#which needs to be cleaned in two hours... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shuavez · 3 days ago

Text

litany 𓄧 k.mg

vi. someone to come home to.

summary 𓄧 every oath has a cost. every touch has a consequence. sent deep undercover into one of the city’s most illicit vampire clubs, two detectives must navigate the delicate balance between duty and desire — and survive the consequences when pretending stops feeling like pretending.

and some hungers, once fed, are impossible to starve.

tags 𓄧 detective!au, vampire!mingyu x human!reader. slow-ish burn. fake dating. friends/coworkers to lovers. various svt members/idols.

warnings 𓄧 mingyu is annoying. wc. 8.8k.

previous chapter ↜ v. the rite.

8:31 a.m.

For the first time in weeks your alarm isn’t the villain; you’re already awake, blinking at the slow-moving ceiling fan while the digits on your phone change from 8:31 to 8:32. Your body feels… doughy is the word that lands—soft and over-proved, like someone poked you in the night and left fingerprints behind. You slept through, though. A glorious, uninterrupted seven hours that should taste like victory, except there’s a syrupy weight behind your eyes and a slow pulse thrumming in the muscle of your left thigh where Mingyu’s fangs had broken skin last night.

Stop thinking about it.

You stretch anyway, toes pointing beneath the covers, and the stretch sparks memory—his hand braced high on your hip, the cool press of his mouth, the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes when you didn’t flinch. Heat crawls up your neck. It shouldn’t. It’s biology, procedure, the Sanctum’s gilded pageantry. Still, the phantom of that pull lingers: a light static in your blood, a hitch in your breath that turns your pulse into a metronome set half a beat too slow.

You drag a palm down your face, trying to smear away the fog. Wonwoo’s briefing is in an hour-and-thirty; Mingyu will be there, crisp and professional, maybe even polite, but… retreating. Not cruel—just folding himself smaller, the way you do with origami evidence bags when the corners don’t line up. You don’t know which version of him you’ll meet in Central Crimes today: the one who kissed you like it was equal parts apology and promise, or the one who’ll file himself behind a ballistic-glass smile.

Either way, you remind yourself, coffee exists, adrenaline is free, and your badge still pushes open every door that matters. You swing your legs out of bed and press bare feet to the floor—

—and the pulse in your thigh answers, a soft echo of last night’s bite.

You breathe through it, cataloguing the sensation the way you would any other piece of evidence: one residual ache, non-threatening; mild cognitive haze, likely to clear with caffeine; emotional variable, to be locked in the drawer until further notice.

Uniform. Holster. Keys. Coffee. Work. Everything else—especially the memory of Mingyu’s mouth on your skin—goes in the unsolved bin for another day.

By nine-fifty you’re striding into the bullpen—heels this time, not knitted socks—radiating just-caffeinated-enough efficiency. The conference-room door is ajar; voices drift out. Soojin, Wonwoo, Jeonghan. You push in.

Jeonghan’s eyes lift first. No teasing grin today, just a swift, genuine: “Hey. How’re you feeling?”

“I slept—very literally—like a log,” you say, dropping your tote beside a chair. “Pretty sure I didn’t move an inch. It was fantastic.”

Soojin pops a double thumbs-up, ponytail bobbing. The gesture sparks a real laugh out of you—loose, bright. You slip into the seat beside Jeonghan, only then noticing the empty chair across the table.

“Where’s our beloved Senior Special Agent?”

Wonwoo snorts—an honest-to-God snort that startles even him. “Slept through his alarms. He won’t be long.”

Your frown pinches deep enough to blur the edge of your vision. Mingyu—late? The man’s half nocturnal, doesn’t need REM cycles to function. You tamp down the disquiet as Wonwoo clicks a remote, projection lighting the wall. While they wait, they circle back to you: candle placement, exits, number of guards, any iconography you remember. You answer cleanly, clipboard-calm, even as a rogue memory of Mingyu’s mouth on your thigh flickers like a faulty bulb.

Ten minutes in, the door opens with a hush of hinges. Mingyu slips inside, all six-foot-three of muted disarray: collar slightly askew, tie folded into his jacket pocket instead of around his neck, the front of his usually sleek hair creased by what must have been a very stubborn pillow. Only those who know him would catch it, but it’s there—the infinitesimal tell that something’s off.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, offering a quick nod to the room. “Alarm malfunction.”

He settles opposite you, eyes skating past yours in a tidy arc before landing on the files. The faint scent of sandalwood shampoo drifts across the table—fresh shower, rushed. He flips open his notebook, pen poised, shoulders squared like a soldier falling into rank, and the briefing rolls on.

But the space between your chairs feels climate-controlled: a few degrees colder than the rest of the room, threaded with last night’s unanswered questions. You straighten a page in your folder, meeting Wonwoo’s next prompt, and decide the chill can wait. For the next hour, at least, you will be every inch the lieutenant who does not notice when her partner forgets his tie.

Wonwoo dims the lights with one knuckle tap on the wall panel, and the projector coughs grainy gray across the screen.

“North-corridor camera,” he says—matter-of-fact, like it’s any routine stakeout feed. Except the image that sputters to life feels nothing like routine.

The stairwell swims in glitchy pulses: bulbs strobing, pixels ghosting. On screen there’s a faint tide of light at the top of the steps, and then you appear—red satin slipping into view, heels whispering on stone. You’d forgotten how deliberately you moved, cat-quiet, half-predator and half-prey. One beat behind, Mingyu emerges, a tall shadow in borrowed tuxedo black.

Jeonghan’s chair creaks as he leans forward. No one speaks.

The camera catches the moment you stop on the landing. You pivot just enough that your eyes flick up—straight into the lens, a flash of calculation before your expression shutters. Mingyu’s head tilts toward yours, mouth shifting. Wonwoo slows the feed and bumps audio; the microphone offers only a tinny hiss, but you remember exactly what he said.

You trust me?

A breath. Your nod.

On screen Mingyu lifts a hand—forefinger grazing the curve of your hip like a reassurance no one else was meant to see—and the two of you slip past the velvet curtain. Pixels smear as the fabric settles, then the frame is empty except for dust motes jittering in LED static.

Wonwoo lets the empty corridor run for three long seconds before skipping ahead a few minutes. A new timestamp blinks. Haewon glides into view now, pearl hair bright even in grayscale. Taeyong follows, his silhouette cutting a sharper line—hunger in the set of his shoulders even with the audio scratchy. They descend without a pause, no hesitation at the landing, and vanish through the same curtain. Unremarkable movements, as Wonwoo promised, but your stomach knots anyway; you remember the weight of their attention like cold hands on the back of your neck.

The footage ticks on in real-time silence until Wonwoo fast forwards through forty-seven long minutes of an empty stairwell, the velvet curtain hardly stirring. Then shadows bloom—pairs of silhouettes filing upward, laughing in muted grayscale. You and Mingyu are among them, indistinguishable from any other couple if not for the brief moment his hand hovers at your elbow.

Nothing else moves.

Wonwoo keeps the clip rolling until the timestamp reads 1:04:58. Twenty seconds later the feed cuts—not a glitch or static smear, just pure blackout. Midnight black.

The blackout hovers on-screen like a held breath. The timestamp crawls from 01:05:46 … 01:06:59 … 01:08:41, nothing but a rectangle of absolute black. You feel the whole room lean closer, as if collective squinting might coax an image back.

At 01:09:00 the picture snaps alive.

The stairwell curtain is shut tight. The sliver of light you remember bleeding onto the steps is gone—snuffed like a candle—and the sodium wash of the main floor looks suddenly colder.

Jeonghan breaks the hush first. “Camera malfunction?”

Wonwoo shakes his head without looking up. “Only feed in the entire network that flat-lines. No errors, no glitch markers. Somebody killed it on purpose.” A sly twist to his mouth. “And whoever did so is a moron.”

