics, said he had been since birth, and while she trusted one of the team to have passed the information on, she had to see it for herself that he was stable.

No narcotics given. Only paracetamol for his fever that was rapidly coming down. She could breathe again.

She jumped out of her skin when the curtain rail was pulled back a second time, and Derek seemed to startle for a moment too before a tired smile met his handsome face.

“Where have you been, Baby Prentiss?” His breath knocked out of him when she threw herself at him, a sigh of relief coming from her bitten lips.

“Oh, thank god you’re okay,” She murmured, and his chuckle echoed through his chest into her ear, “You all worried me half to death,”

“You’re looking very grown up,” He teased as he patted her on the back. And she was. She had taken to wearing maxi skirts and tights, even throwing on a cute blazer for affect, she was the teacher after all. She shoved him away with a smack to the chest. He laughed, holding up the opened pot of jell-o to her face, “Jell-o?”

She gagged, filled with memories of her birthday.

He shook his head with a smile as she sat down in the seat next to the bed and he spooned the first mouthful of the fruity dessert into his mouth.

“Is everyone else alright?” She asked, wringing her hands together. She fought back the urge to tuck Spencer’s curls behind his ear, knowing he was sleeping peacefully.

“Stop worrying. Team’s fine; we caught the guy and confiscated his supply. Even saved the last few survivors with you telling Reid where to look,” Morgan watched her jaw feather, and she picked under her nails.

“I keep telling you guys, I didn’t do anything. I just… spoke to him. He’s the genius, not me,” She said solemnly, staring into her lap with a frown.

“Not to him. Whole journey back, before the aphasia kicked in, he kept telling paramedics to tell Doctor Kimura it was you who’d figured it out.” Derek said, but it seemed to make her sulk more.

She said nothing, pulling out her book from her bag to continue reading as she waited for him to wake up, and Derek took it as a sign she was in no mood to talk, god forbid even take a compliment, and opened the magazine he’d grabbed from the cafeteria.

–

Half an hour and another pot of pudding for Morgan later (she gagged again at the sweet strawberry smell of it), the pair of them sat in silence, reading their own materials when a very sleepy, doe eyed man looked up and frowned.

“Are you eating Jell-O?” Spencer asked, barely noticing the girl on the other side of the bed, who shot up out of her seat as he came around.

“Hey doc. You have a visitor,” Morgan said with a small smile, Spencer’s face falling into a frown. He looked to the other side of him, just in time to see a worn copy of Middlemarch being flung to the floor and a hand grabbing his clammy ones tightly.

“Spencer I’m- I’m so mad at you-” She gasped, every soppy feeling of sadness she’d been stewing in leaving her body when she saw his hazel eyes fall to her, “You put the phone down on me and next thing I know you’re in the back of an ambulance nearly flatlining- I’m so-”

She breathed when she saw his eyes soften. He didn’t think she knew it but he saw the way her eyes glistened, her voice trembled underneath her anger. He felt the way she had yet to let go of his hand, how nice and warm it felt in his palm.

“I’m sor-” He hadn’t even finished his apology when she had latched onto him, trying not to hug him too tight but hard enough she could tell herself he was still here. He was okay.

And he could understand. He’d felt the same when they’d found her in that church, when Cyrus had hauled her away after she’d practically offered herself up in exchange for him. He’d known she was braver than she gave herself credit for, but that had stopped his heart right there and then. He had grabbed her in a hug the first chance he’d got even then, even when he barely knew her, when she was Emily’s sister and not Bugsy. Not the woman he’d spent every morning with for weeks bringing her a coffee just the way she enjoyed it, the woman he’d sat with on Emily’s couch with her legs across his lap as they did the puzzles in the morning paper together. She tried to do them, and he would finish them when she got too annoyed by the ones she couldn’t answer.

“I’m sorry,” He said, his arms gently hugging her back and he felt something wet on his shoulder blade before he knew what it was. He felt even worse for worrying her, squeezing her tighter than was even comfortable for him.

“Don’t do that to me again,” She said through tears as she settled in his arms.

He really hoped she couldn’t hear the way his heart pounded.

3. The one at Haley’s funeral

She had no idea what to say. Emily had always been the one who knew how to talk to people. She had this horrible habit of saying the first thing that came to her head, probably because a lot of the time it was the most real, and people liked real.

But now wasn’t the time for what was best for her. Haley Hotchner had been murdered.

She hadn’t spoken to Hotch yet, she’d only met the man a handful of times. But he’d invited her anyway, for the team. For Emily, maybe even Spencer; Emily said he liked when she was around. She couldn’t imagine any other reason she would be there.

Other than, ofcourse, to be Spencer’s crutch. Literally. Since his real one had broken and he was still limping around with one knee weakened by the bullet wound in it.

She’d nearly had a heart attack when he’d called from the hospital, again, though this time he’d waited until he’d gotten the all clear to tell her so she didn’t panic quite as much as last time. She’d cursed him out for being so reckless, and requested another week's sick pay to take care of him until he was able to actually walk. It was only a one year contract with the university anyway, she didn’t care if she missed a few days to make sure he was okay.

“You look very handsome today,” She whispered to him as she hauled him out of the car, minding that he didn't hit his head on the ceiling. He gave her a small smile and tucked her own hair behind her ear seeing it come loose from its braid when she’d leaned down to grab him.

“Just today?” He asked, and she finally smiled back. She’d been stuck in a bubble in the car; her and Emily both had. They had the same thinking face, he’d realised.

“Just especially today,” She answered honestly, and he worked on adjusting his black jacket so she could hold onto him comfortably. She was quieter than usual. Feeble, almost.

“Thankyou, you do too,” He replied, his face scrunching after a moment, “Look pretty I mean,”

He leaned on her arm, looped it around hers as he tried to be the least amount of imposing as possible. That went about as well as you’d expect for a six foot one bag of bones.

She gave up after just a few steps, moving his arm to wrap around her shoulder as she walked with him. To anyone else they would easily pass as a couple, especially as she squeezed him tightly to her when the men laid down Hayley’s coffin, and the service began.

“W.S Gilbert wrote ‘It’s love that makes the world go around’ and if that’s true, then the world spun a little faster with Hayley in it.” Aaron began, his voice strong as his large hands gripped the eulogy like it would give him any comfort. She smiled softly, her eyes glued to the man who stood unmoving for his son, “Haley was my best friend since we were in high school. We certainly had our struggles but if there’s one thing we agreed on unconditionally, it was our love and our commitment to our son, Jack,”

Bugsy smiled sadly when Jack looked to the floor bashfully. Glancing between the photo on top of the coffin, a beautiful blonde woman grinning back at her with brilliantly happy eyes and a soft face, she saw where he got most of his looks from.

“Haley’s love for Jack was joyous, and fierce. That fierceness is why she isn’t here today. A mother’s love is an unrivalled force of nature, and we can all learn much from the way Haley lived her life. Haley’s death causes each of us to stop and take stock of our lives. To measure who we are and who we’ve become.” She felt Spencer’s head knock into hers, felt the sniff run through him, and she searched her pocket for a tissue, “I don’t have all those answers for myself, but I know who Haley was. She was the woman who died protecting the child we brought into this world together; and I will make sure Jack grows up knowing who his mother was. And how she loved and protected him. And how much I loved her.”

If Haley were here today she would tell us not to mourn her death. She would tell us-” Aaron cut himself off with a watery voice, his resolve finally melting as he realised this would be some of his final words to his wife. Bugsy felt her bottom lip quiver in remorse, “She would tell us to love our families unconditionally. And to hold them close because in the end they are all that matter.”

Spencer felt her tug him closer as she hid the lone few tears from the rest of the mourners and wished more than ever he could press a small kiss to her brow.

–

No, Bugsy was not good with knowing what to say and when. Wasn’t good at cheering people up no matter how much Spencer told her she always made him feel better. Didn’t really know much about how to make someone understand that she cared other than showing them with her whole body.

So by the time it was her turn to offer condolences, she didn’t bother shaking his hand. That meant nothing to her. That was a business deal, that was an agreement, a formal way to pretend you cared. But she did, she felt terrible for Hotch, wanted to fix him and his sweet son until Haley was right back there to thank her.

She didn’t shake his hand like everyone else had. He held his hand out for one, his eyes soft and warm, like he could see she was struggling. She brushed past his hand and just pulled him in for a hug, and he wondered if she was always going to greet him that way.

“I guessed that sorry wouldn’t make anything better so I brought you the biggest bottle of wine the store had,” She murmured into his chest, and she was gobsmacked to hear him chuckle weakly. She felt his hands pat her on the back gently, and he appreciated her candour. “I’ve got some Xanax if you’d really like a treat,”

She was a breath of fresh air. Aaron truthfully had been sick of people saying they were so sorry for his loss, and he felt like shaking them and yelling, screaming that they hadn’t been the one to kill Haley, Foyet had.

He pushed all of it down, focusing on the way she’d tucked herself to him like she had the day she’d become a runaway bride dripping rainwater over his bureau floor.

“She would have really liked you,” Aaron confessed, and they finally parted, and she saw he was smiling like he meant it, not just saying it to make her feel more comfortable being here. “You would have made her laugh,”

He saw the easy expression on her face fade, and she turned to look at her heels, nodding quietly.

“I would have been lucky to have known her,” She said, handing him the gift bag with a very heavy present inside. “I only wish someone would ever love me the way you love her,’

And with that she bid him a smile, and returned to her seat in between Emily and JJ, the pair of them mother henning her all day.

Aaron wished he could have said more to her after that, but before he knew it, someone else was offering him their condolences, and the sadness in her voice was forgotten.

–

The team sat around the table, nursing their beers, or in Spencer and Bugsy’s case a tea. Spencer didn’t want to affect his healing process with alcohol, not that he’d ever been big on the stuff, and Bug said she struggled driving even without the help of a beer, so they chatted between sips from two very fancy china cups.

Emily and JJ sat to the other side of her talking about how beautiful the flower arrangements were when a small, fawn haired body came wandering over to where Will held a one year old Henry on his knee.

“Would he like to play?” Jack asked shyly, trying to peer up onto the adults table to see if there were any other kids his age that would like to do something with him. His dad had been busy talking to all those people, and auntie Jessica had been trying to make it round to every table to thank people for being here. He didn’t entirely understand what was happening, in all honesty.

“He’s still a little too small yet honey. In a year or so, you guys can be best friends,” JJ said sweetly as he pulled his chin up to the tabletop and spied the younger woman sitting next to uncle Spencer.

He tottered over to her, where she sat unaware she had a shadow until Spencer's face softened as he looked behind her, and she swivelled around in her seat.

“Hello,” Jack said quietly, looking up at where she seemed to buffer, feeling eight pairs of eyes on her as she interacted with the small boy.

She had never been good with children, had never been around them since she was their age, even the kids she taught now were all at least eighteen.

The mantra to absolutely not fuck up the next few moments reverberated around her head.

She gave him a soft smile, holding out a hand for him to shake, “Hi, Jack. I’m Emily’s sister. You can call me Bugsy,”

His tiny nose scrunched as he watched her, shaking her hand the way dad had shown him how.

“Bugsy? That’s a weird name,” He said, and she chuckled, “Like the bunny?”

She shrugged, “I guess like the bunny, yeah,” although she had never thought of that before.

“Would you like to play with me?” Jack asked, and she felt her chest warm unnaturally. He had such a sweet face. It was just like the woman in the picture.

Smiling at him crookedly, she rooted around her bag for the notebook and pens she kept for her to-do lists. Maybe Spencer was rubbing off on her.

“We could do some drawing if you want?” She offered, showing him the pad with kind eyes. That seemed to satiate him as he grabbed her knee and started pulling himself up to sit in her lap, and she paused.

Kids were so funny, she realised, she would never just start grabbing someone she just met and asking to climb on their lap.

She got him comfortable on her knee, not noticing the flashing glances Spencer gave her between his conversation with Kevin, Garcia’s beau, as Jack started drawing a bunny with a human face, that was supposedly meant to be her.

Spencer watched her giggle as he gave the rabbit a pretty dress, like the one she was wearing, and Spencer had to admit it was a pretty dress she’d gone for today. Had he not been so mournful earlier he thinks he would have blushed how tight she’d held him.

She showed him how to play noughts and crosses, and she let him win most of them, laughing when he asked to tear out the page from her notebook to show his dad later.

That is, until the man himself came over to the table of his work colleagues, only to see the group watching their youngest playing with his sweet son.

“Bugsy,” Hotch said, and her head shot up to him, a guilty look passing over her face, worried she’d overstepped, though the fact he hadn’t said her real name said otherwise, “Can I talk to you for a moment outside, please?”

She blinked, straightening in her seat “O-ofcourse!” Shuffling Jack off her lap as fast as she could without hurting him, smoothing out her dress down as she followed him to the small balcony the funeral home had. It was a classy manor, but she guessed Hotch would have only had the best for Haley.

“I’m sorry if I overstepped, Jack asked to sit on my lap- and- I’m not good with kids anyway I just didn’t want to tell him no, especially not today-” He put his hand on her shoulder to shut her up, a small smile spreading on his face. It was fatherly and calming, something her own father had been much too busy to ever bother with.

“Not at all, that’s not why I called you out here,” He reassured, squeezing her gently as he leaned against the railing, taking a deep breath of the midnight air, and he felt his professional mask begin to slip. “I’ve been thinking… about how much help you've been to us over the years. Reid would be dead if it wasn’t for you.” She opened her mouth to protest, and he flashed her a look that said he was serious. “Let me finish,”

She wrung her hands guiltily, “Sorry,”

“You’re very resilient far beyond your years, you’re incredibly charismatic when you need to be, and you’re by far one of the smartest people your age,” He said, watching her face to see how she felt. He knew she didn’t take compliments well, for some other reason they could dig into any other day. But he needed to say it now, needed her to know now for what he was about to ask her.

“Whether that is true or not, why are you telling me this?” She asked politely, without the usual bite that went with it when they tried calling her something she wasn’t.

“I need to take some time off to spend with Jack, try and help him…” He trailed off, unsure as to what he wanted to say. “Help him understand Haley’s not coming home,”

She nodded with a glistening lash line, and grabbed onto his arm gently.

“My team looks to me to be their glue, but I know I can’t keep everyone together and look after my son. Emily said your contract at the University was ending,” He cleared his throat, looking at her again with something vulnerable in his sable black eyes, “So I was wondering if you would reconsider the FBI academy? It’s only twenty weeks, but Rossi and I can put you forward to do the written exams earlier if you’d like, and then Strauss can have you assigned a trainee position at the BAU-”

“Anything,” She nodded, “Anything you need, I’ll do it,” and he hugged her for once. Maybe it was the way she had said it so willingly, no matter her own reservations about joining the academy, no matter her stubbornness and resistance to her sisters pestering, or even the fact they all talked weekly about how much easier their job would be if she was there. Her and Reid’s brains together were a force to be reckoned with.

And he knew, the surprisingly kind girl that clutched at him back, would keep his team together, would be the glue to keep their heads on while he took some time to watch his son.

“Thankyou,” He murmured into her hair, and she forced herself not to get weepy at the grief in his voice. Of all people here, she was the last person who should be allowed to cry. Least of all to him.

He pulled away from her eventually, cursing himself for letting the front slip, but it was as if she had that effect on everyone on the team, like she had this little way of worming her way between that gap in their chests where their hearts once were before they’d seen the things they had, dealt with the people they had.

It was for that reason Aaron knew they would be just fine.

“You know, when I was a kid, mom got letters every day from people with their own agendas against her,” Bugsy said once they’d taken a gulp of cool night air, “They all said the same thing; that they were going to take me for ransom unless she left the country. She didn’t think much of it until a guy started following the car home from school and she decided to get me trained in self defence,”

Hotch frowned, his chest tightening. He knew how it felt to be a parent on edge for his kid’s safety, but to hear it from the other side cut deeper.

“Which was fine, I got a pretty mean shot if I say so myself, but eventually it progressed into hostage training, in case…” She swallowed dryly, clearing her throat and picking her nails, “I wet the bed the first time they grabbed me, the whole idea was that I wouldn’t know it was coming. They let me go pretty fast, I don’t think they’d expected the eleven year old to reach for the kitchen knife,”

Hotch scoffed, shaking his head in horror, though he didn’t doubt her for a second.

“I slept with it next to my bed for a year, so that next time they came for me, they would think twice and let me sleep in,” She said with a thoughtful smile.

“And did it work?” He asked, watching her run her hands along the stone wall beneath his elbow.