“How so?”

Keys chatter. A new window blooms across the projector—main-floor coverage from a ceiling corner, the stairwell mouth framed just out of the shot. Timestamp rolls 01:05:00.

Fifty-six seconds pass.

At 01:05:56 light slices across the floor, and a man staggers out.

He doesn’t stride so much as spill into view, like he’s been poured from a too-small vessel. Left leg drags; the heel scrapes-skips-catches on tile. His right hand slaps the wall, fingers splaying wide, then slides down, leaving a greasy smear you feel in your teeth. Every step is an argument with gravity—body pitching forward, yanking itself upright again in the same breath.

Your pulse snaps awake. That is not how Eden’s patrons walk; that is how survivors crawl.

Jeonghan mutters, “What the fuck,” the words thin and airless.

Mingyu sits taller, the metal legs of his chair squealing against his weight. For the first time since the briefing started, he meets your eyes—wide, alert, the unspoken did you see that ricocheting between you.

“There was no one left down there,” he says, voice low.

“Not anyone we knew was there to begin with,” you answer, but your gaze is already flicking to Wonwoo. “You got another angle?”

“Is water wet?” He’s halfway through the keystroke.

The second view flares up—camera mounted diagonally, catching a full frontal as the man lurches beneath a light fixture. Wonwoo freezes the frame.

Blood blotches his collar, some fresh, some rust-brown. Dark streaks mar the chest of a once-white dress shirt. Up close the man’s face is a catalogue of disorientation: lips parted, eyes blown wide and unfocused, skin blanched beneath the smudge of something darker on his cheekbone. He looks hollowed out, as though someone scooped the certainty from behind his eyes and left the shell walking.

An electric hum seems to fill the room as Wonwoo clips the still, drags it into facial-rec software. Thirty seconds tick by—each one a hammer on your sternum—before the computer pings, bright and final.

MATCH: KIM JINHO

STATUS: MISSING PERSON

DATE FILED: 14 JUNE

CASE STATUS: COLD

Soojin’s pen clatters from her hand. Jeonghan exhales a single stunned laugh that isn’t laughter at all. Mingyu’s grip whitens around his pen, knuckles like marble.

You sit back, heart thudding in your ears, and let the enormity settle: a dead case just climbed the wrong staircase—alone, bleeding, and very much alive.

The still frame of his face—bruised, dazed, mouth slightly open in mid-breath—sits in sharp contrast beside a pristine photo pulled from a license file. In it, Kim Jinho is smiling. Warm, a little tired, like someone who hasn’t slept enough but still remembers joy. That version of him is gone.

The room is still. Silent in the kind of way that buzzes in your ears. The image of Jinho—bleeding, slack-jawed, all wrong—lingers on the projector like it might move again if you blink.

Wonwoo breaks it, voice low but clear. “His boss reported him missing when he didn’t show up for work the next day. He was never seen or heard from again. Bank, phone records—everything went dark. Metro suspected foul play, but they had nothing to go off. No known enemies, no debt, no trace. So the case was closed. He just vanished.”

He clicks through files on his laptop, screen flashing documents too fast to read. “I’ve scoured every record we’ve pulled from Eden. Membership logs, drink orders, sign-ins. Not a single trace of him. Not even a guest pass.”

The silence after that is heavier. The kind that settles in the joints. You glance across the table and catch the look on Mingyu’s face—calm, but carved in tension. He leans forward, arms braced on his knees, jaw so tight it pulses at the hinge.

“So, what,” he says, voice even but too controlled, “they’re keeping him down there?”

It lands like a gut punch. Not a theory. A possibility. A practice.

You hear it in him—the edge. The quiet horror. He’s not scared for himself. He’s scared of what it means. What it confirms.

Jeonghan speaks next, but the usual humor is gone. His voice is flat, low. “Him… and who else?”

You feel it then—your pulse skittering. Your mind running in a dozen directions at once, 1,305 thoughts refusing to thread into coherence. You think about the look in Jinho’s eyes. The blood on his collar. How no one followed him up the stairs. How many stairwells you haven’t had access to. How many faces you haven’t seen.

Then Soojin cuts in, sharp as a scalpel.

“We’re missing something inside,” she says. Calm. Intent. “Think about it. Knowing what we know now—Eden is curated. You only see what they want you to see. We’ve been watching from the inside, but maybe we need to be watching from the outside, too.”

You narrow your eyes. Something catches. The thread pulls.

“All those doors,” you murmur. “Corridors. Half of them don’t match the floorplans we’ve seen.”

“Exactly.” She nods once, pulling her hair into a tie with an elastic from her wrist. There’s something hard in her eyes now. “They have to lead somewhere. We just haven’t seen where yet.”

Jeonghan leans in slightly. “What are you thinking?”

“We did a TARU op across from Eden last year,” she says. “Abandoned office building, mostly vacant. We set up in the south wing, but the north wing has a direct visual on Eden’s entrance. Front and side. Clear line of sight.”

Wonwoo’s already pulling up overlays, city grid flickering across the projector. “High floors. Reinforced glass. It’s perfect.” He zooms in. “We’d get coverage of every entry point. Even that sketchy delivery bay on the west.”

“So we stake it out,” Soojin says simply, her voice like a hammer driving in a nail. “Two nights. Minimum.”

You nod slowly, spine catching up with your adrenaline. “Okay.” You push back from the table. The chair wheels creak sharply in the silence. “We have a living victim on tape. That resets the clock.”

You start issuing orders like breathing.

“I want TARU scrubbing every feed for ten minutes after his last sighting. Soo, cross-reference every hospital intake after one-thirty a.m.—anyone matching his description. Injuries, shock, no ID, the works. Mingyu, draft a supplemental to Metro’s cold-case file, attach this footage and time-stamp all anomalies. Jeonghan, delegate the re-interviews to second rank. Friends, family, neighbors. If he had any prior contact with Eden, we need to know about it. I’ll talk to Cheol about arranging the stakeout for tonight and tomorrow.”

You pause just long enough to inhale.

Then Wonwoo, voice quiet but unmistakably firm, adds: “I think you and Mingyu should take the stakeout.”

Your head lifts slowly. “Why?”

“You know the faces best. The rhythms. The building. If something looks out of place, you’ll pick it.”

Your eyes flick from Wonwoo to Mingyu. Mingyu is already looking at you, expression unreadable—but neutral. Controlled. You can’t tell if he agrees or if he’s just resigned to the suggestion. Your stomach twists.

You think of the elevator. The space between you. The word lieutenant, dry and unfamiliar in his mouth. You think of being locked in a surveillance room with him overnight. Of what might be said. Or not said.

But you’re a professional.

You swallow the knot in your throat and nod.

“Seems fair.”

It’s quiet again for a beat. Everyone lets it settle—lets the weight of the mission tip forward. Mingyu doesn’t look away. You don’t give him the satisfaction of flinching.

For the rest of the morning, he’s present. Polite. Efficient. But every second of it feels like you’re being held at arm’s length.

He doesn’t meet your eye unless he has to. He doesn’t speak unless it’s about the case. And even then, it’s clipped. Cordial. He holds folders out instead of passing them directly into your hand. When you cross paths by the precinct’s industrial printer, he nods like you’re HR.

It grates. Not immediately. Not enough for you to call it out in the middle of the war room while surveillance is being catalogued and Jeonghan is elbow-deep in post-it notes. But it builds.

By 11:30, you can’t hear anything over it.

By 12:15, your jaw is aching from the way you’re clenching it.

By 1:00, you’re not even pretending to make conversation anymore.

At 1:47, Seungcheol checks his watch and says, “You two are off the clock until ten. Get some rest. You’ll need it.”