“I dunno, but the one guy left pretty quick when I almost took his eye out,” She giggled, and the sound made him laugh quietly as well, “My point is, you’ve got nothing to worry about with Jack. Kids like us, we get made tougher, resilient. And with parents like you two, I’d say he had a pretty good head start.” Bugs said, smiling to herself flicking a glance up to his face that said just how touched he was. Deciding he was likely waiting for her to turn around before he let himself cry, she took a step back, heading towards the reception. “I mean look at me, I turned out alright!”

She barely heard his small chuckle that faded into a weep before she shut the door behind her, heading back over to the table where the team sat, Jack now with his auntie Jessica, and their eyes fell on her, waiting to hear whatever it was she had to say.

Taking a deep breath, she gave them an awkward smile, “Guess I’m joining the academy afterall,”

And that was all she got out before Garcia dived on her with an excited cuddle.

4. The one with his new hair

He knew he was sweeping his fingers through his hair much more often than usual, his hazel eyes flickering to his reflection in car doors in a way that was almost obsessive. He liked what his barber had done, but that wasn’t the point.

He was hoping she liked it.

Bugsy had passed the academy with flying colours, not that anyone had ever doubted her, and had been part of the team for all of two weeks, though he would argue she was BAU way before that. Hotch had figured out a staggered schedule where he could take care of Jack four days a week and work the rest until Jack settled back in at school.

It had been nearly five months since Haley had died, but it hadn’t gotten any easier for the boy.

Spencer definitely, definitely hadn’t spent the last two weeks practically breathing down her neck whenever they went out into the field, nor had he definitely not found himself fighting off the grin that threatened his composure when he caught her scribbling notes down to herself whilst Penelope presented the cases.

And he most definitely hadn’t gone out to get a new hair cut in the hopes she would find him more attractive.

Definitely not.

And yet, her face was the first one he found himself looking at as he stepped into the office, watching as it trailed up from her notebook, her pink gel pen paused mid sentence as the rest of the team went silent, her face spitting into a grin the minute she saw him.

“What, did you join a boyband?” Hotch asked in a rare moment of teasing, Derek snickering as Emily nudged his arm with her own chuckle.

“Can I be your groupie?” Bugsy asked, which made them laugh harder, though she stared at him with a small twinkle in her eye the way she always did when he squirmed under her compliments.

He hadn’t thought she was being mean, not even when they took a moment to settle down, not even when she smiled wryly at him, her eyes flicking up to his hair twice more before her attention was stolen back by Garcia switching the board.

“Okay, so what are we looking at here? Late twenties, early thirties?” Emily asked after they quietened, adjusting her bangs over her brows.

“All single, though two are in committed relationships,” Rossi added, flicking through his own pack of notes. “All living on their own,”

“Looks like normal suburban houses. Give the Unsub privacy,” Morgan added, his face scrunched in disgust as he looked at the crime scene photos.

“The differences are more striking than the similarities. Different hair colours, different body shapes.” Reid noted, Bugsy’s handwriting scrawling over her notebook as she tried to capture everything they were saying.

“What do we know about his MO?” Hotch asked JJ, the blonde woman shaking her head with a grimace.

“That’s why we were invited in, the abduction sites are pristine,” She said gravely, looking between her team as they seemed to balk at the information.

“No DNA besides the victims, and there’s no sign of forced entry or struggle,” Bugsy noted in the pack Garcia had given her that morning, along with a little pat to the head for good luck. Before now, in those two weeks, they had only dealt with one kidnapping and one group homicide that had turned out to be one very stupid teen spiking drinks at a pool party. This case would be the worst one she’d seen yet.

“And the victims aren’t reported until two or three days after they’re abducted,” Emily tailed off the end of her sister, her eyes serious as the team came to the same conclusion.

He had days to spend as much time with the bodies as he wanted.

“Two or three days? Women like this don’t just disappear without somebody noticing,” Rossi chimed in again, as JJ clicked onto the next screen handing the remote to Garcia.

“Yes, which is why I had Garcia dig into their lives a little,” She said, taking a seat next to Hotch to let penelope lead.

“And I took a look at their online activity, I could easily see what the Unsub was doing,” Penelope said, clicking onto a screen full of the women’s profiles.

Bugsy couldn’t even say she was shocked. Ever since she was in highschool, friendships, or her lack thereof, had been entirely decided on who had the most likes on their status update. Apparently no one found the girl who read Russian Literature for fun cool, nor did they want anything to do with her. Emily didn’t know she’d sat in the school toilets to eat her lunch for three years straight. Turns out kids from every country were bitches.

“Social Media profiles?” Her older sister asked, though the surprise was evident on her face atleast.

“Yeah, facebook, twitter, you name an online life-sharing time suck, these victims were on it,” Penelope said, enlarging the screen for the team to see the specifics, “And if you look at each of their last posts, they say kind of the same thing, ‘Going out of town, Going on a business trip, Going on vacation,’ but when you look at the time and date stamps on each of these, queue the twilight zone music because they were all posted the morning after each of them went missing,”

“The unsub posted them?” Hotch concluded, his natural frown deepening. This Unsub had a way to keep all of his victims hidden for much longer than they’d anticipated. Who knows what he could be doing as they spoke.

“You know, social networks are an easy way for an unsub to target his victims. These women were especially open, they posted everything from what they had for dinner to where they were going on dates,” Spencer said, looking at the print outs Pen had handed to them.

“The unsub ‘Friends’ his victim, and then uses it as a cover once he takes them,” Derek said, as Bugsy’s face scrunched in disagreement.

“What are you thinking, Kiddo?” Rossi asked from her left, as he head shot up to see the team watching her, waiting for her input.

Surprising to everyone, she was somewhat nervous when she’d started at the BAU. The Bugsy Prentiss, the woman who had caught out parts of the Russian Mob when she was just a college student, was nervous to not mess up in front of them.

“I understand what Derek’s saying, but nowadays you don’t actually have to be friends with someone to follow them.” She said, picking her fingertips in thought, “A lot of people have hundreds of total strangers they’ve never met on their page; some settings mean you don’t even need to be ‘friends’ in the first place to see what they're posting. The UnSub probably wouldn’t even bother implicating himself in the first place by following them, he could just access their profile and see what they're up to. I think he profiles as patient and organised, and somewhat tech savvy if he’s up to date on the way these medias work,”

The team watched her carefully, Spencer beating down the proud smile he wanted to flash her, knowing he needed to be focused on this case, but she seemed satisfied with her answer when Penelope nodded in agreement.

“So you don’t think he’s an old guy like me, is what you’re saying?” Derek asked with aghast, knowing full well mid thirties wasn’t too old. Hadn’t stopped his pride hurting.

She shook her head, “I just think he wouldn’t be as old as you. Mine and Reid’s age maybe. But he seems obsessive, and he also must have a job that affords him the spare time to spend the following few days with the bodies, but it means we should also assume that these women are likely already dead,”

She looked to Hotch hopefully, to see him staring at her unreadably for a moment, before he looked to Rossi with a nod.

David slapped her on the shoulder affectionately, “You just put together your first profile, kid,”

And before long, they were heading for the jet with her deductions in mind to hand over to the cops.

–

“Can someone explain to me the appeal of these sites? ‘Eating sushi tonight, yum!’ ‘Boss is keeping me late at work, grr,’” Rossi stared at the status updates, perplexed, as the team snickered to themselves.

“Now, wait a minute. How did you find my profile?” Bugsy asked jokingly, and she drew a fond smile from Aaron her way when Rossi chuckled to himself.

He wished she would stop looking so nervous to contribute. She fit right in with the furniture.

“Whose life is so important that we’d be interested in this kind of detail?” Rossi asked seriously, though Bugsy supposed even the coffee machine was a new useless piece of technology to the man who liked his espresso fresh.

“That’s just it, no one is. I guess everyone just wanted to believe it to themselves that they all have an audience out there waiting to hear every update of their day. Some of them even have GPS tracking systems in place to make it even easier for people to find out exactly where you are,” Bugsy said, her eyes flicking to Spencer who watched her intently, automatically floating up to take in his new hair again.

She couldn’t help think he had stopped looking cute, and started looking hot. He’d always been cute, god knows she’d always thought he was good looking. But now he looked… dreamy. It had made her double take the minute he’d walked through the door, hoping it wasn’t too obvious she was staring.

“That explains how he’s finding them, but it doesn’t tell us how he’s getting into their houses,” Hotch nodded along with her, eying her carefully as she looked through her own notes she’d made once she’d brought herself round to ripping her eyes off Reid.

“At the very least I believe he has copies of their keys,” Spencer said, his finger trailing the information in his file, “Doris Archer had a home security system installed, but the disable code was entered at 1:56am, so he knew that too. He also found a way to deal with her dog, a German Shepard she adopted from the pound last year, it went missing the night she did,”

“Did they find the dog?” Bugsy asked, her face in a frown as Emily looked up to her.

“Why? What are you thinking?” She asked her little sister who played with the ‘TRAINEE’ lanyard around her neck.

“If he hurt the dog, it likely meant the dog had been on alert to him as an intruder, since opportunistic violence isn’t in his profile of being collected and organised. So if he didn’t hurt the dog, and he was found alive and unharmed, it means the dog knew him,” Bugsy explained, and Derek stroked his face in thought.

“This guy’s gotta be in and out of the house well before the night of the disappearance. He comes up with some ruse, talks his way inside, and then once he’s familiar enough with the house he knows he can come back and kidnap them without disturbing anything,” He said, the girl nodding in agreement with him.

“Think of people you let into your home you don’t consider a threat. Home repair guys, dog walkers?” Rossi offered, but JJ was quick to flick to her own pack.

“Detective Fordham looked into that too. No one came even close to being a killer,” She shut down, not wanting to waste their time running through avenues that had already been explored.

“Alright,” Hotch started as he glanced at his watch to see they were landing in around ten minutes, “Morgan and Prentiss, start with the last abduction site, see if anything points to his MO.”

Bugsy raised her hand politely, as if she were still in class, and he nodded in her direction to speak, “Do you mean as in me when you say Prentiss or as in Emily when you say Prentiss?” She asked, and Emily seemed to be having the same issue as she flicked a glance between the two of them.

“I mean Emily, for you I guess I’ll have to say-” But he stopped himself with a frown. What would he say? Bugsy? No, too informal on a case. Baby Prentiss? Absolutely not. He thinks she might just hit him if he said her first name too much. “We’ll workshop it for now. Dave, you, Prentiss, Reid and JJ go back over the women’s lives. Start with asking around their friends on the sites. If this is how the Unsub is finding them, maybe they’re connected to him without even realising.”

The team was quiet for a moment, before Spencer pointed to Bugsy with his pen, “So that time you meant Bug, right?”

Dave wished he could protest but he had also been a bit confused, as Hotch rubbed his head tenderly.

He felt the headache coming already.

–

“What was it about these women that made him choose them as targets?” Bugsy asked as she and Spencer sat in a small room in the Boise precinct, the three victims' profile pictures staring back at them from the board.

It was their second day working on the case, and other than Garcia tracking a very disturbing snuff film of the last murder being streamed from the victim’s own IP address using camera’s he’d set up in the home, they had yet to have a big breakthrough. Hotch had told her to leave the room when they’d shown the footage, knowing it was one of her first weeks on the case, and despite having a strong stomach, he wanted her to ease into the role rather than drop her in the deep end head first.

Even seasoned agents like Morgan and Rossi had both winced, JJ even gagging as they watched it happen. They usually dealt with the aftermath, not have front row seats on the act itself.

She had been allowed in once the tape had finished, but Reid had immediately shuffled her into the small office they’d been permitted to use by the Boise police, his face a little more peaky than usual.

She wished he wouldn’t worry so much about her, wished he would hide it better when he fretted over her. She was sure he would burst a vessel if he kept flicking his head to look at her, though she just sat staring at the women as if the answer would jump out at her.

“They’re all pretty, aren’t they?” Bugsy said, swinging her legs beneath the table, her eyes roving over the three faces, “Though unconventionally, they’re still pretty.”

They weren’t his type, Spencer thought, they looked almost nothing like her. She had removed the last of the pink hair dye she’d managed to keep on top of for a year or so before she’d started at the university. Her nose piercing had progressed to a little thin silver hoop, though her earrings had been dialled down for safety reasons in the field, and she kept her hair tied back away from her face most days. She looked older, which was a dumb thing to think, since of course she was older. But she had grown into her face, and Spencer was entirely convinced she took after her father since the only thing she shared with Emily was the same pout when she thought too hard.

He’d watched her grow for all of three years into the twenty five year old that sat before him, and yet her face had never really changed shape. She still had those pretty eyes that seemed to glint up at him, those soft lips that pursed when she tried not to giggle at him, that perfect nose he would trace the edge of using just his gaze when she had come over to his apartment to study for the academy. She was still as beautiful as the day he’d met her, he thinks part of him had always thought of her in that way. He had just put it down to a pretty girl giving him attention. But girls gave him attention all the time, he had realised since that stakeout at the club, when he’d given her those napkin roses. He just didn’t care for them.

He only cared about what she thought of him.

Only cared what her face looked like-

“Wait,” He stopped his thoughts that could go on for days, weeks, about her. They already had, it was difficult to pull himself out of it sometimes. He stared at the photos of the victims, his mind revelling in her own face that he didn’t doubt had guys swooning and falling over their own feet, as he zeroed in on their eyes, cheekbones, septums, “Their faces are all an identical structure,”

“How did you figure that out?” She asked, wide eyed and he ripped down the photos before she could catch him blushing.

He thought he might take it to the grave what he’d been thinking about.

–

“He’s going live,” Hotch seethed, clicking a button on the remote and the whiteboard in the centre of the room lit up with video footage, a small red dot flashing slowly in the corner telling them they were watching it being streamed.

Bugsy stood behind Spencer, her eyes glued to the small computer at the desk that played the same screen, her heart rate spiking when she saw a small body camera pointing at a house, the UnSub cutting across a lawn in a near sprint.

He’d lost control completely, and he had another victim set in his sights.

“He’s not slow, deliberate. This guy’s pissed.” Rossi said, his jaw hung open in horror as the streamer headed straight for the front door.

“All right, what do we see? Determining markers?” Hotch snapped the groups focus back from the gut wrenching panic that everyone felt, and it was like a switch flipped.

“A one story cottage,” Spencer noted, his eyes glued to the screen so tight he missed the way Bugsy’s face changed colour, and she looked like she was swaying on her feet.

“That could be anywhere,” Detective Fordham commented back, his face grimacing.

“Is there a number on the house?” Morgan asked, and everyone leaned in closer to the footage.

“No, he’s already at the door,” JJ said, running a hand through her long blonde hair.

Bugsy thought she might be sick.

“Garcia,”

“He’s using twice as many proxy servers,” Her shaky voice came through the speaker, furious typing in the background.

“Wait, this window in the background, is that the chat room?” Emily asked, pointing to the small screen at the bottom that flooded with comments from at least forty different users, and more began entering the stream.

Get that bitch.

Show her a good time.

Teach the pigs a lesson for sticking their nose in.

Bugsy wished she hadn’t been so fast at reading, as she felt her skin go cold at the sight of the comments.

“People are getting off on it,” She said quietly, but no one heard her, too focused on finding out where the UnSub was.

“Uh Huh,” Garcia confirmed, as the footage flicked to show a kitchen view, a pretty fair haired woman stood chopping peppers none the wiser to the sick people watching her life before it was about to be ended.

“He’s in the house, guys,” Reid ran clammy hands over his trousers, his stomach churning as the video went on.

“He’s completely changed his MO,” Derek added, and the team could do nothing but watch in terror, “There’s too much light, what happened?”

“Someone asked the wrong question at the press conference,” JJ explained from beside Reid, her nails bitten to hell.

“Oh my god, turn around. Just turn around,” Emily begged, and part of her little sister thought she might have been talking about her.

“Maybe she can fend him off,” Derek said, though even his tone of voice wasn’t convinced.

“New kitchen appliances, maybe we could check the work order?” Spencer was grasping at straws he knew that, but he couldn’t sit back with that big brain of his working overtime and not try to help at all.

“He’ll be gone by then,” Rossi said, and he wasn’t entirely wrong.

“Garcia, can you give me anything?” Hotch asked, and the sound of typing got even faster if that was possible.

“I’m stateside now, I’m almost to Idaho, I just need more time,” but Garcia was cut of by the man in the video lurching at the innocent woman, his hands wrapping around her neck with a venomous grip, her every moment of pain and terror captured on his body cam for his audience to see.

His audience including the team.

Bug felt the bile rise then, felt her eyes burn as she watched the woman’s face freeze in fear, a yelp of “No!” leaving her oesophagus, her small hands coming up to his wrists to try pry him away from her, anything to gasp for another breath of air.

She wasn’t listening as Hotch barked orders at Garcia, her eyes were stuck on the woman that writhed in pain, pleading with the masked man to spare her. But her rebuttals got weaker, her whimpers began to grow quieter, and soon he’d tackled her to the ground in a blood curdling scream, his whole body weight crushing her throat.

Her own hand came up to cover her mouth that dropped open in shock, her eyes burning with tears that she couldn't let fall. It was this woman who was suffering, not her.

There was a bit more struggling from the woman, her eyes bulging from her skull, lips turning blue, until she slumped beneath his hands, and he released her.

She took a step back, bumping into a chair she hadn’t even known was there as her eyes fixed to the screen, and Spencer’s head shot around to see her shaking on the spot, her eyes haunted.

Emily followed suit, but Spencer was already out of his seat, rushing forward to grab her arms and lead her outside.

“I’m gonna get her some air,” He called behind him to the team that watched her go with forlorn glances, and he hated how he felt her trembling beneath his grip, grabbing onto his jacket just as tight.

They made it halfway down the stairs before she bolted for the bathroom, and he heard her retching as he dipped into the room after her, not caring that the sign clearly stated it was for women.

“I’m fine, Em, just give me a minute,” She said, and he heard the sniffles between her words.

“It’s me,” He said, finding the one stall on the end that had it’s door engaged, pulling a cup from out of the dispenser and filling it at the water fountain, “You should drink some water, the cold helps reset your body’s instinct to fight or flight,”

“Or in my case, make a complete fool of myself and take time away from a time sensitive investigation because I’m such a wuss,” She said cynically, coughing chestily and he heard the toilet flush.

His forehead creased as he frowned. The door unlocked and she stepped out, her eyes red and teary as she gently took the water from his hands, and he rooted around his pocket for a stick of gum to give her. She chucked it in her mouth, letting the peppermint clear the vile taste from her mouth, hoping she didn’t look too gross.

“You shouldn’t stand so close to me, toilet bowls are like full of germs and my heads just been in there, I know it makes you feel funny to be around germs-” He pushed her hair behind her ear as if to tell her to stop thinking so loud, and she couldn’t help smile sheepishly at him. “Do you think Hotch will be mad?”

He shook his head instantly.

“Mad? No. Worried? Incredibly.” Spencer replied, stroking her hair a little the way his mom used to when he felt sick.

Bugsy shook her head, sniffing to herself a little more.

She couldn’t stop seeing that woman’s face as the life slipped from her, the hands around her neck. The yelps and pleads and begs and she fought with everything in her.

“How long was it until you started feeling like this?” She asked earnestly, running a sleeve under her nose, “You’re so brave, I always knew you were but, since I started, it’s like I realised nothing really touches any of you anymore.”

He fought the incredulous laugh, him; brave? The man scared of the dark and elevators brave?

“We all take things home with us at the end of the day,” He said, wiping under her eyes for her with his own cardigan cuff, “If you didn’t feel anything for the victims we help, you wouldn’t be human, Bug,”

She nodded, “I know. I just don’t want to let anyone down. Not you guys and especially not the people we’re helping,”

“It’s for that reason I know you’re going to do great,” He said, giving her one of those small Spencer smiles he reserved for when he wanted to see one of hers.

Her forehead thumped onto his chest as he pulled her a little closer, and his cheek fell on top of her hair as he ran gentle hands over the sides of her arms, calming her until her breath started evening out.

“You never said,” She pointed out, “How long it took for you to start getting cold feet. Bet I beat some kind of record, two weeks is absolute dog shit,” She chuckled to herself, not noticing how his face evened out in sadness.

It was Tobias Hankel that had done it. It was getting tied up and injected that had made him feel like a failure, like he wasn’t cut out for anything let alone the force. Like his life was taking a huge spiral downwards.

But he wouldn’t tell her that, not yet at least.

“Come on, let’s get you back,” He brushed off, and she figured it was a sore spot for him. She cursed herself for asking in the first place.

Nodding, she downed the rest of the water and got herself a refill, following him out of the bathroom, looking back up at him for a moment.

“I forgot to say,” Bug said, nudging against his side with her whole body, knocking into him lovingly, “Your new hair is very… dashing. I really like it.”

He swore his face went crimson in a single second.

5. The one with his migraines

“Let me pay for your fuel at least,”

“Spence, just shut up and get in the car,”

That was around about how the past eight months had gone. Every day, she would drive by his apartment, Emily in the passenger seat of her little sisters beat up Renault Zoe, affectionately named after its model, the back seat reserved for Spencer’s lanky legs and satchel bag as she drove the three of them through through roads of Virginia, to work and back again.

Sometimes he surprised her with coffee, sometimes Emily brought them donuts. Either way, they all enjoyed their morning routine that had stood the test of time about as much as Bugsy had as part of the BAU.

It had gotten easier after that first case; she still had her moments, but her skin had thickened to a point she barely remembered what her life had been like before that day Hotch asked her to join the academy.

Things were going well, she felt settled, even with the new girl Seaver replacing JJ while Jareau was away on business in the pentagon. She couldn’t say she was the girl’s best friend, but they got along. And that was good enough for her. Her team was a well oiled machine.

That was, except for Spencer. Spencer she worried for every day.

She hated the way he twitched in the passenger seat, now his since she’d forced Emily to get the subway to work today, bitching eachother out in the way sisters did until the older woman left in a huff but without asking questions, and she left to take Spencer to the hospital.

The sunglasses did little to stop his eyes hurting, his brain quite literally feeling as though it was pressing against his skull. He even turned down coffee this morning, and her stomach had dropped when she realised just how serious it was.

He didn’t even question her when she held his hand tightly in hers as she walked him into the office, knowing he would hate every second of having this MRI done.

“Everything’s going to be absolutely fine, they’re going to find what it is and we’re going to get you fixed right up to your perky self again,” She said, as they sat together outside the doctor’s office, keeping her voice calm and quiet as not to upset his delicate head even more.

He nodded, appreciating her gentle touches on his hand, and he jumped in his seat when the door opened, his name being called through and he wished she could come with him.

“You got this,” Bugsy smiled at him reassuringly when he looked hesitant, and nodded again, squeezing her hand once before he let go, following the nurse into the MRI room, wondering how he got so lucky to have a best friend like her.

–

Spencer sighed, leaning back in his seat. The flight had not helped the building pressure in his head in the slightest. He looked up to the ceiling, closing his eyes as the harsh office lights beat against his face mercilessly.

Two bodies found sacrificed to a 'higher being', their tongues and fingers cut off, shells put over their eyes and mouths. They had seen worse, perhaps not as odd, but they had seen worse. And yet this was the case that made him feel like his brain was about to explode right out his ears.

He hadn’t felt like this since he had been on Dilaudid, since he’d be on a come down and his whole body would sweat cold, and his head would rattle with every movement. And even that almost paled in comparison to how bad his head hurt right now.

Spencer had wondered if that was what had done this to him, if it was a long term side effect of its use. He knew it wouldn’t be, but the self punishing part of him couldn’t help but fill his head with it.

He just wanted answers. He just wanted it to stop. He just wanted to crawl into bed with an ice pack over his face and never surface again until this thing had subsided.

Spencer felt hands in his hairline, fingernails weaving and massaging until he almost moaned, the touches releasing some of the metaphorical knots like magic at their fingertips, and he knew who it was, because that was how she always made him feel.

He opened his eyes to see her very upside down as she looked down at him, their eyes inline with one another as she continued running her fingers against his temples gently.

“You okay, handsome?” That was somewhat new, not that he was complaining. Part of him said she just felt bad for him and his weird brain, and maybe that was how it had always been, but ever since he had started getting these migraines she was impossibly even softer with him now. Like she was his comfort blanket he cuddled to when he was feeling particularly sorry for himself, and she knew it too. They were rarely not stuck together like velcro, where he moved, she moved. Where he sat, she was pressed against him like the concept of personal space had never been such a huge deal for him.

And when his pain struck him down into the embodiment of a wounded doe, she was right there fluffing his pillows, grabbing him aspirin, massaging his head like she could grab the bastard migraine right out of his skull and say leave my precious boy alone.

She was too sweet on him recently, but then he never wanted it to stop. It felt like a relationship without the kissing and especially without the sex. The thought of it made him want to moan again.

“This one’s a stubborn one,” It had lingered around for three days straight, and the Miami heat wasn’t helping as he looked up at her inverted face, and he could tell she was smiling gently at him.

She ran her thumbs over his eyebrows, smoothing them out and he sighed in delight as he felt the muscle begin to relax beneath her touch.

“You make things better,” He confessed, her fingers tracing down his pretty nose, and he closed his eyes as she went over the bags beneath them. “You always do,”

He felt her kiss his forehead for good luck, and he knew she hated seeing him in so much pain. He could have whined when she pulled away, letting go of him gently as Rossi stepped into the room, hoping he hadn’t seen the affection before too much teasing could come.

But he said nothing, even if he had seen, just raised his eyebrows and grabbed the file off the desk for his own thorough look through.

He sure as hell missed the way she interlaced their fingers under the desk though.

–

Spencer twisted the bracelet around his wrist as they sat together outside the doctor's office. Orula’s ide. That was what Julio had called it. Said it would protect him from the bad spirits that clouded his head.

Spencer was a man of science, a man of logic. But even he couldn’t quite explain how Julio had managed to figure out he was having migraines despite him not letting any infliction of pain cross his face, even more confused when Julio had said his body had been a conduit for a higher spirit who wanted to help him.

He was glad to be back in Virginia where everything made sense to him. Where she could hold onto his knee at the doctor's office to stop it from bouncing and his team couldn’t tease or ask him what was wrong or make her stop touching him so much.

“I say we get some ice on your head and put on whichever Doctor Who episode you want, don’t even care if we’ve seen it before,” She offered, smiling over at him and hoping he couldn’t see the worry in her eyes.

He could. He just nudged her shoulder with his forehead to say thankyou without ruining the solace the quiet brought him.

That is until his name was called, just as it was the last time he was here, and he stood to enter the office, not letting go of her hand as this time he’d made sure she could come.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” He said as he sat on the bed, his doctor showing him the clear brain scans that hadn’t flagged a single neuron out of place.

“I’m not sure what you want me to say,” His doctor replied, watching the way his female accomplice frowned, squeezing his hand tightly.

“Isn't there any tests that would look for a specific prognosis we could try?” She asked, and the man shook his head.

“Not unless we’ve ruled out every other option, and in this case I’d like to suggest that Dr. Reid’s condition might be psychosomatic in nature,” The doctor explained, wary of the way the two agents screwed their expressions up, almost identically, hearing his explanation of Spencer’s headaches.

“Psychosomatic…” Spencer echoed softly, in near disbelief.

That couldn’t be it. It had to be the Dilauded. Or a tumour. Or a long standing concussion. Something physical and tangible he could point out and get fixed.

“It just means a mental or emotional cause-” The doctor explained, only to have Spencer cut him off.

“No I know what ‘psychosomatic’ means Doctor, but it's not that,” He said, his voice tired; the idea he was making up his problem in his own head bothered him.

“Well, I think it’s something we should consider.”

“Listen, I’m not crazy,” Spencer insisted, and he felt her tugging his hand closer to hers, her own way of comforting him when she couldn’t grab at his hair or face or jaw.

“Dr Reid, I’m not saying-” But he was stopped by Spencer’s voice that was slowly growing more irate.

“No, listen, I have headaches. I have increased sensitivity to light, because there’s something wrong with me physically. Not mentally. It’s not that,” He corrected the doctor, his sweet face pulled into a grumpy pout, almost offended that the professional was willing to write his pain off as a hallucinations.

“That?” The doctor asked, a frown on his face as Spencer continued.

“Listen, doctor, my mother’s a paranoid schizophrenic who’s been institutionalised. So I know very well what mental illness looks like, maybe even better than you. It’s not that, it’s not.” Spencer said in a huff, standing from the bed and grabbing his satchel, all but pulling her from the room as she sped walked after him, her hand still tightly in his.

She was gobsmacked. She didn’t know how she hadn’t seen it before, and suddenly every single instance of her whining about her mother to him entered her head and she felt a pit growing in her stomach that only had room for guilt.

They sat in the car in silence, her hands at ten and two as she tried not to stare at him.

She couldn’t stand the quiet in which he stewed, murmuring to himself every now and then about how that most certainly wasn’t what was causing his state to decline.

“You never told me that before,” She said after a while, and it was quiet, whether to satiate his headache or because she didn’t know if she was allowed to say it he wasn’t sure.

“It never came up,” He said in a way that left little question. He didn’t want to talk about it.

They sat in the quiet some more, the only sound being the way her engine hummed beneath the bonnet, the music turned low for his pounding head, and he saw the way she chewed her lip and flicked glances at him from the driver's side.

He sighed, not wanting to snap at her the way he had the doctor, “Bug, would you please stop looking at me like that, like you pity me-”

“No, it’s not that it's…” She started carefully, her gaze flicking ot him for a moment as they stopped at a red light, “Every time I forget you’re the strongest person I know, you just seem to remind me,”

And just like that his heart swelled all over again, and he felt like maybe his head wasn't an entire failure to him.

+1 The one with the eulogy.

This was hell on earth.

She sat around the table at the funeral home with her mother to her left, her father and Stephanie to her right.

She could feel the team’s eyes on her; she hadn’t spoken in days, her face shallow and off colour, sick looking. Speaking to her mother and father was difficult for her on a good day, let alone when she was all alone.

Because that was how she looked, as if she were half a person now, her face bitter and angry as she tried to take up the least amount of space at the table as possible, her mother inspecting her finger beds as if they’d scorned her.

“Sit up straight,” She chided, nudging her daughter's knee, but Bugsy made no move to adjust her posture. She just stared blankly at the ugly floral tablecloth, waiting for the other mourners to arrive, to give their sorrows, before they could move to the church.

Emily was right next door. Cold. In a box. Her entire body was likely in rigour mortis now, her face was probably white as snow with the blood pooling away - pallor mortis Reid had called it - her hands were probably twisted and ugly like a raven's foot-

She couldn’t keep doing this to herself. And yet the thoughts wouldn’t stop, not even as Stephanie, step mother from heaven as she was, began to chime in to try lighten the mood.

Her dad hadn’t said a word to her yet, just patted her on the head the way he hadn’t done since she was five.

“It’s a lovely day for a funeral, don’t you think?” She commented, but her voice was too sweet, too soft, too normal to have the charm she’d intended.

Stephanie wasn’t a bad person. Not evil or horrible like Bugsy had always thought a step mother would be. But she was the person her father had left little Bugsy for, and though she knew almost all of her anger had been displaced onto the poor woman when he’d told her he had a new wife, Stephanie had never exactly bothered to remedy their relationship.

Emily and Bugsy had been someone else’s kids. Had been Richard Prentiss’ problems, not hers. And no amount of kindness she bothered to overcompensate with today would change the past twenty years her father had been too preoccupied to even call for her birthdays.

Bugsy scoffed, ignoring the warning look from her father. He knew very well how his youngest felt about his wife.

“Mr and Mrs Prentiss,” Hotch came over, as if sensing the girl’s annoyance at the woman’s words, and she mentally could have planted a kiss right on Aaron’s lips when he made the effort to exclude Stephanie in his condolences, “I’m so sorry for your loss. Losing a child is a devastation I never would wish on anyone,”

“Thank you for your kind words, Mr Hotchner,” The step mother piped up again, before either of them could say anything, and Bugsy shot her a look so full of hatred, Aaron thought she might have slapped her right then and there.

Richard cleared his throat, moving to put an arm around Steph’s chair, one that she’d pulled up to the table herself.

If there was one thing Elizabeth and Bugsy would ever agree on it was that Stephanie was intolerable.

Her mother looked empty as she nodded at Hotch, crossing her legs properly and pursing her lip, not saying anything. She’d never seen her mother cry, and she doubted that would start today. Elizabeth was much too of a proud woman to weep in front of the masses.

“Thanks, Hotch,” Bugsy said the first words she had in days, the only time she’d gotten out of bed was to feel Niko and Sergio or to use the bathroom. Her voice was raspy, ghost like, and it scared the crap out of him.

He couldn’t see her getting through this alive.

With Haley, he’d had Jack to get him through it, keep him going, if not to put on a front for his little boy that was the spitting image of his wife. But Bug had nothing left of her sister, nothing but herself and two parents that couldn’t stand to look at one another without screaming curses.