You nod. Say thank you. Avoid glancing at Mingyu because you know he’s already on his feet, gathering his jacket and the files he never seems to leave without.

And then you feel it. That last crack in your patience.

You watch him move ahead of you toward the lifts, all long strides and measured calm, like he hasn’t been driving you half-insane all goddamn day.

No apology. No acknowledgment. No hey, sorry for being weird after drinking your blood in front of a cult. Nothing.

It’s not cruelty. That would at least make it easier. It’s the way he keeps retreating into his professional self—his tactical self—that eats at you. Like he’s trying to re-draw a line that never really existed to begin with. Like pretending you’re just partners will make everything else fall back into place.

You press the heel of your palm to your brow as the elevator doors close behind him. The war room hums around you. The case board buzzes faintly under fluorescent lights. Someone’s pouring stale coffee two rooms down.

You sit with it.

The burn. The silence. The widening space.

And you decide, plainly:

You are not spending six hours in an abandoned surveillance room tonight with a man who won’t talk to you unless it’s through case notes and technical jargon.

So you grab your things. You head for the exit.

The parking-lot lights buzz overhead, casting pale cones across concrete pocked with oil stains. You hit your stride hard, sock-boot heels echoing like gunshots. Mingyu’s already at his car, keys half-raised, when the noise makes him glance back.

He sees it’s you—sees the set of your shoulders—and turns fully, posture squared.

“Are you planning on still being an ass by the time we pull up to that office,” you call, breath white in the late-autumn air, “or do I need to take Jeonghan instead? Because I am not spending six hours alone with you if you’re gonna keep being weird.”

“I’m not being weird.”

You bark a laugh. “Could’ve fooled me, Kim. You’ve never called me Lieutenant in full seriousness—ever. Yesterday you drained my femoral artery, and today? No iron sachet, no ‘how are you feeling,’ no work-husband routine. Nothing.”

He opens his mouth, shuts it, scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “The Rite… threw me off,” he says at last. “Standing waist-deep in something that ugly—feeding in front of them—felt like every stereotype I’ve spent a decade outrunning. That I’m savage. Mindless. Like I can’t be trusted. Not by them. Not by you.” His voice drops. “And watching you become part of it—” He shakes his head. “It hurt. I hated it.”

You fold your arms, anger cooling into something heavier. “Look, I can’t—won’t—work with a partner who shuts me out. We’ve been friends too long for that. When you ice me, I start wondering what I did wrong.”

His shoulders sag; the fight’s gone. “You didn’t do anything. It’s a defense mechanism. I’m… working on it.” He meets your eyes, earnest and raw. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way.”

Soft now, you step closer, close enough to catch the warm spice of his cologne. “Don’t do it again. Talk to me next time. I always have time for you—you know that.”

He nods, vow etched into the line of his jaw. “Next time I talk. No shutdowns.” Then, a small hopeful tilt to his mouth: “Ramen apology? My treat—extra noodles.”

You roll your eyes because it’s impossible not to, but your lips betray you with a smile. “Fine. But I’m ordering the expensive gyoza, too.”

His grin breaks wide—relief, affection, something that might stick—and the tension leaks off your spine as he unlocks the car. Six hours in a dark surveillance room suddenly feels survivable again.

The office is dead quiet, the kind of quiet that feels sacred. Blanketed in the low, humming hush of night, save for the distant buzz of a halogen streetlamp and the occasional shuffle of cars rolling down the avenue two stories below. You’ve both gone mostly silent, heads bent to your tasks. Surveillance feeds flicker across the laptop in front of you—grayscale, grainy, but sharp enough for ID. One angle on the front entrance. One on the side alley. One grainy thermal on the roof. Wonwoo really pulled strings to set these up, and you’d bet your badge he hasn’t told anyone.

Mingyu’s crouched by the window again, camera braced steady between his hands. Every few minutes, he lifts it to his eye, lens glinting as he lines up another shot through the slit in the blackout film covering the glass. Click. Click. Click. You know the sound now. Not the high-pitched plasticky shutter of cheap tech, but the heavy, satisfying snap of a camera made for precision. He works like he’s built for it—controlled, quiet, absurdly focused.

You watch him from the corner of your eye and think, unfairly, God, you’re kind of hot when you concentrate.

It’s not the first time tonight the thought’s snuck up on you, but it catches differently now. More specific. Sharper around the edges.

You remember, years ago, during some downtime in evidence processing, you’d been talking about vacation plans you’d never take. He’d said he liked film photography. Old school. Thirty-five millimeter. Something about how the act of slowing down made him feel more present. More human.

You’d never seen him do it before—not like this—but watching him now, it’s easy to imagine him somewhere quiet. Not in a suit. Not in this world. Just a camera in his hands and nothing else on his mind.

He hasn’t said a word in fifteen minutes. Neither have you.

And you’re okay with that.

There’s something deeply grounding about this version of him—the one that exists when you strip everything back. No club lights. No performance. No feeding, or cover, or danger looming thick in the air. Just him, with his shoulder braced against the window frame, sleeves pushed up, brow creased in that soft way it always is when he’s trying to blend in with the silence. It’s the kind of quiet that tethers you to the room. To him.

Eventually, when the sidewalk thins and the doormen lean a little heavier into their posts, the rush dies down. Somewhere between midnight and one.

Mingyu settles back with a sigh, camera still slung around his neck, fingers laced loosely over his stomach as he sinks into the old rolling office chair behind him. The seat groans in protest, wheels creaking against the cracked tiles. He scrolls idly through the playback on the camera’s tiny screen after a while, pausing on a few faces from the Rite that he recognizes. Another thread for the board. Another name for the web.

Then, without looking up, he speaks.

“If someone saw you the way I see you, what do you think they’d notice first?”

You blink.

The question is so unexpected it catches on the air between you like a fishhook. Suspended. A little too sharp, but soft around the edges.

You glance over, lips twitching into a smile. “Jesus Gyu, what brought that on?”

He finally lifts his eyes, mouth curling at the corner. “I like asking loaded questions. Cuts the small talk out.”

You raise a brow. “Deep thoughts from the surveillance chair?”

Mingyu shrugs. “Picking people’s brains is my favorite pastime. Didn’t have many hobbies, but that one stuck.”

He says it like a joke, but there’s a strange sincerity to it. A glint in his eye. He’s not looking at the monitor anymore.

You look back at your screen. Stall, just for a second. Let the question root itself.

And then, you answer honestly.

“Probably that I’m always calculating,” you murmur. “Even when I’m trying not to be. Like my whole body’s waiting for the next thing to go wrong.”

The silence doesn’t stretch. He doesn’t leave you to sit in it.

Instead, he leans forward, forearms on his thighs, chin tilted just enough to catch your eyes again.

“That’s not a bad thing,” he says. “Means you see everything.”

You shrug one shoulder. “Maybe. Or maybe it just means I don’t know how to relax.”

He smiles. Quiet. Familiar. “You seem relaxed now.”

And that? Well, that sticks.

You look back at your screen. The alley’s empty. The rooftop cam is still.

“Okay,” you say, clicking into the next feed. “My turn.”

He grins, just a little. Proud, like he’s won something. “Hit me.”

“What’s something you only ever let yourself want in theory?”

The question hangs there between you. Light. Casual. But it’s not. It’s not.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just presses his lips together, like he’s rolling the words around behind his teeth, trying to figure out which ones are safe to release.

You glance up at him. He’s watching you. Face open. Eyes a little tired. A little fond. You hold his gaze, just long enough to feel it land. Then you look back at your screen—slow, careful—life tucking something precious into a drawer you’ll open later.

In that moment, he looks full. Of thoughts. Of almosts.

You wonder if he knows. If he suspects that the question wasn’t so neutral. That it was, maybe, a reach. Maybe a whisper of something truer than you’re ready to say aloud.

He huffs a quiet breath.

“Someone to come home to,” he says finally, voice softer than the dark.

And then, to your complete surprise, he laughs. Sheepish. A little shy.

“I mean, not that I even—shit, that sounded way more emo than I meant.”

You don’t laugh. You just look at him.

Because maybe, just maybe, you know exactly what he means.

You go back to the screen.

But your next note is crooked.

And Mingyu keeps glancing over, like he’s not entirely sure if he meant to say it, or if he’s just been thinking about it for so long that it slipped out.

After that, you both fall quiet again—not out of discomfort, not even out of shyness. It’s just late, and the weight of the day settles into your bones like sediment, thick and heavy. Everything moves slower now, softer, like the building itself is starting to exhale after holding its breath too long.

You click through the surveillance feeds with slow, steady fingers. The alley’s empty. The rooftop cam catches a few drifting shadows. Nothing urgent. Nothing strange.

So you ask something that is.

“Do you ever miss it?”

Mingyu glances at you, head tilted slightly. “Miss what?”

“Being human.”

That catches him. You see it in the brief falter of his expression—just a flicker, there and gone. He exhales through his nose, leaning back again in the chair, the old leather creaking beneath him.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “But not in the way most people think.”

You watch him. He doesn’t look at you when he says it, just studies the camera in his lap like it holds better answers.

“I miss being treated like one,” he says quietly. “People either romanticise it or villainise it. Think I’m gonna Edward Cullen them into a tragic love story or I’m Nosferatu. The Bill Skarsgård-rip-your-spine-out one, not the classic.”

You huff softly, lips curving. “Lost you a few dates?”

“More than a few,” he mutters, almost smiling.

You glance at him. “I would’ve thought the brooding aura and superhuman stamina would appeal to most girls.”

That earns you a look. Something playful but unreadable beneath it.

“Why?” he says, voice a little lower now. “Does it appeal to you?”

You roll your eyes—half huff, half grin—but the gesture’s a flimsy shield. Of course it appeals. The idea of all that impossible strength and sin-dark devotion trained on you alone sparks low and hot, a secret thrum you refuse to let him see.

You don’t answer. Not right away. Just let your gaze drift back to the monitor.

And in the silence that follows, something unspoken pulses between you. Unacknowledged. But alive.

Then, quietly—

“That’s why I like working with you.”

You glance at him again. He’s not smiling, not teasing. Just watching the screen, fingers idly rotating the camera lens between his palms.

“You never treated me like some tragic immortal. Or a freak. Just… some guy. Some pain-in-the-ass detective.”

He shifts a little in his chair, voice softer now.

“You see the human part. Not the gentle monster. Just… gentle.”

That sits in your chest for a long time after. Warmer than it should be. A little dangerous.

Because the truth is, you do see him. Not as a tragedy. Not as a symbol. Just as someone who deserves to be seen. And there’s space in your heart for that. For him. Maybe more than you want to admit.

But you brush it off, like you always do.

“I don’t know about pain in the ass,” you mutter, flipping to a new page in your notebook. “Pain in my ass, yes. Your legs take up so much space under my desk.”

Mingyu lets out a startled laugh. “Our desk.”

You sigh. There’s no real venom in it. “Case in point.”

And just like that, the moment softens. The tension doesn’t vanish, but it settles. You go back to work. And so does he.

At some point after two, Mingyu sinks further into the chair beside you, legs stretched out long, arms folded across his chest. You can hear the subtle shift of his breathing as it slows, evens out, then dies completely. He’s asleep before you realize he’s not responding to the subtle remarks you make under your breath. It’s not sudden—just a slow surrender, like his body finally decided it was done for the night.

You glance over, and your heart tugs a little at the sight.

He looks so… young like this. Younger than he ever lets himself be around anyone else. There’s no sharpness in his jaw, no tension behind his brow. Just sleep-softened features and the faintest furrow at the bridge of his nose, like even unconscious, some small part of him is still bracing for something. The camera strap is still looped around his neck, and his boots are planted unevenly on the floor, but he looks at peace. Untouched by the darkness you’ve both been steeping in for weeks now. The version of him you’re used to is polished, commanding—undercover but never unarmed. This one? He’s all soft edges and silent trust.

You let him sleep. You don’t even think about waking him.

Instead, you go back to your screen. Keep an eye on the feeds. Glance between the live camera and the notes you’ve been scratching down in the margins of your legal pad. You sip your now-cold coffee, shiver a little under the thinning layer of your jacket. Nothing’s happened for a while, and part of you—traitorous, exhausted—is beginning to think nothing will.

But then, at 3:41 AM, something shifts.

A flicker on the side entrance cam.

You straighten in your chair, suddenly alert. The fatigue that had started to settle over your brain evaporates in one sharp blink.

A van pulls up. Unmarked. Gray. Clean. But it’s not the vehicle that makes your stomach pull tight—it’s the way it approaches. Slowly. Deliberately. No headlights. Just gliding to a stop in the shadows, like it’s done this before. Like it knows this place.

You lean closer, adjusting the camera angle on the feed.

Someone steps out. A man. Not dressed like the usual Eden clientele—no silk, no sequins, no velvet-collared drama. He’s plain. Nondescript. Jeans. Jacket. Black boots. He moves quickly, carrying a briefcase clutched tight in one hand, and without so much as a glance around, he heads straight for the side door.

And disappears inside.

You wait. Watch. Three minutes. Then five. Ten.

Forty minutes later, he re-emerges the same way he entered. Gets in the passenger seat, drives away without fanfare.

Your heart ticks faster, the unease in your gut deepening by the second. You make a quiet note of the van’s plates—partial, smudged with grime—and check the side alley cam again. Still clear. Still quiet.

The only proof that anything happened at all is the lingering hollow in your chest. You know better than to ignore that feeling.

When Mingyu stirs, you glance over instinctively—not out of concern, just reflex. The way you would if a door creaked. If a sensor blinked. But it’s only him, blinking against the dark like he’s surprised he ever let it win.

“Shit,” he murmurs. “Did I fall asleep?”

You nod, not looking away from the monitor. “Only for about two hours.”

He winces, straightening. “You should’ve woken me.”

You shrug. “You needed it.”

He glances at you. You can feel his gaze linger, heavy and warm, before he turns his attention to the screen. “Anything?”

You hesitate. Then nod once. “Van pulled up around 3:40. Side entrance. Guy with a briefcase went in. Came back out 5 minutes ago.”

His brows furrow. He leans forward to study the screen, then lets out a low breath. “You get a plate?”

“Partial.”

“Still something.”

The first trickle of patrons begins to emerge from the club around 4:35. They come in waves—couples clinging to each other, women holding their heels in their hands, a few dazed-looking regulars who always linger too long. The velvet ropes are pulled down, the bouncers retreating inside. Mingyu stands once to snap a few final photos, nothing that sets alarm bells off, just more faces for the board.

By 5:30, the street is almost still again. A light wind has picked up. It carries the smell of damp concrete and night-soured perfume.

Wonwoo’s SUV is idling quietly at the curb when you and Mingyu emerge from the office building. The sky is still the deep, bruised blue of pre-dawn, the streetlamps casting long, syrupy streaks across the asphalt. Mingyu moves slowly, bones stiff from hours spent crouched or perched. You, somehow, feel looser—wired, maybe, but weirdly lighter now that you’ve stepped out of surveillance mode. It’s easier to breathe here, outside of Velvet Eden’s line of sight.

The passenger door creaks open. You climb in and collapse back against the seat with a sigh that deflates your whole chest. The interior smells like stale fries and black coffee—familiar, oddly comforting—and Wonwoo’s got some low, sleepy jazz playing through the speakers, like it’s a soft habit he never unlearned.