The other’s had already given their condolences, had already bombarded her with enough letters, flowers, stuffed teddies to fill a house, and she knew she wasn’t being fair ignoring them when they were grieving too. If not just as much as she was.

But she couldn’t do anything, couldn’t be anything except this shell of a woman once called Bugsy. Her sister gave her that name, she didn’t think she deserved it anymore.

Spencer just wished she would cry. He had been sobbing non stop, even where his eyes were puffy and red as Garcia’s as they stood in the funeral home, the smell of incense too strong, the sounds of wails too loud. But she looked… he hated to say it, she looked dead.

“That poor little lamb,” Penelope sniffled, tears already streaking down her cheeks as Derek tucked her under his arm, pulling her close into his smart black suit, “I wished she would let us in,”

“That girl is a carbon copy of Emily, of course she’s going to take herself off to lick her wounds,” Rossi said, his own fancy blazer stuffed with tissues in case his dark eyes welled up with tears again. He’d already managed to save himself once this morning before leaving the house, but he didn’t trust himself anymore than that.

Spencer missed her smile more than anything, though he himself was struggling to muster anything past a grimace.

“The Spring flowers are all in bloom, isn’t that lovely?” Stephanie continued, an easy grin on her face as she looked out of the window to the graveyard, as if she was entirely unaware of the grief lingering in the room, “I think she'll like it here,”

That was it.

That was what pushed Bugsy over the edge, even Elizabeth broke her cold facade to look at the other women in shock, her daughter’s eye twitching as her head snapped to Stephanie, a rage encompassing her entire face.

“What the fuck would you know what she liked or didn’t like, Stephanie? She barely even fucking liked you,” Bugsy hissed, drawing the attention of a few of the mourners with her vitriol anger.

That wiped the smile off the woman’s face harder than any slap could have.

“You watch your mouth, young lady,” Richard snapped, his face a blazen rage as Stephanie cowered behind him.

Bugsy scoffed, and Hotch knew by the sound of it alone, something had been lit inside her that was about to go off like a hand grenade.

He couldn’t say he blamed her.

“I don’t know why you even bothered showing up, Dad. You’ve not seen either one of us since Emily left college,” She spat back, her eyes wild like a cat ready to claw its way out of a fight, “Surprised you even remember my name now you have your shiny new family and your million honeymoons to keep you busy,”

Richard stood from his chair, his black three piece creasing as he pointed in her face, his hand shaking with rage, and she saw the tears well in his eyes that looked too much like her own for her comfort.

“You are turning out to be just like your mother, pushing away anyone who ever cared about you.” He barked, not caring that a few mourners turned to look at him in shock, “Don’t come crying back to me when you end up alone, little lady,”

And with that he took Stephanie’s hand, who was the patron saint of guilt as of now, a face like a scolded child, too naive for the grown woman she really as. At least she had finally shut up, Bugsy thought darkly as her father stormed out of the home, ignoring the way faces watched hers carefully, knowing every word he’d said had been true.

She thinks for a minute if Emily was here she’d poke fun at the way Steph’s face had been hilarious when her smile had dropped, or that her dad still had the worst temper out of them all, Bug included. She thinks that if Emily were here, she’d tell her he’d said all that stuff out of anger, and that she won’t end up alone, and that she’d always be with her.

She thinks that if Emily were here, she wouldn’t feel the empty nothingness where shame and sadness would be after having that entire thing play out infront of so many onlookers.

But Emily wasn’t there. And she couldn’t even say she was shocked when her mother stood from her seat besides her too.

“Where are you going?” Bugsy snarled, the Ambassador looking somewhat concerned before the expression fell and she went back to an equally lost look of her own.

“I refuse to be made a spectacle of today,” Elizabeth said detachedly, collecting her purse over her black midi dress, her painted nails skimming the handle gently, “I can say my own goodbyes to your sister later, when everyone has left,”

Coward. Coward. Coward. Bugsy wanted to scream after her, wanted to tear her hair out, wanted to grab the two of them by the neck and make them feel the way her words trapped inside her and clawed at her throat, sitting inside like a moth bouncing against a window trying to escape.

But she said nothing. Did nothing, as her mother left the home, left her sitting there alone, until the officiant came over to her not even a moment’s later and told her it was time to start the funeral.

And then she truly felt as if she would never be whole again.

–

Her hands shook as she got to the podium. She’d always hated public speaking, which Spencer thought was odd since she seemed to grab the attention of every room she walked into like it was second nature. She didn’t even bat an eyelid at chasing down a criminal or being shot at or evening chewing out a detective that wasn’t pulling his weight, but speaking to a handful of decorated officers that watched her with grieving eyes was too much.

Adjusting the mic to a more appropriate height, they watched her eyes scan the room, her brows scrunched, her mouth dry. Trying to find Emily, Hotch realised with a crack in his chest. The way she always did when she was nervous. The way she did when she was looking for Emily to come save her.

“H-hi, um,” Her voice shook, her fingers fiddling with the chord for something to do, “Mom- Ambassador Prentiss got called out on business so I guess I’ll be giving the eulogy,”

No one spoke, not even the ones who knew it was a lie, her eyes falling to where Spencer gave her a sad smile, some sort of encouragement for her to keep going, though his eyes were red and bloodshot, and he was sure the burn in his throat was rising again.

She hadn’t cried yet. Penelope had cried four times today alone.

“I- um, I wasn’t really prepared for a speech, so I’m, um, I’m just going to read the letter I wrote to her if that’s okay?” Her head shot to the priest who had handed the spotlight over to her, the warm spring breeze pulling at his robes as he nodded, his hand gesturing for her to continue.

She cleared her throat, tearing the envelope open, and the paper rattled in her fingertips with her shaking hands as she pulled out the double sided A4 that had been written on in neat blue ink.

Unfolding it, she let her gaze rip off the crowd of people who stared at her, waiting for whatever it was she had to say, the final words her sister’s body would hear before she was put in the ground forever. The last goodbye. The only one that had ever mattered.

“Dear Emily,” Bugsy read, her voice finding footing as she was able to look away from the hundreds of eyes that watched her tearfully. But it was the wrong move. Because the minute she’d prepared herself to say the words out loud she felt her eyes well up.

This was it. The last chance she would ever get to tell Emily how she felt. How sorry she was. How she was so damn sorry for being such a shitty person for so many years, for never saying thank you enough, for never hugging her when she really ought to have, for never appreciating how lucky she was to have a sister like her.

Her throat clogged, and she sucked in a deep breath, releasing a trembling sigh. Her bottom lip quivered.

“Sorry-” She apologised to the watchers, rubbing her mouth nervously, hoping no one could see just how deeply she had broken, just how harsh the wound had gaped open, “Dear Emily,” She started again;

“Everyone thinks they know what a sister is; it's the woman you share fifty percent of your DNA with who you’re put on this earth to annoy the shit out of,” A small wet laugh reverberated around the crowd, and she flashed a small smile at her own words. “But the truth is you can actually share up to sixty-one percent of your genes with one of your siblings. Which is crazy to me, because I know no matter how hard I try, I will never be even one percent of the woman you are,”

She swallowed heavily, and she heard Penny burst out crying again, her head buried in Morgan’s neck.

“If I was as gracious as you, I’d probably say you’re in a better place now, and if I was as brave, we probably wouldn’t even be here, because I would have been able to save you that day instead of just watching like a fly on the wall.” The first tear fell then, her face crumpling in pain. “If I was as considerate as you, I would be able to look every one of your friends in the eyes and tell them it would all be okay in the end. And if I was even the tiniest bit as kind as you, then I would have told you all of this to your face when it actually mattered.”

She sniffed heavily, and Derek did the same, his own throat burning, picking the thread on his nice trousers as Penelope’s tears wet his shirt through.

“Everyone thinks that true love is finding someone you want to marry and have children with, but I know now that’s not the entirety of it. Love is a person you want to spend every day making happy, and make them proud to say they love you too.” Her chin wobbled some more as she read the next few sentences with something darker than remorse in her glassy eyes, “I sometimes think, if we were given a second chance, if we could try again, I would be able to tell you that I truly love you, Emily, and that you’re the only person I ever cared about loving me too,”

Her voice cracked, and she regarded the paper with misty eyes, her cheeks soaked as she quickly wiped them with the back of her white, lace gloves.

“I think maybe next time I wouldn’t be so spoiled and bratty, and you could have been more relaxed and maybe less like my mom at times, but I think if we could do it over, we could have done it right, the way sisters are supposed to,” She sniffed, missing the way Spencer’s face dripped with tears of his own, her words tearing him inside and out with the guilt in every line. “But I guess it’s too late for that now. I only got one chance to be your sister and I failed, no matter how many times you pulled through for me. And that’s a debt I’ll never be able to repay.”

She braved a look at the closed casket, imagining her big sister, the only person she ever truly loved laying in there with fair, snow skin, her noir hair sitting perfectly like a princess in the fairytales she used to read to her before bed. Only this one had no happy ending. This one ended with her heart torn from her chest, bleeding for the rest of her days until her own body was buried and everyone could mourn the girl who was barely half the woman her sister was, no matter what the statistics say.

“I’m sorry, Emily” It was the first time she’d said the two words that had been playing in her head on a loop for weeks, the two words that sang to her like a mantra, every morning, noon and evening. Even in her sleep she had dreams where she could do nothing but scream into a void of darkness, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It should have been me, I’m sorry. “I hope you can forgive me,” She whimpered through a sob, ignoring the way her cheeks gushed with fat tears now, as she wept freely at the podium, her hands no longer shaking.

“Lots of love, your shitty baby sister, Bugsy.” She finished with a small whine, her expression broken as she folded the letter back up and placed it in the envelope, the cursive lettering of her big sister’s name staring back at her. Finishing where she’d started.

Tucking the letter underneath a tulip wreath atop the coffin, she stepped back down off the podium, ignoring the way the eyes followed her back to her seat, ignoring the way Derek rubbed her shoulder affectionately, or the way JJ handed her a packet of tissues, even though her own face was flooded, and showed no signs of stopping. She felt Spencer grab her hand in his delicately, entwining their fingers together, and squeezing lightly.

The priest continued with a hymn, though she didn’t bother singing it. She just stared at her shoes, as if her entire soul had been sucked from her the minute she’d ended the eulogy.

Which it had, because that had been Emily’s last goodbye.

She didn’t speak in the car on the way back to Spencer’s, not as Hotch pulled her in for a wide hug, rare and warm, even going so far as to stroke the back of her head with more affection than they’d ever seen him give her.

“Call me if you need anything,” He’d murmured into the side of her head as he held her close, feeling two hands hesitantly wrap around his waist, as if she wasn’t entirely switched on which, going by the vacant look on her face she wasn’t.

Spencer made her tea the moment they got in. She didn’t ask for it, she just sat on the sofa and stared at the beat up, old TV he kept only for the occasional documentary, and for the shows she liked to watch too of course. But she hadn’t even switched it on, just stared at the inky black glass like it would jump to life itself and tell her how to feel.

He took a seat next to her, on the other end of the couch, flicking the screen on for something to stop it from being so silent in his home; the silence meant they were alone with their thoughts, and for once he and his thoughts couldn’t stand being together. He didn’t want to interrupt her, or be the first to break the quiet. Not even when he watched her tea go cold in front of her, or as she barely acknowledged the cartoon on the TV, or when he pulled out his copy of The Brothers Karamazov that he’d been re-reading for the third time.

“Would you like me to read to you? Would that be better?” He asked tentatively, and she didn’t even blink, as if she were some sort of zombie or corpse sitting next to him programmed for instruction on acting human.

She said nothing, but she did move, the act of it making him jump slightly, and it was then he realised she had been perfectly still for the past half an hour, barely even showing signs of breath. A puppet with no master.

She leaned over, her body dropping onto the sofa softly as if she was taking a nap, only for her head to rest on his thigh, and his hand flew to pull the claw clip out of her hair like he read her mind. Her knees nestled to her chest, in foetal position, her pretty black dress, the same one she’d worn for Haley’s funeral riding up past her knees.

He gently tucked his long fingers into her roots, stroking her hair like she were a tame cat curled in his lap, clearing his voice as he continued where he’d left off, making sure he wasn’t reading too fast the way he would if it was just him.

His head still whirled around the eulogy she’d read. How watching her crack beneath the weight of her own words had hurt him more than his own grief, had made him bury whatever it was he felt and just need to put her back together again.

Because he didn’t need an eidetic memory to have ingrained what she’d said into his head, not even as they went to bed, and she burrowed into his side in one of his sweatshirts he usually saved for his own bad days.

“Bug,” He braved to say, watching her eyes force themselves open from where they were on the very lip of sleeping, “You’re my very best friend, did you know that?”

She hummed, her nose digging into his arm that he wound under her head, pulling her close enough he could feel her heartbeat against his own where she was in the crook of his neck.

“I love you,” She said, like those three words didn’t rip the air from his lungs.

Not even as her breathing finally evened out, and he felt himself heave a sigh of relief; the bags under her eyes had been more noticeable today than ever. Not even when he dared a kiss to her forehead as she slept, the smell of her shampoo completely taking over his pillow as he allowed his own heart to hurt for just a few moments, missing his friend dearly as he looked after the woman.

Love is a person you want to spend every day making them happy, and make them proud to say they love you too.

He knew then.

–

TAGLIST

@release-your-sweets @smileykiddie08 @caramelised-onions@the-tpd-bau @stephthepeach @sunflowersndpeaches @sammy-4103 @starmansirius @yeonalie @delusionallooney @hades-disappointment-child @sadbae-33

#spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #matthew grey gubler x reader

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starshipsofstarlord · 1 month ago

Text

like rabbits | young!daryl dixon

summary. merle is humanised by his strict and overwhelming tentativeness of protecting his younger brother daryl and his girlfriend in the outbreak. but they are less helpful around the camp as they have other priorities with what to spend their time on… and others accidentally notice that too (5.3k)

warnings. smut 18+ mdni, daryl and reader are 18/18+ in this fic, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, pull out method, fingering, handjob, a pattern of people walking in on them, oral (male receiving), mentions of death and abuse and drugs, alcohol consumption, arguing, swearing, young!daryl au

MINORS DNI (18+), I DO NOT CONTROL YOUR CONSUMPTION ON THIS BLOG 👻

divider credits. @cafekitsune

Merle barked a laugh as he socialised around the singeing yet controlled campfire that Shane had set up, one of his last beers in his hand as he was met with gruntled expressions. “We migh’ as well shack up, ay blondie, it’s the end of the fuckin’ world.” Andrea was not impressed as she wrapped her arm around her younger sister Amy, wanting the drunkard to stop his crudity. The light of the hungry flames licked his face; it was the only positive attention that was being deposited to him. The likeness Shane and Dale had of the old dealer was thinning, the only reason they had allowed him into their survivalist ranks was not for him; it was for the kids that were currently holed up in their aligned tent.

“You’re a pig Merle.” Andrea bit back, only humouring the intoxicated redneck further. Everyone was tired of this same old bullshit that spewed from Merle’s lips, he was rude and foul mouthed, he even slurred curses that most of them had never heard spoken aloud. But as foolish as his addicted actions were, he could be useful in some ways, even as defiantly slim as that list was. He was useful as additional muscle to a team out for a run, he had no problems or qualms when it came to killing the walkers, he would pierce their mindless brains until they fell down and became motionlessly dead, being nothing more than carcasses of the already deceased.

They had the pariah to judge him, they all thought they were better than him due to the fact that none of them chose to voice the indignant truth; the world was prepared to crash and burn, and they would all die in the bitter aftermath. None of them were even slightly special, the playing field was now balanced and there was no social ladder in which they were above him. But he didn’t act tough and protective for himself, no, it was for his little brother Daryl and the girl that had his brother wrapped around her finger. Prior to the turmoil outbreak, they had each been in a terrible situation, and it was all down to the people that had brought them into the world that had already been difficult even in those days.

Mr Dixon and Mr Y/L/N had been old friends, their past throwing back to their high school days, before either of them dropped out of course. Neither one had any adoration for the offspring that they enforced to struggle through their livelihoods, they were selfish and addicted to inflicting harm to the younger generations of their tainted bloodlines. Merle had escaped the physical wrath, leaving Daryl abandoned with the villainous figure of their father, occasionally he would drop by the Y/L/N household to earn himself some quick influx of cash, knowing that the man residing within could never justify rejecting something that made him trigger happy.

But as soon as the unexpected broadcast flooded the television and radio channels of a dwelt illness that reanimated the dead and passed onto those living, Merle returned to the dreaded place where he had grown up. He had been dealt his fair share of misery long before Daryl was birthed into the world, he had scars too, the difference was however was that he was not ashamed of them. He did not care for the quality that his body was in, hence why he had induced himself with the precipitation of illegal drugs, skyrocketing through a high that helped him in forgetting the terrible things that he had bared witness to in his youth.

“Whatever prude," Merle's bite back, fighting off his own shallow insecurities that he swallowed down to hoard in the pit of his drug digesting stomach, knowledgeable that he would be going to rest alone without the sweet touch of a woman to daunt his mind with calmness. He hurled out a glob of saliva from his mouth, the pool of spit and alcohol landing with spite on the ground as he stalked away from the other survivors, relieved to finally be departing from them. They were a bunch of asses anyways, Merle thought, shaking his head at them on their high horses, looking down their noses at him. There were only two souls in the camp that he actually liked, and none of them were bestowed with that rare gift.

Giggles fell from your lips as you relished in the feeling of Daryl’s lips pressing with frantic need against your neck, making your head lull backwards with the rush of pleasure as his hand roamed around beneath the confines of your jeans and underwear. It was nighttime, the others that habited the makeshift camp would either be asleep in their own tents or huddled around the fire that they often set up close to the RV. It had given the two of you a chance to spend some time together alone, and with intimacy. The both of you often hunted together, leaving the rows of salvaged tents to journey into the thick of the woods, mostly catching small prey like squirrels and rabbits if you were lucky.

As much as you would have liked to, there was no chance of you fucking out in the open wild; Daryl would not allow it, knowing that there was a large risk of the undead stumbling upon you fornicating. The last thing he wanted was to allow your life to be at risk, and whilst he didn’t shelter you, he did all he could to protect you, even in spite of your ability to aim his crossbow and shoot a shotgun. It was logical of course, dwindling the chance of getting caught off guard by the leering undead, but the thought still turned you on.

“Ya like tha’?” Daryl preened you for reassurance as he slipped a finger into your slick and welcoming walls, your answer being a gasp that uncontrollably left your mouth. He was so fucking good with his fingers, and he didn’t even know it. After all the times he had made you cum, you would have expected him to be aware, but not only did he require confirmation, he wanted you to admit that he was pleasuring you. It did something to his brain, circuiting it into an arousal pledged satisfaction, simply from hearing his name or a defining ‘yes’ fall benevolently from your lips. And so your mouth murmured his name, stifling the volume that it wished to be spoken at, for the sake of not drawing in the curiosity of walkers or your fellow survivors.

He began to suckle deeper on your flesh, bringing the blood beneath to the surface, ensuring that there would be bruises left after his lips had dislodged. Your head rolled back, eyes closing from the addictive satisfaction that he gifted your body, hips lifting without shame towards the press of his fingers, forcing them bury deeper within your tight walls. If there was no threat to your lives by doing so, you would constantly remain in this tent, with your bodies colliding in a desperate passion that brought an amorously filled ecstasy to both of you. He shushed you, withdrawing his lips and moving them onto your mouth, teasingly biting your lip as he watched you unfold into bliss because of him.

“Fuck me. Ya two practicin’ fer a kid or somethin’? ‘Cause if you are, that ain’t how ya do it.” Daryl and you shot apart, faces warm from embarrassment as Merle stood in the opening of the tent that neither one of you had heard be unzipped, and your boyfriend retracted his hand from beneath your jeans and panties, subtly bringing it to lay down beside him and away from his brother’s gaze. Your breath was laboured, and you knew that it was obvious to anyone that could see you that you had endured the highs of an orgasm. After the shock wore from Daryl he scowled and rolled his blue eyes at Merle, visibly pissed off for the uncalled for interruption.

“Don’ ya know how ta knock?” Daryl barked with evident irritation in his tone, glaring at his only sibling. Whilst he was grateful for all Merle had done to ensure that he and you survived thus far into the outbreak, it was all forgotten in the present, for he had ultimately not been thinking with his mind and instead a far different part of his body. He’d just been getting started in his eyes, Daryl had anticipated to make you cum and cum again until you finally drifted off into a noiseless sleep that did not consist of the nightmares that the walkers had sprung into your mind. It was not only a distraction, but a show of his strong affection, and that opportunity had now been diminished thanks to the unwelcome intrusion.

“One problem there little brother is there ain’t any doors.” Smart ass Merle, you thought, although you could not meet his eyes as he chuckled at the antics of the pair of you. Merle would not admit it, but his decision to find you both had been out of concern, he wanted to check on you and make sure you were within the safest vicinity that you could be for now; the camp. He was relieved that you both were, but he could never miss an opportunity at teasing Daryl, it was far too enjoyable for him to rile up his brother. “Though ya been knockin’ the wind outta that girl, yer fuckin’ like yer gonna die tomorrow. Ya okay there Y/N/N?”

The attention that Merle had drawn towards you made you shuffle nervously atop of the sleeping bag, and from your embarrassment Daryl’s anger only increased. His nostrils flared in rage, his eyebrows lowering in a firm frown that was aimed at none other than Merle. He too felt embarrassed, having evaded his brother walking in for so long, and finally it had happened all on its own. The two of you had presumed that Merle would spend a longer amount of time by the fire where it was warm, whilst you and Daryl shared each other’s body heat, and that afterwards Merle would return to his own tent beside yours. How wrong you had been. “Get the fuck out Merle.”

Daryl was practically seething, causing his brother to laugh harder, clutching his stomach as though his amusement brought him pain. His face was red as he chortled, and he waved his hand towards you both, as though his the blame for his laughter was on you, and it was without intention. “Okay, okay.” Merle steadied himself, reaching for the zipper of the tent as he stepped back onto the grass. “You crazy kids have fun, don’t do nothin’ I wouldn’t.” He sent his brother a wink that made you shiver, and he finally closed the partition to the outdoors, leaving Daryl and you in one another’s presence once more.

“He definitely killed the mood, didn’ he?” You didn’t even need to answer him, it was transparent that the mood was beyond dead, and you shuffled around on the sleeping bag that was somehow large enough for the pair of you to share, slipping into it and reaching for the travel lamp as Daryl slipped in behind you, his hands holding your body as he sighed from the frustration that boiled within him. He closed his eyes, wishing to erase the event from the timeline, but it was impossible. If only his damning brother had not interrupted, then neither of you would be going to bed with a hunger that had been off out by the careless intrusion.

Glenn was not that much older than you and Daryl, a couple of years you supposed, and you liked the young man that had previously attained the job of a pizza boy and got along with him well. He was kind unlike many others seemed in the camp, and he was startled as Shane grabbed his arm, pulling him to the side, looking at him expectedly. He hadn’t long returned from a run, so he supposed the reason for being leered at had something to do with that, though his expectations were befallen when Shane spoke. “You seen Y/N? She’s not with the other women?”

Ah yes, the misogynistic duty that was reserved for the ladies of the camp, washing the dirtied clothes in the nearby lake. If things were not in order the older man did not like it, he had to ensure that things within the band of survivors ran swiftly since he had taken on the role of leader that had entailed no vote to sanction him in such a position. Glenn shook his head, pursing his lips, though he had witnessed you scatter silently across the camp without a word exchanged. You had simply nodded at him in a passing greeting, for some reason excitement affecting your speed. The last thing your friendly acquaintance wanted was to piss him off, and the glare he received for his denial was invoking.

It made him think that if something happened to you amidst escorting yourself into the woods, then the fault would be on him. He didn’t want anything to happen to you and keeping the truth to himself could potentially bring you the consequences of harm or death. You seemed as though you could take care of yourself, but no one truly knew what extent to. The knowledge that you had endured the hardship of living amongst the difficult town alongside Daryl and Merle was common, and you would go out hunting with the two of them, but Glenn had never seen you handle yourself against walkers. No one except the brothers had, and that was what concerned him most, especially considering both of the Dixons refused your company on runs, claiming that it was for your safety.

From Shane’s endless glowering, Glenn gulped, inadvertently gulping and readying his breath to speak. “She went out there.” Glenn’s hand pointed beyond the trees, the lush green leaves motionless for there was no breeze that whisked through the air, and Shane’s eyes followed direction of his index finger, an instantaneous frown contorting his features as he looked back at his fellow survivor with almost disbelief.

“By herself?!” The volume of Shane’s voice was loud, contorted into a mixture of absolute worry and prominent anger. Glenn should have told someone, him, he thought to himself. If you were to die his leadership would no doubt be questioned, and he quite enjoyed holding some kind of power over people, he always had. The world in its current state was dangerous, and he checked his hip to ensure that his weapon was still plastered at his side, and he began walking with a pace towards the bordering woods that you had disappeared into. “Come on Rhee, you’re coming with me to find her.” Fucking Dixons and their plus one, they were more trouble than they were worth. He thought you were lucky to be a young woman, otherwise he wouldn’t have put his life on the line to go out and rescue you.

With no resilience to the orders, Glenn followed after him, guilt ebbing at his chest, dreading the outcome in which a walker had stumbled upon you and pursued you as prey. He should have held more concern when you had meandered off, but he had been tired and distracted from the run into the city. You never went into the woodland in solitary, Daryl was usually with you, and if he had been, he hadn’t seen the youngest Dixon. If something had the unfortunate occurrence of happening to you, then the fault would be on no one else other than him. And he knew that to be the truth.

Finally, you were alone. With Daryl. You had chased after him some minutes later when he had stated that he was going to search for ‘some squirrels or somethin’’, the evening prior was when Merle had stumbled upon a scene that he would forever tease you about, and you knew that Daryl was dwelling in his own frustrations. He dared not speak of it, feeling ridiculed and like a child that his brother had witnessed something he would never live done, opting instead to shoot something than regard you with his overflowing lust. If anyone were to walk in you again, he was certain that he would grab his crossbow and aim in their direction, truly pissed off for yet another interruption to expelling both his attraction and love towards you.

Daryl had never wanted to fuck in the woods, it was too dangerous, but you had mentally plucked at a compromise that satisfied both of you. The twigs and dried leaves were hard and irritating beneath your knees as you pulled at both his pants and boxers, leaving his cock exposed to your desperate gaze. You could never get enough of Daryl, even as he tried to maintain his stature, his back flush against the ascending bark of a tree, crossbow loaded and in one hand in case a walker were to attempt to kill and then feast on you both. It was the compromise, and Daryl released a staggered breath as you wrapped your palm around his length, leading his cock into your awaiting mouth.

He stifled a strewn gasp, forcing his eyes to remain open so he could spy the undead heading towards you if they did, his other hand softly coiling in your hair, playing with the strands around your face and gently pushing them out of your peripheral. “Fuck darlin’, you know how ta drive me crazy.” And that you did, such was proven as you took him deeper into your mouth, his tip hitting the back of your throat, and his whole body shuddered, becoming frail from pleasure. The sounds of nature danced around you, the birds rustling in the branches above being the only noise other than Daryl’s cock wetly slipping in and out of your mouth as you bobbed your head.

It was utter ecstasy to be some place that Daryl ironically felt safe, and to have you with him, intimately suckling on his most sensitive nerves. Your hands grasped his hips, allowing you to buck your head forwards slightly faster, drool sputtering around your chin as you began to gag on his endowed length. With one last look up at the crumbling man above you, whose eyes scoured the landscape skittishly, you closed your own, lashes fluttering upon your cheeks as you poured all your focus into making him feel good. He deserved a break, and you were more than happy to comply and give that to him,

There was no rush, it was the two of you in a space that it felt like no other soul could interrupt. You gorged yourself on the taste of his flesh, wanting to feel his seed warmly spill down your throat, and make his brain feel elated throughout the turmoil of instinctual survival that it processed on repeat. He stroked over your hair again, playing with the strands as the muscles in his legs tensed from the sensations that were rocketing into his mind. His fist clenched firmer on the grip of his crossbow, knuckles turning white as he bit his lip and slowly moved his hips in accordance to the motion of your head.

A rustle upon the ground caught him off guard, and his defences raised as he pushed you with care away, quickly tucking himself back into his jeans although the fly and button were still open. You stood beside him, sheathing the machete from the ground with urgent administrations, not composing your fucked out appearance that had come from using your mouth on him, expecting a walker to appear in view. Though there were no walkers, only two men that made Daryl outwardly groan and roll his oceanic irises around in the whites of his eyes. Another interruption. Why could no one just leave the two of you alone? Shane and Glenn looked between the both of you, minds piecing together the implications that they had disturbed. “Seriously?! The fuck!”

Daryl exclaimed, wedging his boots into the earth below as he tried to numb the heat that was battling to the surface of his face, glaring indignantly towards the two. You hastily wiped your chin, thinning your lips as you silently tilted your head in question in Glenn’s direction, uncertain as to why their presence had broke through the moment that you and Daryl had been craving. Thinking that the woods would be a private place was a good idea initially, however it proved that you couldn’t get peace anywhere. “I’m thinking the same thing.” Shane’s authority brewed the air with tension, as he narrowed his eyes at you, scoffing lightly. Yes, he had been young once, but the world was not as safe as it used to be, and logically that should have rendered in your thoughts. “The two of you shouldn’t be out here - doing that.”

Glenn didn’t back him up verbally, unsure of what to say, and knowing that if he did open his mouth it could possibly make things worse. Daryl however was not going to take Shane’s shit, he always saw himself as above others, as though he still wore a badge and it meant something on the tarnished lands. “It don’t stop you and Lori from sneakin’ off ta fuck ou’ here.” Shane’s face became swamped with realisation that him and his late friend’s wife hadn’t been as cautious as they had initially perceived. “Ya don’ think I hear ya two scamperin’ off when I get back from huntin’. B’cause I do, and I ain’t the only one.” The pizza boy stepped backwards as to not get involved with the puncturing of Shane’s ego, watching as Shane huffed beneath his breath.

“Keep your mouth shut Dixon, you don’t know anything. And head back to camp - the both of you.” You wanted to punch him; no one spoke to Daryl like that, especially not in front of you, and as you went to step forward Daryl grabbed your hand, intertwining your fingers so that you could walk past the prick together without the risk of causing a fight. Your boyfriend spat on the forest floor as he by Shane, glaring daggers at the man that had to ruin everything. Shane just didn’t want to hear the truth, his pride was far too large to be brought into reality by ‘a no good redneck’, but that was what had happened. You knew that Glenn would apologise later, and as you stalked through the woods, you heard no verbal interaction between the two men that walked some ways behind the pair of you.

Daryl was a mess. Merle was missing, having removed his own hand to escape the latches of the handcuffs that Lori’s apparently alive husband has clamped him in on that rooftop. He had wanted to start a fight, more so when they came up empty handed when going to retrieve his brother, but you had stopped him. It would only cause more trouble than what was already prevailing, and you did not want Daryl to get in the thick of it. He had already cursed him out, threatened to propel ammunition from his crossbow into Rick, and none of it had brought Merle’s return. In the comfort of your shared tent he had cried, his tears streaming down his face as you coddled him with comfort, trying with all your might to usher the tears away.

And finally they had come to an end, his tear ducts unable to produce any more moisture, though Daryl’s anger had not dispersed. You ran a hand along his shoulder blade, placing a peck on the sleeveless area as you laid atop of the sleeping bag together. There were no words that would decrease his sadness; you wanted Merle back too, he had always looked out for you when it came to your father, and now both of them were gone. One was dead and you dreaded where Merle was, he had to be somewhere, he’d never given in easily in the old life he had, so you knew that he wouldn’t now, no matter the hurdles he had to cross to survive. “I dunno whatta do.” Daryl mumbled as he pulled you closer, and you stroked his hair with affection, smiling tightly as he looked at your face.

“I dunno either.” You admitted, brushing your nose against his, wanting to be lost in the quiet of the night. The lantern was back on and it illuminated his face, and you could see that he was tired, drained of most of the little hope that he had initially held. “But he’ll come back for us. He always has.” You reminded him, knowing that the first place that Merle had gone when the radio began to divulge the distractions of the outbreak was to the two of you. If it hadn’t been for him, neither of you may have remained alive. It was unexpected in the moment but Daryl kissed you, cupping your face with his rough hands, starting off slow yet with no motives to keep the physical connection short. His mouth glided softly against your lips, and you opened them, allowing him easy entrance.

He breathed through his nose as he pressed his mouth harder against your own, slinking his tongue behind your teeth, rolling atop of you, placing each of his hands above your shoulders. “I love you Y/N Y/L/N.” He states earnestly, pulling away from your face to trail tentative kisses along your fragile throat. He needed this. You needed this. It was exactly what you required to feel something other than the tormenting anguish that chortled within every breath. His hands groped at your sides, slipping beneath your shirt and onto the flesh of your waist, seeking the warmth that pulsed in your veins.