“You both look like corpses,” he says after a beat, glancing at you through the rearview mirror. “Wait—” A pause. “Is that offensive?”

Beside you, Mingyu lets out a low chuckle and shakes his head. “Only if you say it in a Romanian accent.”

Wonwoo hums. “Noted.”

Mingyu gets dropped off first. He gives you a small nod as he gets out—a silent I’ll see you soon—and then turns away, shoulders rolled back against the chill. You watch him for a second longer than necessary, long enough to see him pause under the streetlight, camera bag slung over one shoulder, the faint trace of a smile tugging at his mouth as he disappears around the corner.

Then it’s just you and Wonwoo.

The car hums low beneath you, warmth pooled in the vents and the faint sound of tires hissing along wet asphalt. The sky is starting to shift—still navy, but lighter at the edges, like someone’s prying open the lid of the world inch by inch. Wonwoo hasn’t said much since Mingyu got out. Neither have you. But there’s something turning over in your chest, slow and insistent, and you figure if you don’t say it now, it’ll keep you up long after you’ve collapsed into bed.

So you speak.

“Noo,” you murmur, your voice scratchy, lips dry.

“Yeah?” he replies, easy. Still alert. Always is when he drives.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Always,” he says, like it costs him nothing. Like it’s that simple.

You hesitate. Thumb presses into the seam of your coat. Then, “Gyu asked me a weird question earlier, and I’m not really sure what he meant by it.”

You catch a flicker of curiosity in the rearview. He doesn’t say anything, just gives you a look. Go on.

You clear your throat. “He asked me… if someone saw me the way he sees me, what would they notice first?”

Wonwoo huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. “He’s so strange, dude. So philosophical for someone only turned when the iPhone 6 came out.”

You smile despite yourself, but it slips quickly. “I said that I’m always calculating. Like, chronically thinking.”

“I mean, yeah. Checks out,” he says lightly. “It’s why you get stuck with weirdos who don’t think, like him and Jeonghan.” A pause. “I say that lovingly.”

There’s no bite to it, just a soft affirmation—one that only someone like Wonwoo can pull off. Grounded. Familiar.

He glances at you again, eyes flicking toward the mirror. “Are you asking me to debunk it as a cop, or as your friend?”

You hesitate. “Whichever you think is more helpful.”

He hums again. Then, after a beat, “I think you two could benefit from talking about yourselves more than the case.” A gentle nudge, disguised as casual. “I mean… you’re interested in him, right?”

“Of course I am,” you answer automatically. “He’s one of my closest friends.”

That earns you a full look this time—eyebrows raised, head tilting slightly as he keeps one hand on the wheel. “Don’t be dense,” he says dryly. “I saw the photo that came with the Rite invite. If I were you, and vampiric Ken Doll had my back arching like that, I’d want him too.”

You blink. “Okay. That is… a lot.”

Wonwoo snorts. “Is it wrong?”

You tip your head to the window; cold glass kisses your temple and you let it steal some of the heat still spinning in your cheeks. “I don’t know,” you sigh. “Maybe I have a crush. Maybe I’m just exhausted and too deep in the weeds with him right now.”

“Sounds like both,” Wonwoo answers, voice mild as the click-click of the indicator.

You huff. “There’s nothing to admit, Wonwoo. Mingyu and I— we just work well together.”

He glances at you in the rear-view—one of those quick, super-analyst looks that catalogues and files everything. “You two have run the work-husband-and-wife bit into the ground,” he says. “Fond isn’t a mortal sin, last I checked. It doesn’t revoke your competence.”

“It could,” you mutter. “Feelings make people sloppy.”

“Feelings make people people,” he counters, deadpan. Then, softer: “You’re allowed to be human, Lieutenant.”

You fall quiet, following the streetlights sliding over the headrest like slow comets. “I might be a square, but I’m not blind,” you murmur, “Most girls would find it hard not to let their mind wander if their outrageously conventionally attractive coworker drank blood from their thigh, no?”

Wonwoo shifts one hand on the wheel. The silence stretches long enough that you wonder if he’ll answer at all. Finally, “Agreed. Though, you two have always run a little deeper than radio protocol, don’t you think?”

Your pulse trips. “Meaning?”

He only shrugs, eyes forward. “Meaning I’ve seen worse bets pay off.” A beat. “And I’ve never seen him let you fall.”

The seed lands—small, inconspicuous, impossible to ignore. You stare at his silhouette, at the easy certainty in his posture, and the city keeps sliding past while the thought roots itself, quiet and stubborn, in the space behind your ribs.

You bite your lip, the rest of the memory surfacing now, tinged with something bittersweet. “I asked him something too. After.”

Wonwoo doesn’t speak, just angles his chin slightly, listening.

“I asked… what’s something you only ever let yourself want in theory?”

“And?” he asks.

You pause.

“He said ‘someone to come home to.’”

That finally knocks the wind out of even Wonwoo, just a little. His fingers tighten on the wheel for half a second.

“…Damn, that’s soft. Even for him.” He mutters, soft.

You blink again, too tired to be startled. Your body’s heavy, but your thoughts won’t slow down, still chewing on every word, every lingering glance from earlier.

He pulls up to your building and throws the car in park.

“You’re good at reading people,” he says, cutting the engine. “But you’re even better at overthinking them.”

You open the door, but he twists to face you, one arm over the steering wheel.

“Be kinder to yourself tonight,” he adds. “Sleep. Let your brain rest for once.”

You glance back at him. “Night, Wonwoo.”

He nods. “Night. Tell Barbie I said hi.”

You snort and step out, letting the door shut behind you.

And as you climb the steps to your apartment, your heart is still tangled in the sound of his voice from earlier. That quiet confession. That barely-restrained hope.

Someone to come home to.

And for the first time in a long time, the idea of being that for someone—of someone being that for you—doesn’t feel so impossible. Just… tender. Close.

Maybe even real.

The apartment is quiet when you wake.

Not silent—never truly silent, not with the hum of the fridge, the tick of the kitchen clock, the distant groan of a tram moving down the line two streets over. But quiet in a way that feels reverent. Muted. Like the world knows better than to demand too much of you right now.

It’s already past 6. Pale gold light spills through the slats of your blinds, striping the floor and the side of your bed in long, lazy shadows. The air is warm and still. Your sheets are kicked halfway down your legs, your T-shirt clinging damply to your spine. Everything aches. Shoulders. Lower back. Your knees, from curling too long in a chair not built for overnight surveillance.

For a long while, you don’t move. Your body feels sunken, as though it’s been swallowed by the mattress. Your limbs are heavy, tethered. But it’s your mind that drags hardest, thoughts slow and sticky, caught in the residue of too many hours spent watching the world through glass.

You roll onto your side. Groan softly. Let your hand fumble for your phone on the nightstand. The screen lights up to a text timestamped 8:13AM:

[mingyu]: hope you got some sleep. thanks for keeping me alive through the graveyard shift.

You blink at it. Then again.

A second message follows, sent just a few minutes ago:

[mingyu]: i was thinking of bringing real food over before round two? maybe around 8? lmk if you want anything in particular.

You stare at the screen for a moment longer than necessary. Then, slowly, your lips curve.

Real food. He’s right—yesterday was gas station ramen, peanut M&M’s, and a questionable bag of jerky that might have been older than the sting op itself. You should eat something. You should shower. You should probably return one of the four emails from your landlord.

But instead, you thumb out a reply.

[you]: i’ll take anything with real nutrients in it. ur a legend thank u. lmk when you’re otw i’ll probably fall asleep again

The reply is instant.

[mingyu]: good. you looked like you were about to pass out in the car. get some rest. i got you.

You let the phone fall to the mattress beside you. Close your eyes again. But sleep doesn’t come easy. Not really.

There’s something itching at the edges of your brain. A conversation. A question.

If someone saw you the way I see you, what do you think they’d notice first?

It keeps looping. Not just the words, but the way he said them. The tone. The almost-too-casual shrug. Like it wasn’t a confession in disguise. Like it didn’t leave your chest aching for reasons you haven’t found the nerve to name yet.

You think of the way he looked when he asked. Backlit by that flickering office light, camera strap draped around his neck, mouth curved into something just a little shy. A little wondering.

You hadn’t lied. You are always calculating. But in that moment, with him, it had felt less like a survival reflex and more like a reflexive scan for proof that you weren’t alone in how much things had changed.

He’d told you something, too. Something soft. Someone to come home to.

It hadn’t sounded hypothetical.

And it hadn’t left you.

Your stomach growls softly. You groan again and drag yourself upright. Shuffle toward the bathroom with a weight in your bones that makes you feel ten years older than you are. The shower is too hot, but it scrubs some of the heaviness from your skin. Not all. Just enough.

By the time you’re drying yourself, the sun has dipped far enough that your kitchen is steeped in a dusky amber. You pull on clean clothes. Pad barefoot into the hallway. Pour yourself a glass of water and sip it slowly, standing at the window.

You can just barely see the skyline from here. Just the edge of it. The world beyond the case.

You don’t let yourself stay there long.

The case is all that matters. That’s the line. That’s always been the line.

But it’s starting to feel blurred at the edges.

You think of Mingyu. Of how he looked when he fell asleep in the chair beside you, just past two in the morning. You’d watched him for a while. Not creepily. Not intentionally. Just… observed. The way the lines of his face eased. The way the tension fell from his shoulders. He’d looked young. Peaceful. Human.

It struck you then—how much trust it takes to sleep beside someone. Especially when you’re not required to. When you’re not faking it.

He trusts you. That much is clear.

The question is—what are you going to do about it?

Your phone buzzes again, right on time.

[mingyu]: nutrients secured. be there soon

You smile.

And this time, it feels real.

The knock comes exactly at eight—two soft raps, a pause, then one more, the pattern you’ve come to recognize as Mingyu’s way of announcing himself without waking half the building. You wipe your palms on your jeans and open the door, already catching the faintest whiff of sesame oil and charred scallion wafting up from the handles of a brown paper carrier bag he’s balancing on one palm.

He smiles, easy, unguarded. “Hope you’re hungry. I may have gone overboard.”

“You? Overboard?” You step aside to let him in, voice teasing even as your stomach growls on cue. “Unheard of.”

He nudges the door shut with his hip, steers the bag toward the coffee table, and you trail after him, noting absently how he fits in your living room now—like the space reshapes itself around his height, his broad shoulders, the clean scent of his cologne. There’s an unfamiliar warmth in your chest as he shrugs off his jacket, revealing a soft charcoal hoodie and jeans, nothing tactical, nothing undercover. Just Mingyu.

“Got japchae, spicy pork, fried dumplings,” he says, unpacking cartons with practiced care. “And tofu kimchi stew. Figured we need real protein if we’re going to stay awake tonight.”

You laugh, dropping cross‑legged onto the rug opposite him. “Were you always the mom friend in the group?”

“One of us has to feed you before you turn into a gargoyle,” he counters, and the banter slots into place with infuriating ease—familiar, comfortable, like the stretch of an old sweater. It almost annoys you how quickly you fall back into it after the way your thoughts have spun since dawn, but you’re too hungry to dwell.

You open chopsticks, passing him a pair. He scoops japchae into a bowl for you, but barely fills his own, taking only a few strands of noodles and half a dumpling. You notice, but you don’t mention it—vampire appetite works on a different clock. The silence between bites is companionable; the clink of bamboo on ceramic becomes its own background rhythm.

“What’d you do after I left?” he asks, voice low, more curious than casual.

“Showered. Slept.” You shrug. “I still feel doughy, though.”

He looks like he wants to chide you but thinks better of it. Instead, he nudges over a carton of pickled radish. “Eat. Then maybe you’ll manage a nap before we go back out.”

You’re aware, keenly, of the ease with which he cares—how he remembers you take your stew with extra scallions, how he turns the thermostat up a notch without asking. Something in you tightens, the echo of Wonwoo’s words. You push the thought aside and focus on the food.

Conversation drifts: a quick rundown of Wonwoo’s meta‑data pull, the latest TARU rumor about micro‑drones, a shared groan about Seungcheol scheduling a briefing at dawn tomorrow. It should feel exactly like every other debrief you’ve had together over cheap takeout. But somewhere beneath the normalcy, there’s a low hum—an awareness that the line between friend and something else is thinning, thread by thread.

At one point, you glance up to find him already watching you, elbows propped on his knees. The expression on his face is soft, thoughtful. It flusters you in a way no hungry vampire stare ever has. You clear your throat and reach for a dumpling, knocking over your chopsticks in the process. He catches them mid‑air with a chuckle, hands steady, eyes crinkling.

“I see coordination is still not your strong suit,” he teases.

“Sleep deprivation,” you fire back, but your voice is gentler than usual. The annoyance has faded, replaced by something quieter—something close to contentment, and it scares you more than exhaustion ever could.

You finish half the stew before the fatigue begins to drag at your eyelids in earnest. The room is warm, the food heavier than you realized. Mingyu’s voice has gone soft, the bass of it settling through your bones. You lean back against the couch, bowl resting on the table, and before you can argue with your body, your eyes slip shut.

You feel him shift beside you, hear the rustle of paper cartons being closed, the gentle clink of dishes stacked. The next thing you know, a folded blanket settles over your legs—his doing, no question—and a pillow you forgot you owned is slipped behind your head.

Somewhere in the haze, you mumble, “I can set an alarm.”

“Got it covered,” he whispers. Fingertips brush your shoulder—light, reassuring. “Rest.”

You should protest. You need to be sharp. But the couch is soft, the room dim, and the last thing you register is the even cadence of his breathing as he lowers himself onto the opposite end, head tipped back, long legs stretched out. A gentle stillness wraps around both of you.

You drift.

Dreams tug at you: two sets of keys clinking together in the bowl by the door. Two wine glasses drying on the rack. His reading glasses (does he even need them?) folded on the nightstand where your phone usually charges. They’re domestic images, mundane and terrifying in their sweetness, and they settle over you like linen.

A light touch on your ankle jolts you awake. Mingyu’s face hovers close, backlit by the hallway glow. “It’s nine,” he murmurs. “Didn’t want to scare you.”

You blink, heart thudding, the dream dissolving. The room smells faintly of soy and garlic; the table is cleared. He must have tidied while you slept. You sit up too fast, blanket pooling at your waist. “Shit. I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—”

He shakes his head, smiling softly. “You needed it.” He straightens, offers a hand to help you up. “We’ve got thirty minutes to gear up.”

Your fingers slip into his, warm and steady, and something in your chest clicks into place with a quiet inevitability. You rise, brushing stray hair from your face. He doesn’t let go right away.

For a heartbeat, the apartment is silent except for the faint tick of the wall clock. His thumb strokes the back of your hand once—an absent‑minded gesture that feels anything but casual.

Then he releases you, stepping back. “I’ll load the car. Meet you downstairs?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, voice steadier than you feel. “Five minutes.”

He nods, grabs his jacket, and steps into the hall. The door clicks shut, and you exhale, pressing a hand to your chest like you can calm the thunder in your ribs.

Something has changed—so subtly you almost missed it. Except now you can’t un‑feel the certainty humming through you.

You hurry to splash water on your face, lace up your boots, and lock the door behind you.

Someone to come home to.

You’re not ready to name it. But tonight, as you descend the stairs and see him waiting by the car, duffel slung over his shoulder, head tilted like he’s already clocked your every breath—you think maybe you’re ready to want it.

next chapter ↝ vii. fracture. (coming soon)

click here for tag list submission / removal.

tag list!