“I love you Daryl Dixon.” It was something he often required to hear, and you never faulted him for the reassurance of your emotions; he had been through so much at such a youthful age, and you understood the stability that the heartfelt confessions of love that it brought within his mind. He engulfed your lips once more, the desperation tightening its grip between you as it became a frenzy of removing one another’s clothes that were kicked to the other side of the tent, leaving your bare bodies rubbing against each other. Daryl wasted minimal time to enter you, brandishing himself and you with the pleasure that you had sought, motioning slow thrusts into your walls as though he was trying to memorise just how you felt.

Hot air left his lips and fanned in a tantalising manner against your jugular, as you inhaled deeply, lulling in the erotic sensations that bespoke through your body. Your hands gripped his shoulders with tight vigour, descending and running gently down his back and upon the scarring that contorted his flesh with prominently visible lashes that you could feel beneath your caring fingertips. It broke you that a man could exert such hatred onto their own child, and whilst your father had been no saint himself, he had never struck you in such a way. But no matter the state in which Daryl’s body was in, you found him to be a beautiful diamond within a hoard of boring rocks, capturing your attention with anything that he proceeded to do.

It was more than love that you felt for him, it was a transcendent connection that you had never witnessed anyone else hold their partner with. His hips rotated, grinding against your own, clashing the bones in their derelict midst of chasing an orgasm of which you had both failed to achieve in recent times. There were always interruptions, and you loathed each and every one of them. To be together again, with the same goal rolled waves of endorsed gratefulness into your bloodstream, as you clung wantonly onto your boyfriend, needing him more than oxygen in the moment. “Daryl.” His name made his head raise, the whisper that had fallen from your lips making his pupils swivel around his irises, the black pebbles enlarging with his own portion of lust.

“Yeah?” He huffed through his staggered breaths, continuing to move, cradling the back of your head with his triceps so that they would cushion the behind of your skull. His tone was tentative whilst simultaneously being strained from the proving pleasure of having his cock stuffed into your cunt, and he looked into your eyes with such focus that it made your heart skip multiple beats. As you held onto him, you opened your mouth after licking your lips, prepared to douse him in verbal love, but before the words could spew from your form, the crunching of footsteps outside of the tent and the clearing of the throat interrupted.

“Daryl, you in there?” Fucking Rick Grimes. Daryl paused his movements, although he did not remove himself from your slick encasement of his length, and you could see his patience begin to boil over. Your lover grunted out as an uninterested stern reply, and you felt relieved that the man held some jurisdiction and did not simply enter the tent, forgetting that privacy still remained in existence. You knew that Rick intended to extend an olive branch, wanting to apologise to Daryl, believing that his outrage had not only be compelled by Merle’s figure being absent, but also because of his age that was far younger than the law enforcer’s. “I just wanted to-“

“Piss off Grimes.” Daryl huffed, not wanting to hear the excuses that the man could disperse with pity upon him. He’d heard enough whispers regarding the situation around the camp, and he was tired of it. “‘M tryna fuck mah girlfrien’ here, so if y’all so fuckin’ kindly excuse us…” His honest confession startled you that he would outright admit what the two of you were doing, but it seemed to do the trick, with Rick muttering an ‘okay’ and shuffling off, presumably back to his family and Shane. Daryl heaved a sigh of relief, pressing his forehead onto your chest, and the flush of his heat warmed your body. His cock twitched inside of you, reminding you more than his admission to the cop had on where you were and what you had been doing. “Sick of these fuckin’ cockblockers.” He muttered, causing you to laugh in wordless agreement.

As you began to chortle out words that supported his opinion, a gasp was pulled from your throat as he began to move again, his thrusts deeper than previously, hitting the benevolent spot inside of you that made you see stars and distorted all thoughts from your brain. He leaned into you, pushing his weight onto your own as he made you feel every inch of him, knowing not to adjust his position as he could feel you tightening around his shaft, the feeling making his eyes roll back in his head. He removed one of his arms from beneath your head, trailing it down your chest and stomach to your clit, toying with the bundle of nerves that brought you over the edge, cumming around him.

He fucked you faster, now focusing on his own high, and before he could get carried away he pulled out of your warmth as your hand reaches to coil around his length, sliding your hand up and down it, bringing him to his orgasm that spilt over your stomach in a pool of white. “Fuck.” He heartily laughed, breathlessly leaning down to trail kisses in various places of your skin before pecking your lips. Daryl knew that soon he would have to stalk out of the tent to listen to Rick and see what he wanted, but for now he drowned in your presence, kissing you over and over, relieved that his frustrations had gotten the better of him and sent those that dared interrupt elsewhere. You pulled him down into your side, watching as he reached for the shirt he had previously been wearing, wiping the mess that he had made from you with tentative strokes.

#daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon smut #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon x female reader #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon fluff #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon oneshot #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl dixon fic #daryl dixon angst #daryl x reader #daryl smut #daryl x female reader #daryl imagines #daryl one shot

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urspiritualnurse · 2 months ago

Text

•Pick a pile reading. (Left to right)

What makes your existence worth living?

"Got an energetic push to validate people. So, here it is."

Pile 1.

I see in this pile, you are extremely devoted person, very intelligent and closed off in the beginning, discerning everyone in the room, I think you know how deeply entangled you can be with people you hold dear, and how headstrong your loyalty is to people you have chosen to trust.

Maybe that is why, you stood your ground, on the surface always as someone hard to understand or connect to.

As though your subconscious self weaved such unfriendly nature as to save you from being too invested on someone.

And let me tell you, these mentioned reasons if didn't existed you would still be worthy but since the topic requires of me to speak of your special traits, I will do so.

I see you very reliable and sturdy person since a young age, and that has been both your grace and your downfall.....I get the sense that you were overworked since the very beginning, you could be prone to workaholism.

And a specific message is coming to mind, maybe your parents were a bit more irresponsible and neglectful of their duties......especially a father figure.....I'm sensing alcoholism, debt......and I'm so sorry....that you had to bear their mess and clean your future on your own.......

Being your own father......your own elder brother.......what I don't see is you becoming your own mother......I sense you are either unfamiliar with feminine energies or simply reject them out of a deep seated wound.

And again, I keep hearing,

"Although it was not your responsibility to pay off someone else's mess, loss, debts, caused by negligence and toxic addictions, you still did, emphasizing on your duties as a son or a daughter. You did so very well, and I'm ashamed of those so-called adults that lived spinelessly around."

I think this message is coming from a grandparent, I don't know if it's a male or female ancestor, it could also be an alive grandparent of yours, whose higher self is delivering this message....

I hear that spirit call you, "a little dumpling."

Again this is for someone specific.

Do I need to name all your great nature?

Hardworking, efficient, devoted, kind, and a hidden softie.

Although I get this downside of your traits such as easily prone to fixation, addiction, obsession yourself, remember you are your own person.

And people you have witnessed since young, who dealt with failure, sadness, happiness, every emotions and moods in destructive ways, you do not need to mimic their responses....find your own way of responding to life and emotion.

And I hear spirits warning,

"Don't you dare approach the alcohol hanging around your cabinet."

Be careful, you are such a kind soul.

Don't let the adults who surrounded you, cloud your character.

You are not them......you are you.

I am again hearing this spirit come through, it's the same grandparent or ancestor of some sort....

And what I'm about to relay to you might hurt a trigger out of you.....

But please hear them out, they get to be heard once in a blue moon, nomatter what audacious things they say........they don't have the privilege like the alive people to make noises every waking minute of the day.

"Forgive your father."

Or anyone whom you cannot seem to soften your creased forehead for.

Although anger gives us strength and conviction to never go through what we once did, it seems you are someone who is the one hurting when holding onto anger for someone, especially someone who is no longer in this waking world.

Your heart is like a fair flesh, each part of it is seamless and straight, and this one unforgiving hurt of anger is like a solid prick, stabbing those gentle flesh.

And I cannot stress this enough, learn to cope with things your own way.........not what you picked up growing up......

Drink appropriate amounts, go to bed when your body reeks of exhaustion, don't neglect yourself when you feel down...

Take care of yourself.

You little rooster, who lives taking care of others.

You should start taking care of yourself too.

Kapish?

Pile 2.

In this pile, I hear you are an excellent communicator.

Impeccable with your words and very suave in your social etiquette.

You could be an amazing artist of some sort, I also hear you play violin or piano or cello, or guitar, anything from the mentioned instruments very well.

It will sound funny but I heard, the piano loves being traced by your fingers.

I hear you are the pile that do not take what you give to people......I don't know what it means.

You could be someone very fluent in body language, and very good at connecting different people together.

In any social events or parties, I hear you can bring different groups together.

I also feel like there is in you a pit less form of yearning.

I get an interesting example,

You know the greek's beloved heart master cupid?

He is someone who knows the ins and outs of love, and cause he knows it all too well , with no room for contemplation, he himself cannot experience that spellbinding affection he plagues mortals with.

And I see you very alone, even admist the countless, seasonally changing crowds.

The all knowing nature of cupid suggests that you too are illusioned to believe you have seen it all, about connections and ways of people, what it leads to....etc etc.

This misconception of you being so sure about the possibilities connections bring, is the severe cause of your morbid sense of loneliness.

To wonder about what could happen if you accept another's initiative to connect, scares you I hear.

Your stubborn need to be sure sometimes leads you into, forging answers on your own.

For the quest of love is endless and your limited life and the vigorous need to know...know it all......and the deep rooted sense of uncertainty, fear makes you forge out your own answers.

It's like a student so tired of guessing answers from a teacher's fickle mouth, decides to name his answer the right one.

You watch people connect and collide, sometimes collapse into one another recklessly, and a hidden part of you yearns like an unseen artist.

But on the outside you have a wicked way with your tongue, you say such deceitful things to rewire your humane needs.

I feel like you must.......start by being honest with yourself.

The prime example of good fortune that comes from being honest, is demonstrated through one's own good nature to themselves.

If you have started the path of self honesty and self reflection...then good job.

You will reward your own honesty to yourself well, I promise you this.

And when you first touch that good response....you will know....for the first time.

Good nature is indeed rewarding.

Honesty builds trust, if you are angry to your bones, or want to weep like an infantalized adult.....or if you want to shred someone to pieces, or you want to join a community, accept a connection, approach love, take initiative to form a bond.....express it to yourself clearly.

You are not so devilish as you think you are.

Your intelligence is studious and philosophical, not like the power themed, cinematic cynic that you portray or aim it to be.

An accountant born with genius insight with numbers and counting, indeed is undeniably sharp but if that genius begins sowing seeds of a need to become evilishly forward, winner of a match, cinematic ways of "smart", he will be exhausting himself.....and just like the pretty musical instrument that was meant to be played by your artistic talent, gathers cobweb and dirt........your birth intelligence that you waste on aimlessly chasing an idealized version of wit, wilts on the backburner.

My little sharp witted, chameleon.

Who can charm just anyone, make sure you charm yourself too.

Why?

Cause you are worth winning an approval from, earning a good impression from......

Alright?

#spirituality #tarot pick a card #divination #tarot reading #pick a card #pac reading #self awareness #pick a pile

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sillylilsquid · 3 months ago

Text

𝕺𝖋𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕽𝖊𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖉

♥︎summary: In the neon lights of a city that never sleeps, you find solace in music–especially in the raw, soul-baring lyrics of rising rapper Thanos. When a chance encounter at one of his underground shows pulls you into his world, you discover the man behind the mic is more than just a voice–he’s a storm of passion, pain, and secrets. What starts as an undeniable connection quickly spirals into something deeper, something dangerous–especially when Thanos begins pushing you away just as fast as he pulls you in. But when his past comes back to haunt him, and you find him at his lowest, the lines blur between artist and muse, between escape and something real. In a world where music tells the truth better than words ever could, can love be enough to save a man who doesn’t believe he deserves it?

♥︎trigger warnings: au, no squid game. gn!reader(plz lmk if there are any mentions that would say otherwise), sexual themes, brief descriptions addiction and attempted suicide, oc thanos. minors dni!! 18+

♥︎a/n: 7.8k words. purple text is thanos, pink text is you.

The city was alive with sound–the hum of traffic, the distant rumble of bass from cars, and the collective heartbeats of people hustling through their day. The streets were lined with tall buildings and neon lights, a testament to a world that never stopped. And in this world, you were just another person trying to find your way, your place in a crowd that seemed too loud, too fast for someone like you.

But there was one thing you had always been certain about. One thing that was always there for you when nothing or no one else was–your love for music.

Music had always been your escape. Metal and rap, your two favorites. You spent hours listening to new tracks, analyzing the lyrics, the flow, the emotion. All the raw emotion the artists put out for everyone to hear. You had really grown to like finding local artists, rising stars in the music scene. And one rapper in particular had caught your attention–Thanos. He wasn’t just any rapper; his lyrics were raw, personal, and carried a weight you hadn’t felt from anyone else. As if he was sharing the same experiences as you. He wasn’t just speaking to his audience; he was speaking to you.

One lonely Saturday night you found yourself in the crowd at one of his shows. The venue was intimate–just a small club with dim lights and graffiti-covered walls. People crammed in like sardines. It was dark, dingy and smelled of alcohol and weed. But places like these were your favorite. They were intimate. Allowed you to experience the music at a more personal level.

You were used to seeing him on social media, but being in the same room as him, feeling the beat of the music vibrate through your chest, was an entirely different experience. Your heart raced as you stood in the front row, your eyes fixed on the stage. His presence demanded people not to tear their eyes away from him. The way he jumped around, never seeming to run out of breath or energy.

Thanos was performing his newest single, his voice smooth and commanding, effortlessly flowing with the beat. The crowd was lost in the rhythm, you almost forgot about the other bodies pressed up against yours. Your eyes never left him. There was something magnetic about the way he commanded the stage, but there was also something in his eyes–a hint of vulnerability that didn’t quite match the tough persona he projected.

As the song ended, the lights dimmed briefly, and the crowd’s roar filled the room. You stayed glued in your spot. The crowd began to die down as people left to use the bathroom or get another drink. You had turned to look around the club, admiring the posters and art amongst the walls. Your body still buzzed from the music, when suddenly, a familiar sounding voice spoke from behind you.

“Yo, you’re one of the few that actually knows every word,” the voice said, low and smooth.

You turned, startled, and there he was–Thanos, kneeling down on the stage in front of you, his intense gaze locked onto yours. He was closer than you had expected, close enough to see the sweat glistening on his forehead and the way his tattoos spread across every inch of his skin. The way his in-ears were dangling around his neck now. The realization that he was speaking to you made your heart skip a beat.

“Uh, yeah,” you stammered, your cheeks flushed. “I…I’ve been listening to your stuff for a while.”

He smiled, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “I can tell. You’re not just here for the hype. You really get it.” His voice had a calm, deep quality, but there was a softness to it that you hadn’t expected. It was almost as if he was genuinely interested in what you had to say. But surely not, right?

“I–thank you,” you managed to say, still in awe of how effortlessly he carried himself. “I love your music. It’s…it’s different.”

“Different, huh?” Thanos leaned in slightly, his expression thoughtful. An eyebrow cocked up at your words. “I like that. People usually think I’m all about the hard stuff, you know? But there’s more beneath the surface.” He tilted his head, his gaze never leaving yours. “What’s your name?”

You told him, your voice shaking a little as you tried to compose yourself.

He repeated your name back to you, the word rolling off his tongue. Testing it as if savoring the sound. “Nice to meet you, senorita. You seem like someone who understands what I’m trying to say. Most only hear the words, but you…you feel the rhythm in a way that’s rare.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. His words hit deeper than you expected, and the connection between you two felt instantaneous–almost too real for the moment. Maybe it was because you knew how his newest song spoke of his struggle with addiction, or how one of them mentioned a suicide attempt. Things you knew other people didn’t pick up on, but things you were too familiar with.

“Yeah, I think I get it,” you said quietly, your eyes not leaving his. You didn’t know why, but in that moment, you felt seen, understood in a way that was rare for you. “Your lyrics–they speak to me. It’s like you’re telling my story.”

Thanos’ expression softened for a moment. “That’s what I’m trying to do,” he said, his voice low and sincere. “I rap for people who feel like their voices are too quiet to be heard. I want to make sure no one feels like they’re alone in this world, even if it’s just for a few minutes when the beat drops.”

His words hit you like a wave. It was the kind of thing you had always hoped someone would understand, but you never expected him–someone who was slowly becoming a household name–to be the one who spoke to them.

Before you could say anything more, the club manager approached, signaling that the set was over. “Yo, Thanos, time to wrap it up. Gotta switch the stage over for the next group,” the manager said.