@bangtanbolo @ateez-atiny380 @hipsdofangirl @rem-mp3 @minghaofied @gyu-woo @dreamingofpcy @jonginjinyoungjaehyun @gabbwaa @wonu13 @tokitosun @lalataitai @callmehoweveruwatblog @celestialbs @coupsma @bebecauseh

a/n: before anyone jumps me i do just want to state this was dislcosed as a slow burn from day dot 😭 thank ya!

#elle’s worx #seventeen #mingyu #kim mingyu #mingyu scenarios #mingyu fluff #mingyu angst #seventeen fluff #seventeen angst #seventeen x reader #mingyu x reader #mingyu smut #mingyu imagines #kim mingyu x reader

79 notes · View notes

thebumblebeesworld · 1 day ago

Text

RAISING • FLORA

annie x fem reader • a blossoming love universe

summary: annie and reader have an adopted daughter and are navigating motherhood together, teaching her how to connect to the earth and herself.

cw: straight flufff

a/n: thank you to this anonymous ask that inspired this one shot. i love the a blossoming love universe so muchhh, but you don't really need to have read the series for this one! just know that reader is a farmer and besties with smoke and stack! but yes annie and the reader are married now and their daughter is ten years old!

masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The air was starting to turn a little bit cooler as summer turned into early fall. The sun stopped beaming down so hard—although it was barely bearable—and there was a refreshing breeze in the air. This was you and Annie’s favorite time of the year: when things were slower work wise and the energy that reverberated was more carefree and less active.

Soon you’d be done with the growing season, allowing you to spend all your time with your two girls instead of farming. But until then, you’d have to finish up the last of the season’s harvest until the sun decided to fully cool off.

You lugged your rake and hoe behind you as you trudged towards your work truck, throwing your tools in the back. The abrupt sound of the front door slamming open forced you to stop in your place

"I'm goin' with you today, mama," Flora ran out the front door behind you, jumping clear over the bottom two porch steps. She stumbled slightly, but she didn't let it faze her any as she quickly followed after you. A bright smile was on her face, a giggle held up in her cheeks.

You laughed, amused by your daughter’s eagerness. You shifted your weight to one foot and placed one hand on your hip.

"Did you ask permission, li’l bit?" Your eyebrow quirked as she stood before you with her hands behind her back. She had those big doe eyes she used when trying to get you to cave, and while that usually worked wonders when she tried to get her way, you knew your wife.

If Annie had plans, it was best to not disrupt her day.

Flora knew her mother as well. The both of you always ran things by her before doing it. Her approval was crucial as Annie saddled herself with making sure her home ran nice, orderly, and peaceful.

"I thought you were supposed to help around the house today, Flo. Don’t you got chores,” you questioned, not wanting to say no outright.

"But, mama," she whined, pouting in distress. She clenched her fists at her side, and you tried your best to not let her cuteness override your good sense. "Mommy won't care if I go wit' you."

"You gotta ask first, suga'," you shook your head. "You got responsibilities to maintain ‘round here. And you know it get too hot out in the field for you to be out there all day." Even with it being a cooler season, the heat was still a menace, especially for a ten year old. Now that you owned and operated your own farm land, your normal work day started and ended when you wanted. But more likely than not, you worked eight hour days in the blaring sun.

"Look, mama," she tried to respond, her brain going every which way as she developed a course of action.

As your daughter stood there negotiating back and forth about whether she could go or not, if she needed to ask Annie, and if you could just ask for her, the haunting woman stepped out onto the porch. Her eyes were full of that knowing she always had. She peered at you both like you’d been conspiring against her.

"Flora, baby,” she began, tone dripped in dissatisfaction. “I'm in here waitin' for you to come clean your room.” She looked you both up and down as the two of you put on the sweetest smiles you could muster. “What y'all out here plottin’?"

You wanted so badly to laugh at the conclusion she came to, knowing damn well she was right.

Annie was always right.

“Mommy,” Flora stepped forward, standing near the bottom step and looking up at her mother. Annie tried to appear unimpressed, but it still causes her heart to ache when Flo called her that. She always wanted to be a mother, so when Flora walked into y’all’s lives, it was like her prayers had been answered. Sometimes she still couldn’t believe how wonderful her life and family was. She had a loving wife who took care of their household just as much as she did, and she had a beautiful daughter who was a light in her life. She couldn’t ask for anything more than that.

“Can I go to work with mama,” Flora asked in a sweet tone of voice, “please?”

That question broke Annie out of the reverie she was in. You watched her face go from warmth to disapproval quickly. You stepped forward to help convince her to agree to the proposal, but your wife spoke before you could.

“It’s too hot out there for you, sweet girl,” she concluded, eyes shifting your way. Nothing but care exuded from her, but it still hurt your daughter’s heart as that child-like confusion enveloped her. It didn't help that Annie looked through her with that mom look.

“But I can sit in the shade of that oak tree in the middle of the field,” she pleaded, hands clasped in front of her body, lip poked out into a pout. Flora looked back at you for assistance when an idea propped into her little head. “Me and mama can come home early for lunch. That way I don’t get too hot. Right, mama?” Flo nodded at you as a signal for you to agree.

Your daughter’s persistence made you extremely proud. She was a problem solver, and she knew how to get her way. You couldn’t even disagree with the suggestion to end work early. That would just give you more time with your two favorite girls. But you still didn’t want to agree to Flora’s proposal for fear of undermining Annie’s authority, so you just looked towards your wife. Your eyes communicated everything she needed to know.

You were always gonna take care of Flo, and you wouldn’t let her overwork herself or get overheated like she was prone to getting. Having such a lively daughter meant she took every opportunity she could to be running outside, climbing trees, and swimming in ponds. She hardly sat down anywhere for fear of missing out on any fun. And that caused her to tire herself out without realizing it.

But as Annie looked between you and y’all’s daughter, you saw her apprehension crumble, her mind giving in.

“Fine,” she sighed, causing you and Flora to celebrate outwardly. She jumped up a down, face full of excitement until—“But," Annie warned, putting a finger up to stop your too-early celebration, "don’t think I forgot about that room of yours,” Annie pointed Flora's way, making her cower. “And you still got yo’ lesson this afternoon, ok?”

“Thank you, mommy,” Flora sighed gratefully. She ran up the steps, hugging Annie tightly around her waist. Annie hugged back just as deep, a content smile on her lips.

You climbed the steps to give your wife a kiss goodbye.

“I knew y’all was gon’ gang up on me one of these days,” Annie laughed in your ear. You trotted backs towards the car—your daughter in tow, mimicking your walk.

“You know you love us, baby,” you smiled over your shoulder. Opening the passenger door for your daughter, you heard Annie whisper a small I do.

“So why you wanna be out in the field with me today, li’l bit?” Your hands grasped the wheel lazily, and your eyes concentrated on the road. You loved spending time with your daughter, especially when she was expressing interest in farming or outdoors. Normally when Flora was out of school, she and Annie spent that time together, going over Flo’s lesson on healing magic, rootwork, and history. Every blue moon, she’d help you in y’all’s at home garden if the weather wasn’t too much.

“I just wanna spend more time with you,” she giggled, watching the vast fields roll by full of cotton and cows. She was always such a happy child; It brought a smile to your face knowing she was content. “I like runnin’ through the corn. That’s real fun. And I kindaaa didn’t wanna clean my room today.” You chuckled at the way she snickered, feeling accomplished in getting off easy.

You swore that your best friend Stack was rubbing off on her. The way she plotted stuff reminded you of when you, Smoke, and Stack were growing up together. How you and the twins would get into trouble or avoid responsibilities just because you could.

“Well,” you began, speech laced in that motherly taut understanding, “I gotta harvest that corn today. How ‘bout after you finish runnin' through it I show you how to harvest?”