Thanos gave a quick nod and then turned his attention back to you. “You should stick around,” he said casually. “I’m not done for the night. And I think we should talk more.”

Your heart pounded. “Talk more?”

He shrugged, a confident yet almost shy smile playing on his lips. “Yeah. I'm not always on stage, ya know? But I'm still the same guy behind the mic.”

Your mind raced, and you could barely process what was happening. Thanos–the rapper you admired, the one whose lyrics had kept you grounded through your darkest moments–wanted to talk to you. He wasn’t just some up and coming star ignoring his fans. He was genuinely interested in you.

You nodded, trying to steady your breath. “I’d like that.”

He smirked, a playful glint in his eyes. “Good. Let’s see if we can make some magic happen off stage, too.”

As the crowd began to fill back up, you found yourself walking with him towards the back of the venue, where the night was only beginning, the world outside felt distant, as if it didn’t matter anymore. For the first time, you weren’t just a fan looking up at a star–you were someone Thanos, the artist who shaped your world, wanted to connect with.

And for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel so alone.

As you followed Thanos through the dimly lit corridors of the venue, the pulsing bass from the next act faded into the background. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, stale beer, and something unspoken–an anticipation that clung to your skin like static.

He led you past a heavy black curtain, stepping into a quieter backstage area. Somewhere you were surprised even existed with how small the club was. The contrast was jarring–the chaotic energy of the club melted into a space that felt almost intimate, despite the occasional crew member rushing past. A single worn-out couch sat against the graffiti-covered wall, and a small table was cluttered with half-empty water bottles, beer cans, and a pack of cigarettes.

Thanos grabbed a towel from a nearby chair, running it over the back of his neck before tossing it aside. Then, with the same lazy confidence, he gestured for you to sit.

“So,” he started, leaning against the wall, his dark eyes studying you with quiet curiosity. “You ever write?”

The question caught you off guard. “What?”

“Lyrics,” he clarified, crossing his arms. “Or poetry. Something.”

You hesitated. It was something you had always kept to yourself–scribbled verses in the margins of notebooks, or hidden in your favorite journal. Thoughts too raw to share with anyone else.

“Maybe,” you admitted, your voice softer now. “But nothing serious.”

Thanos smirked, but there was no teasing in it, just an understanding. “That’s how it starts,” he said, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off a weight only he could feel. “I used to do the same. Thought no one would care what I had to say.” He let out a quiet chuckle. “Turns out, I was wrong.”

The weight of his words settled between you. It was easy to forget, watching him on stage, that there was a person beneath the bravado. Someone who had once been just as unsure, just as lost in the noise of the world.

Before you could respond, a voice interrupted.

“Yo, Thanos,” a man in a hoodie poked his head into the room, his gaze flickering between the two of you. You recognized him from Thanos’ Instagrams posts. His friend, Nam Gyu. “They’re asking for you outside.”

Thanos’ jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but his expression remained unreadable. “Who?”

Nam Gyu hesitated. “Let’s just say…the kind of people you don’t keep waiting.”

For the first time tonight, you saw something shift in Thanos. The ease in his stance hardened into something sharper, more cautious. He exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his jaw before nodding.

“Aight,” he muttered. Then, as if remembering you were still there, he turned back to you. “You good to wait here for a bit?”

There was something unspoken in his tone, a flicker of warning in his eyes. He didn’t want you to follow.

Something about the way Nam Gyu had phrased it– “the kind of people you don’t keep waiting”–sent a shiver down your spine.

You swallowed. “Yeah. Sure.”

Thanos studied you for a second longer, then, with one last nod, pushed past his friend and disappeared down the hallway.

You sat there, the silence creeping back in, but your mind was racing.

Who was waiting for him? And why did it feel like, for all his confidence, Thanos wasn’t entirely in control of whatever was happening outside?

Maybe, just maybe, you were stepping into something much bigger than a backstage conversation.

The minutes stretched on, the distant thump of the bass was the only thing filling the silence. You tried to sit still, but your fingers drummed anxiously against your knee. Something about the way Thanos had left–it wasn’t just a casual meeting. Whoever was waiting for him, they weren’t just fans or industry people.

You glanced at the doorway, debating whether to stay put like he asked.

Then, a muffled voice. Raised. Firm.

Thanos.

Your heart jumped.

You stood, creeping toward the hallway. The club was a maze of narrow corridors, dimly lit and lined with peeling posters. The voices grew clearer as you approached a side door left slightly ajar, leading to the alley behind the venue.

Thanos was standing with his back to you, his broad shoulders squared. Three men stood in front of him, their expressions unreadable beneath the flickering streetlight. They weren’t dressed like fans, or even label reps. Their clothes were clean but understated–black jackets, dark jeans, the kind of people who blended in but carried an unshakable presence.

One of them, a man with slicked-back hair, spoke first.

“You’re late.”

Thanos exhaled sharply, his head tilting in a way that almost looked amused. “I was busy.”

The man didn’t smile. “That’s not how this works.”

There was a beat of silence, the air between them heavy with tension.

You pressed yourself against the wall, suddenly unsure if you should be witnessing this.

Then the man reached into his pocket.

You didn’t see a weapon–just a small slip of paper, folded neatly. He held it out to Thanos, who stared at it for a long moment before snatching it from his hand.

“You know the deadline,” the man said coolly. “Don’t make us come looking for you again.”

Thanos clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the paper. He didn’t respond.

The three men turned and disappeared into the night, their footsteps echoing down the alley.

For a long moment, Thanos stood there, unmoving.

Then, slowly, he unfolded the slip of paper. Even from where you stood, you could see his body tense. His fingers crumpled the note slightly before he shoved it into his pocket, exhaling sharply.

That’s when he turned–and saw you.

His eyes locked onto yours, unreadable in the dim light.

You froze, unsure if you had just crossed some invisible line.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he said, his voice quieter than before.

You swallowed, your heart hammering. “Who were they?”

He hesitated, as if weighing whether or not to tell you.

Then, in a voice lower than before, he said, “Nobody you need to worry about.”

He started toward you, and for the second time, you noticed the tightness in his jaw, the way his fingers still curled slightly like he was trying to shake something off.

But when he reached you, his gaze softened–just a little.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he murmured. “Come on.”

He didn’t say another word as he led you back inside, but something had shifted. Whatever world Thanos lived in outside of his music, you had just gotten a glimpse of it.

And somehow, you knew this wouldn’t be the last time.

It had been two weeks since that night behind the venue. Two weeks since you saw the note, since those men made it clear that Thanos had someone watching him.

And yet, he hadn’t told you a thing about it.

Not that things between you hadn’t changed. If anything, they’d only gotten closer.

It started with late-night texts. Not just about music, but about everything.

what’s ur take on old-school hip-hop? like 90s nas and biggie type?

timeless. if you disagree, we are fighting

lmafo, alright. i’ll keep my mouth shut 🤐

wait… don’t tell me u don’t like biggie!!??🤨

nah, i do. but i like pac more

okay okay ur forgiven

Then came the studio visits.

It started with an invitation–casual, like it wasn’t a big deal. Pull up to the studio if you want. Bring snacks.

The first time, you were nervous. Watching him rap live was one thing, but watching him work? That was something else.

You didn’t expect him to be so meticulous. He ran the same verse over and over, tweaking every word, every pause, until it felt right. When he finally got it down, he turned to you, expectant.

“Well?”

You had stared at him, wide-eyed. “You want my opinion?”

He smirked. “Why wouldn’t I?

That was the moment you realized–he actually cared what you thought.

And now?

Now you were here again, perched on the studio couch, your legs tucked beneath you as Thanos stood in the booth, headphones over his ears, voice smooth as he ran through a new track.

Something about this song felt different. Darker. More personal.

Your gaze flickered to the notebook on the table. His handwriting was sharp, fast–almost angry. You could only make out bits and pieces.

“Deadlines feel like nooses”

“Counting favors, counting days”

“Ain’t no peace when the devil wanna play”

You frowned. That line–it felt too real.

The beat faded, and Nam Gyu, who helped him record, gave him a thumbs-up. Thanos pulled off his headphones, rolling his shoulders before stepping out of the booth.

He flopped onto the couch beside you, exhaling deeply. “What’s the verdict?”

You hesitated. “It’s…heavy.”

He glanced at you, something unreadable in his expression. “That a bad thing?”

“No,” you said quickly. “Just…it sounds personal.”

For a second, he didn’t respond. Then, with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes, he said, “All my shit’s personal.”

You wanted to push. To ask about the note, about the men in the alley. About what exactly he was counting days for.

But before you could, his phone buzzed.

His jaw tensed as he read the screen. Then, without a word, he stood up, grabbing his hoodie.

“I’ll be back.”

You sat up. “Thanos–”

He looked at you then, something flickering behind his dark eyes. “Stay here.”

And just like that, he was gone. Your chest tightened. This wasn’t just about music. Something was happening. And whether he liked it or not, you weren’t just going to sit and wait forever.

You waited exactly five minutes before grabbing your jacket and slipping out of the studio. Nam Gyu hadn’t noticed, his face was buried into the screen of his laptop.

Thanos told you to stay. But you weren’t great at following orders.

The streets outside were alive, neon lights flashing against the wet pavement. The night smelled like city smoke and rain, and every shadow felt heavier than it should have.

You followed instinct–plus the fact that Thanos wasn’t exactly subtle when he was in a hurry. A few blocks down, you spotted him.

He was standing on the sidewalk, hood up, back rigid. Across from him? A familiar figure. Slicked-back hair. The same guy from the alley. Your stomach tightened.

You ducked into a nearby doorway, pressing yourself into the shadows. You couldn’t hear everything over the hum of the rain, but you caught pieces.

“–not enough time.”

“–not my problem.”

“–you owe more than you think.”

Then, something quieter. Lower.

Thanos’ hands clenched into fists. His head dipped for a second, like he was bracing himself.

You took a step forward before you could stop yourself. And that’s when Thanos looked up–right at you. Your breath hitched.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The man he was talking to turned slightly, following Thanos’ gaze, but before he could spot you, Thanos stepped closer to him, blocking his view.

“Don’t.” he said, voice sharp.

It wasn’t clear if he was talking to the guy–or to you.

Your heart pounded. You knew you should leave, that pushing further could make things worse, but something in Thanos’ expression stopped you.

He looked…tired.

Angry, sure. But underneath it, there was something else.

Something scared.

The conversation ended a few seconds later. The man clapped a hand on Thanos’ shoulder–mocking, maybe threatening–and disappeared into the night.

Thanos stood there, staring at the ground. Time seemed to stop in that moment. Then, slowly, he turned and walked toward you. Your pulse raced.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, voice low.

“I could ask you the same thing,” you shot back.

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “You don’t get it.” “Then make me get it.”

His jaw tightened. “It’s not that simple.”

You crossed your arms, refusing to back down. “Is it money? Debt? Are you in trouble?”

The rain pounded down on the two of you, soaking your clothes and making you shiver,

Something flickered in his gaze. Then, so quietly you almost missed it, he said, “It’s always been trouble.”

A gust of wind blew between you, cold against your skin. Finally, Thanos sighed, shaking his head. “Come on. I’m walking you home.”

You wanted to argue. Wanted to push harder. But something told you that, for now, this was all he could give. So you let him walk beside you, the city buzzing around you both, the space between you thick with everything left unsaid.

The tension between you and Thanos hadn’t disappeared. If anything, it had grown. Some nights, he barely spoke. Others, he’d sit beside you in the studio, close enough that his leg brushed against yours, his presence heavy but silent.

And then there were moments like this. You were both sitting on the rooftop of his apartment, staring out at the city skyline. He had been quiet tonight. More than usual.

You nudged his shoulder. “Tell me something real.”

He glanced at you, one brow raised. “What?”

You shrugged. “Something real. Not about music. Not about whatever mess you’re tangled up in. Just…something about you.”

Thanos stared at you for a long time. Then, finally, he said, “I don’t sleep much.”

You blinked. “Because of the music?”

“Because of the past.” His voice was softer now, like he wasn’t sure he should be telling you this.

Your chest tightened. Carefully, you reached out, fingers brushing against his. A test. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he exhaled, tilting his head back against the wall. “Your turn,” he muttered.

You hesitated, then said, “I haven’t felt like I belonged anywhere in a long time.”

His fingers twitched beneath yours. Then, after a beat, he turned his hand over–gripping yours, just for a second. It wasn’t much. But it was something. And somehow it felt like everything.

A few more weeks passed. You weren’t sure what you and Thanos were, but you know what you weren’t. You weren’t just another fan. You weren’t just a friend.

But whatever line existed between you two–it was blurring fast.

You could feel it in the way he looked at you. In the way he spoke softer when it was just the two of you. In the way his fingers sometimes lingered against yours, like he was testing something, waiting for a sign. And in the way he never let you too close. Not yet.

It was another night you had joined him at the recording studio. He always asked you to tag along, and you never declined.

Thanos was pacing. Frustrated. You were sitting on the couch, watching him.

He had been working on the same verse for over an hour, and something about it wasn’t right. You could see it in his body language–the clenched jaw, the way his shoulders tensed like he was carrying something too heavy.

Finally, he yanked his headphones off and cursed under his breath. You hesitated. “Wanna talk about it?” “No.” His voice was sharp, but not at you. Still, you stood up, stepping closer. “Okay. Then tell me what’s really wrong.” Thanos exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “I told you, it’s nothing.” “Bullshit.”

He stopped. Turned to you, eyes dark and unreadable. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, suddenly, he stepped forward. Too close. Your breath hitched.

“You really wanna know?” he muttered. His voice was low, rough. You swallowed. “Yeah.”

His gaze dropped–to your lips, just for a second. Then, without warning, he laughed. A bitter sound. “You shouldn’t.”

That hurt more than it should have. Your spine straightened. “Why?” you questioned him.

His expression hardened.

“Because if you knew the kind of shit I’m in, you’d run.” Something inside you twisted.

You could run. You probably should run. But instead, you reached for his wrist. Just enough so he’d know you weren’t afraid. “I’m still here,” you whispered.

Thanos’ breath caught. His eyes searched yours, like he was looking for something–some kind of warning, some kind of reason to push you away. Then slowly, his fingers curled around yours. Not tight. Not possessive. Just holding.

“I don’t know if that’s a good thing,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

You gave him a small, sad smile. “Me neither.” But neither of you let go.

A few days later you hadn’t seen Thanos since that night at the studio. Not in person, anyway. He had sent a few texts–short, vague. You two were supposed to meet up to hang out that evening. But his last message broke your heart.

Got shit to handle. Don’t wait up.

Then silence. For two days.

The anxiety sat like a stone in your gut. You weren’t sure what scared you more–the fact that he was gone or the fact you felt his absence so strongly.

Then, late one night, your phone buzzed. A location ping. It wasn’t his apartment. It wasn’t the studio.

It was an abandoned bridge on the edge of the city. Your stomach dropped. You knew this place. You knew why this place mattered. The importance it held.

Thanos had told you once, in the quiet dark of a studio session gone too late, that there had been a night–one long, horrible night–when he had stood on that bridge’s edge, staring into the abyss below, wondering if anyone would miss him.

He hadn’t gone through with it. But that didn't mean he never thought about it. And now, he was there again. Your hands trembled as you grabbed your jacket and ran out the door.

You found him slumped against the rusted railing, hood up, cigarette barely lit between his tattooed fingers. Purple hair stuck to his forehead.

His knuckles were split. A cut ran along his cheekbone, dark and swollen. His lip was busted. And worst of all? His eyes. They were empty. Your heart ached as you stepped forward. “Thanos?”

He didn’t even look at you. Just exhaled smoke and muttered, “You shouldn’t be here.” You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “Then why did you send me your location?”

Silence.

You stepped closer, the cold wind biting at your skin. “You told me once what this bridge meant to you,” you said carefully. “So don’t lie to me and say this is nothing.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I’m not that guy anymore.”

“Then why are you here?”

His fingers curled into a fist. He looked away, towards the drop below. Something inside you snapped.

You grabbed his wrist–not rough, just firm. “Don’t do this,” you whispered, voice raw. “Whatever you’re thinking, whatever happened–I’m right here. Just talk to me.”

For a second, just a second, his eyes softened. Then, just as fast, his expression hardened again.

He yanked his hand away. “You can’t help,” he muttered. “You don’t belong in this world of mine.” You clenched your jaw. “Then why do you keep pulling me into it?”

His breath hitched, but he forced a cold laugh. “I didn’t ask you to come.” That stung. Your throat tightened, but you refused to let him see how much that hurt you.

You took a shaky step back. “Right. My mistake.”

You turned away before your voice could break, before he could see the way your face crumbled.

You had given him space. You had tried to understand. But this–this pushing–it hurt. But before you could walk away, a hand shot out, catching your wrist.

Your breath caught. You turned back, finding him looking at you like he regretted every word he just said. “...Don’t go,” he murmured.

Your chest ached. “Then stop pushing me away.” He exhaled sharply, eyes searching yours. Then, slowly–hesitantly–he tugged you down beside him.

You sat in silence for a moment, his fingers still wrapped around your wrist. As if he let go you would simply vanish into thin air. And then, softer this time, he whispered, “I don’t know how to do this.”

Your heart clenched. You understood how he felt. You had been in his shoes before, too many times.

You shifted closer, carefully pressing your forehead against his. “Then let me show you.” His breath shuddered. And then, he kissed you. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was desperate. Like he had been holding himself back for too long.

His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, fingers gripping like he was scared you would disappear. Your own hands slid into his hair, tugging, making him groan against your lips.

The tension that had been simmering for weeks finally boiled over. And in that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the bruises. Not the fights. Just this. Just you and him.

The walk back was quiet. Not awkward. Just heavy. Thanos had barely spoken a word since you left the bridge. But he hadn’t let go of your hand, either.

Not in a romantic way–more like he was grounding himself, making sure you were still there. That you were real.

Now in the dim light of your apartment, you finally saw him clearly. The dried blood. The bruises darkening his cheek. The tension in his shoulders, like he was waiting for you to tell him to leave.

You didn’t. Instead, you grabbed the first aid kit from under the sink. He scoffed. “I’m fine.” You have him a look. Bullshit, you thought.

With a sigh, he sat on the couch, letting you kneel in front of him. You dipped a cotton pad in antiseptic and carefully dabbed at his cheek. He barely flinched.

“Wanna tell me who did this?” you asked softly.

He exhaled, eyes flickering away. “Just some unfinished business.”

You frowned. “Thanos–” “I handled it.” His voice was flat. “It’s over.”

You sighed, pressing the pad against a deeper cut on his brow. You were sure it would scar. “You keep saying that. But it never really is, is it?” His jaw clenched.

You knew you were pushing, but you couldn’t not. Not after tonight. Not after that damn bridge.

You set the first aid kit aside, meeting his gaze. “Talk to me,” you murmured. “Tell me the truth. All of it.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. For a second you thought he’d shut down again. But then–his walls cracked. And the words came spilling out.

“I don’t know how to stop,” he admitted, voice rough. “I don’t know how to be anything else. This life–this fighting, this running–it’s all I’ve ever known. And every time I think I’m out, something drags me back in.”

You stayed silent, letting him speak.

He let out a bitter laugh, running a hand down his face. “You wanna know the worst part? I let it happen. I tell myself I don’t have a choice, but maybe I do. Maybe I just don’t know who I am without all this shit.”

Your heart ached for him. You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his. His grip was tight–he was afraid to let go.

“You’re not just the things that have happened to you,” you whispered. “And you don’t have to do this alone.”

He shook his head. “I don’t want to drag you down with me.” You smiled softly. “Too late.” That startled a laugh out of him. A real one. Low, rough, but real. You squeezed his hand. “I’m not going anywhere, Thanos.”

He looked at you then–really looked at you. And for the first time, there was no cocky smirk, no teasing glint in his eye. Just raw, unfiltered emotion.

“...You’re the only thing that feels real,” he admitted quietly. “The only thing that doesn’t feel like it’s slipping through my fingers.”

Your breath caught. The weight of his words settled deep in your chest. Slowly, cautiously, you leaned in–pressing your forehead against his. Just being there. His cold, inked fingers ghosted over your cheek, his touch hesitant, unsure.

“Stay,” you whispered. His breath hitched. “...Okay.” And just like that–he let himself fall. Not into chaos. Not into violence.

But into you.

Neither of you moved for a long time. The hum of the city outside your window filled the silence, but in here, it felt like the world had stopped. Just for the two of you.

Thanos hadn’t let go of your hand. Hadn’t pulled away. But he also hadn’t moved closer. Like he was still figuring out what the hell this was.

And you? You weren’t sure what scared you more–that he might leave, or that he might actually stay.

You cleared your throat, voice barely above a whisper. “Do you wanna crash here tonight?” His fingers twitched against yours.

A war played out in his eyes–some silent battle between wanting it and not trusting himself to have it. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, he nodded. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, I do.”

Something warm flickered in your chest. You squeezed his hand once before standing. “I’ll grab you some clothes.”

In your bedroom Thanos stood near the window, looking out into the city. You had tossed him a pair of sweatpants and an old hoodie, but he had only changed out of his wet shirt so far, leaving him in just his jeans. The bruises on his torso were darker now, shadowed in the dim light of your room. His tattoos an even darker contrast to his soft skin.

He looked out of place here–like he wasn’t used to being in spaces this…safe.

“You can sit, ya’ know,” you teased lightly. His lips twitched. “Didn’t want to mess up your bed.” You rolled your eyes and tugged his wrist, pulling him towards the mattress. “It’s a bed! That’s literally what it’s for.”

A small chuckle rumbled in his chest, but he let you pull him down. You sat cross-legged beside him, heart hammering in your ribs. The bed dipped under his weight, bringing him so close that you could feel the warmth radiating off him.

Neither of you spoke. Neither of you had to. But the air between you was thick. Charged. His fingers flexed against the sheets, knuckles brushing yours.You glanced up at him–and froze.

Because his eyes were already on you.

Not in that usual, cocky, teasing way. No. This was something else. Something raw. Something that made your breathing stop.

“...Why do you care so much?” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart clenched. “Because I see you,” you whispered back. “And I know what it’s like to feel like no one else does.”

His jaw tensed, like your words physically hit him. And then–so slowly, so hesitantly–he reached up. His fingers ghosted over your jaw, trailing so lightly it sent a shiver down your spine. You swallowed. Hard.

“Thanos…” He exhaled, fingers moving to your chin, tilting your face just slightly.

Your breath mingled with his. Your lips were so close–But he stopped.

Like he wasn’t sure if he had the right. Like he wasn’t sure if he deserved this. Your pulse pounded.

So, you made the choice for him. You closed the distance, pressing your lips to his–soft, hesitant, testing.

His breath hitched. And then, suddenly, it wasn’t hesitant anymore.

His hand slid to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he deepened the kiss, needy, desperate. His other hand gripped your waist, pulling you closer–like he had been holding back for far too long and finally, finally let himself have this.

Your hands pressed against his chest, feeling the heat of his bare skin. His heart was racing–just like yours.

But then–he pulled back. Abruptly. His chest heaved, lips parted, eyes dark. “...I shouldn’t,” he rasped. Your heart plummeted. “What?” His fingers curled into fists. “You don’t deserve this. Me.”

You swallowed past the lump in your throat. “You don’t get to decide that for me.” His eyes flashed–with frustration, with longing, with something he couldn’t put into words.

Then, without another word, he stood. Your stomach dropped. Watching as he pulled on the hoodie you had provided for him.

“Thanos–” “I need air,” he spat, running a hand through his hair. “I just–” he exhaled, shaking his head. “I’ll be back.”

And then, just like that, he walked out. Leaving you alone. Leaving your lips still tingling from his kiss. Leaving your chest aching with something you couldn’t name.

Thanos lied. He didn’t come back that night. In fact you hadn’t heard from him at all.

Not a single call. Not a single text. Nothing.

You told yourself you weren’t waiting. That it didn’t matter. That if Thanos wanted to disappear, fine. Let him.

But it was a lie.

Because every time your phone buzzed, your heart jumped. Every time you heard footsteps near your door, your stomach flipped. Every time the city lights flickered outside your window, you wondered if he was out there, in the dark, thinking about you.

And the worst part? You could still feel the ghost of his lips against yours. It was driving you insane.

So you did what you always did when your mind got too loud–you blasted music. Drowned in the bass, let the lyrics be a distraction. But even that wasn’t enough. Because nothing could drown out the memory of him.

Your clock read 12:12am. That’s when you heard it. A sharp knock at your door shattered the silence. You froze. No one came over this late. Never.

Your heart hammered as you stood, feet carrying you toward the door before your brain could catch up.

Another knock–harder, more desperate. And then– His voice. “...It’s me.”

Your breath halted. Hands shaking, you unlocked the door.

And there he was. Thanos. Soaked from the rain. Breathless. Eyes dark, intense–like something inside him had finally snapped.

You swallowed. “You–” “I couldn't stay away,” he rasped. His voice was wrecked. Like he had been fighting himself for two days straight and lost.

Your pulse pounded in your ears. “You left.” “I know.” He clenched his jaw. “I shouldn’t have.”

You should have been angry. You wanted to be angry. But all you could focus on was the way his chest heaved, the way his fists curled at his sides like he was holding himself back. Like he was seconds away from breaking.

You stepped back, leaving the door open. A silent invitation. And he didn’t hesitate. The second the door shut, Thanos moved. No more hesitation. No more running. He grabbed you.

One hand at your waist, the other cradling the back of your neck–desperate, feverish, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he didn’t hold on tight enough.

Then his lips crashed onto yours. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant.

It was messy, raw, full of every bottled-up feeling he had tried to ignore.

You gasped, fingers tangling in his damp shirt, pulling him closer, closer–until there was nothing between you.

A low groan rumbled in his chest as he pressed you against the nearest wall, lips trialing from your mouth to your jaw, to your neck. “I tried to stay away,” he murmured against your skin, voice hoarse. “I swore I wouldn’t do this.”

Your head tilted back, giving him more access. “Then why are you here?” His teeth grazed your pulse point, making you shudder. “Because I can’t fucking help myself.”

Thanos had you trapped against the wall. His breath was hot against your skin.

His hands possessive, gripping your waist, your hip, fingers digging in because he was so scared to let go.

Your name left his lips in a rough whisper before he kissed you again–deeper, slower this time. Less rushed, more intentional. You melted into him.

God, the way he kissed–like he wanted to devour you, like he was starving and you were the only thing that could satisfy him–

And then–The shrill ringing of his phone broke through the room. Blaring in the silence. Thanos froze.

His lips still brushed against yours, his body still pressing you into the wall–but you felt it. The instant shift in his mood.

You barely had time to process before he snapped back, jaw clenched. The phone kept ringing. He pulled it out his pocket, glanced at the name on the screen. His whole body tensed. Your stomach sank.

“Who is it?” Your voice came out too quiet. Thanos exhaled sharply. His thumb hovered over the screen. You saw the hesitation in his eyes–then, with a muttered curse, he declined the call.

Silence. Then, after a beat–“I need to handle something.” It was like getting shoved back into reality.

You stared at him. “You’re leaving again?” Of course he would. You couldn’t be so stupid to think he had changed any in the past couple days of no contact.

“No,” he said quickly. “I just–” he ran a hand over his face. Clearly exhausted and fighting with himself over what to do. “I’ll be back. I just need to deal with some shit.”

Your heart shattered. “That’s what you said last time.”

He flinched. For a second, you thought he might actually stay. That he’d say something real, something honest. For once.

But instead–“I’ll come back,” he promised.And just like that, he was gone.

You didn’t expect him to come back the same night. But two hours later–just as you were about to give up on him yet again–your door slammed open. You had remained in your bed, heart racing as you listened to his heavy footsteps.

And there he was. Thanos. Chest heaving. Panting. Eyes dark, hungry. Like he had been burning for you since the moment he walked away.

You barely had time to react before he was on you. A rough hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back as his lips crashed onto yours–possessive, needy, like he was making up for every second he wasted.

You gasped against his mouth, gripping his jacket, yanking him closer, letting him press you against the mattress.

“You’re mine,” he growled against your lips. Your head spun, “Prove it.” And oh, did he.

His jacket hit the floor. His hands found your waist, sliding under your shirt, fingers skimming hot against your skin. Your body arched into him–desperate, aching.

But he wasn’t in a rush. No, this was punishment. For every second he spent pretending he didn’t want you. For every time he pushed you away when all he wanted was this.

“You think I don’t feel it?” he murmured, lips trailing down your jaw then neck. “The way you look at me? The way I can’t fucking breathe when you’re near me?”

You whimpered as his teeth grazed your pulse, his hands gripping your hips, pinning you against him.

“You ruined me, princesa.” His voice was thick, rough, dripping with something dangerous.

You shivered. “Good.” His control snapped. And then–Heat. Desperation. Mouths colliding, hands everywhere, bodies pressed too close, but still not not close enough.

And thanos? He was ravenous. Every touch, every kiss, every rough grip on your hips was a silent confession.

And tonight? He wasn’t holding back anymore. His hands were everywhere.

Rough palms sliding under your shirt, fingertips tracing fire along your spine. His lips claimed yours with a hunger that left you breathless, gasping against him.

Thanos wasn’t just kissing you. He was consuming you. Like he had been starving for this. For you.

Your fingers tangled in his faded purple hair, and he groaned–low, deep, something shot straight through your core.

“Fuck,” he rasped, dragging his lips back down your throat. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.” Your breath hitched, his teeth nipping at your skin. “Then don’t stop.”

A growl rumbled in his chest. “Wasn’t planning to, princesa.” And then came the sound of ripping fabric.

You gasped as your shirt hit the floor, followed by his–his heat pressing into you, skin to skin, muscles tense beneath your fingertips.

Thanos devoured you with his gaze, his dark eyes trailing over every inch of exposed skin. His breath was ragged, jaw tight–like he was barely holding himself together.

But then he touched you. Fingertips tracing slow, torturous patterns down your sides, his mouth following the path of his tattooed hands. And you melted.

“Look at you,” he whispered against your skin. “So fucking beautiful.”

You whimpered as he pinned you beneath him, his weight pressing you into the mattress, solid, inescapable. His hands gripped your thighs, parting them, his breath hot against your stomach.

Then his lips trailed lower. Lower. Lower.

Your body arched off the bed as heat exploded through your veins, pleasure pooling deep as his mouth worked wonders.

Thanos, well he devoured you. Like you were his last meal.

Every whimper, every shuddering breath, every time your fingers tightened in his hair–he took it like a man starved. Like he wouldn’t stop until you were completely wrecked beneath him.

And when he finally came back up, his lips slick, sinful, his gaze heavy-lidded and dark, he smirked. “Not done with you yet, princesa.” And then? Oh, then he really showed you just how much he’d been holding back.

The city hadn’t changed. The neon lights still flickered, the streets still pulsed with life, and the music still played loud enough to shake the walls. But you had changed. So had Thanos. He hadn’t left again–not like before.

After that night, something shifted between you two. He stopped running. Stopped shutting you out. Instead, he was there. In your bed. In your space. In your life. But it wasn’t perfect.

Some nights, he still got quiet. Still carried the weight of the past like chains around his wrists. Still fought demons he didn’t know how to exorcise.

But now–now, he let you see it. And more than that–he let you stay.

The apartment was quiet, except for the low hum of music playing from the speaker. This weekend was full of shows for Thanos. You were excited to attend every one of them.

You sat on the couch, knees tucked to your chest, watching as Thanos scribbled into a battered notebook. Lyrics. You could tell from the way his lips moved slightly as he wrote, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Writing about me?” you teased, leaning back against the cushions. His lips quirked. “Maybe.” You raised an eyebrow. “What’s it say?”

He hesitated for a beat, then tore the paper out, folding it in half. He stood, crossing the room, and placed it in your lap. You unfolded it slowly, heart picking up speed.

“You make me feel like I deserve more than just the pain”

Your breath caught. When you looked up, he was watching you, something raw and unguarded in his gaze. “Do you?” you asked softly. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “What?”

“Do you think you deserve more?” Silence stretched between you. Heavy. Thick.

And then he exhaled sharply, running a large hand down his face. “I don’t know.” His voice was rough. Honest. “But I know I want it. With you.”

Your heart clenched. For the first time, he wasn’t just saying what he thought he should say. He was telling the truth.

You stood slowly, closing the distance between you. His hands twitched at his sides, like he wasn’t sure if he should pull you in or let you go. So you made the choice for him.

You wrapped your arms around him, pressing your cheek against his chest, feeling the steady thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat. And after a brief moment his arms tightened around you, his face pressing into your hair.

“I don’t know how to be good at this,” he murmured into your hair. You smiled softly. “We’ll figure it out.” He sighed, his hold on you unwavering. And in that moment, you knew–he wasn’t going anywhere. No more running. Not this time.

♥︎a/n: hope you enjoyed!! work has been super busy, but i am hoping to write more this weekend to post <3

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