“Yes, please,” she shouted ecstatically.

“But remember that you gotta hold up your end of the bargain, suga’,” you reminded her. “I need that room clean by supper time.”

“Ugh,” she sighed, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms.

“Watch that attitude, li’l bit,” you responded quickly, unfazed by her adolescent outbursts. Y’all had been working on communication since y’all adopted her. Flora was real shy and quiet at first. Not wanting to make too much noise for fear of being sent away. Not wanting to say what was bothering her and letting her emotions run wild and unhinged. When she bottled things up, it just made for difficult and hard to control outbursts.

Through her lessons with Annie, Flora learned more about self control, stillness, and self awareness. Through spending time outside with you, she’d learned about strength, trusting herself, and speaking up for her needs.

“You know I’ll help you clean up, if you need me to, suga’,” you spoke with not a lick of condemnation in your heart. You gave Flo’s hand a firm squeeze to ease the remorseful glint in her eyes. “Remember what we’ve talked about. We all have responsibilities to keep up wit’. And while it may be annoyin’ to hear us tell you to clean your room or do your homework or finish all your vegetables at supper time, you can’t just not do what you supposed to. You can’t expect me and your mommy to clean up after you when you’ve thrown your clothes and dolls all over your bedroom floor. We all have our own responsibilities to keep.”

She huffed but didn’t make any opposition against your words. You took your eyes off the road for just a second to see her pouting something fierce. To lighten the mood, you began tickling her side lightly, forcing a laugh out of her previously tense face.

“I’m sorry, mama,” she apologized, looking down at her hands. “I’d just rather be playin’ outside than cleanin’ all the time.”

“Well, suga’. Have you thought that if you pick up stuff when you know it’s in the wrong spot maybe it’ll be easier to control the mess?” The question is genuine as you try to push her towards understanding that chores don’t have to be so daunting.

“I guess so,” Flora sighed, shrugging her shoulders. You pulled up in front of the big barn on your farm land, putting the truck in park. “I just don’t know how, mama.”

“It’s always ok to ask for help, sug’,” you remind her. You turned your body to face her head on. “I’ll show you how I like to clean. Then we can try out some stuff to figure out what works best for you.” One thing you always wanted was for Flora to know that she could come to you whenever she needed. No matter big or small, you would always be there to help her.

“Mama,” Flora shouted, running out from behind the last row of corn y’all were harvesting for the day. It had been an eventful morning, and you’d honestly not gotten much work done at all. When Flo needed a break, you took a break with her—it was the only way to get her out the sun for long enough to cool down. When y’all were doing actual work, she would lose track of the task at hand, rattling on about friends from school or asking you questions about how you and Annie met.

You had chuckled when she asked that, recalling that blazing summer day when you first laid eyes on your wife. That lovely flutter you felt when y'all locked eyes for the first time. That nervousness you experienced when Smoke and Stack sought interest in her. That grating sound of your friends laughing at you as you became instantly head over heels.

“Mama, do you hear me?”

“Sorry, li’l bit,” you apologized as she stood before you, looking up at you with that annoyed eye she'd gotten from her mother. You crouched down to her level, always trying your best to look at her directly at eye level. "What's up?"

“I wanna cut down some sunflowers to take home to mommy,” she bounced on the balls of her feet, pointing out toward the back of the pasture that was thick with eight-foot towering sunflowers. “Can we, pleaseee?”

“Of course, suga’,” you laughed at her, throwing the shears over your shoulder to get to chopping down a few flowers.

At least once a week, you brought Annie and Flora a gift from the farm. It was a habit you'd quickly picked up when you and Annie first started dating, and Flo had naturally grown to expect a weekly gift as well. You thought it was cute that she wanted to do something sweet for her mother as well.

“We gon' take some of that corn too," you nodded toward the wheelbarrow chock full of corn. "Maybe I can make some of that grilled corn you like?” You suggested that knowing she only had a small number of vegetables she liked eating. Grilled corn was at the top of her list.

"Oh, yes,” she agreed quickly. You smiled with adoration as she ran to the tallest sunflower in the field, pointing out exactly which one Annie deserved to have.

“Ah, there’s my girls," Annie greeted you and Flora. She was standing before the oven, pulling out a cast iron of freshly baked cornbread. Her skin glistened from the heat of the hot stove, so to provide her some relief, you opened up the kitchen windows for fresher and cooler air. "How was y’all morning?”

“We had so much fun," Flora jumped up and down, listing off events from the day in a rapid fire. "I ran all through the field! And Mama taught me how to pick corn! And we brought some back fa’ supper tonight! And I wanna help you shuck ‘em! And mama's gonna grill 'em! And we talked ‘bout everything, mommy. Like how y’all met. And how Uncle Smoke and Uncle Stack was laughin’ at mama cause she was so in loveee wit’ you. And we even talked about responsibilities and why you gotta keep up. And how it’s ok to ask for help.” Flora took a deep inhale after her rant to catch her breath. She heaved, putting a hand on her chin the think of whether she’d forgotten anything.

You watched in amusement at the blank look on her li’l face. You crouched beside her.

“The flowers, li’l bit,” you whispered in her ear, reminding her of the sunflowers she clutched in her non-dominant hand.

“Oh, shoot,” she exclaimed in realization. “And! We got you flowers!” She thrusted the bouquet of sunflowers into Annie's face, causing her mother to giggle.

“Oh, thank you, my sweet girl," she grinned, smelling the long-stemmed flowers. Delight washed over her face, and a cool breeze wafted in through the open windows. "I love you, suga'," she kissed Flora on the cheek. "I’m so glad you and mama had a good day. Gon' and wash up for lunch and we can talk more about it when you get back," she eased her toward the bathroom on the back end of the house. Flo lightly skipped away, following her mother's command without a second thought.

Annie lifted her eyes from their rested position on the flowers. She took in your form. The way your clothes weren't nearly as dirty as most days. How you didn't look hot and overworked. How love sat behind your eyes and smile.

“Thank you, baby,” she spoke appreciatively, walking into your arms. She rested her head on your shoulder while you wrapped your arms around her waist. You caressed her there, smelling the patchouli and shea on her neck.

“No need to thank me," you breathed into her parted hair, "that was all li’l Miss Flora’s doing.” You swayed her body back and forth, dancing to a tune the two of you could only hear in your heads.

"Guess she takin' after her mama well, huh?"

"I'd hope so," you blushed, shying away from her eyes by burying your head deeper into her neck. Annie always could make you feel flooded with butterflies. "She take after you, too."

"How so," she laughed breathily.

"Y'all spend so much time together that she got that same knowing in her eyes," you squeezed her waist harder. Her hand that didn’t hold the flowers surrounded the back of your neck in a tight hold. "She got that airy and ghastly nature you got. She smart and kind. Spiritual and well-meaning.”

"Mm," Annie forced the sound out. Y’all had been together for so long and knew each other so well that you recognized what the sound meant even before soft tears fell against your neck. "I'm so glad we found her,” she admitted, confession full of joyful yet tearful emotion.

"Me too, lovely,” you whispered, feeling the same tears pinching at the corner of your eyes. Your lives felt so complete that the only tears any of y’all had now were nothing but happy ones.

"Is mommy cryin'," Flora stood at the end of the hall, watching as you cradled Annie in your arms. She stayed back out of curiosity. Her mother didn’t cry in front of her often, but the sight didn’t scare her or make her feel uneasy.

Flo was surrounded by the overwhelming need to hug her mothers, so she did so. Walking up to your conjoined bodies, Flora shimmied her way between you both, wrapping her arms around Annie as your arms hugged them both.

"Oh, I'm all good, sweet girl,” Annie kissed the top of Flora’s head. Her bottom lip trembled from the overwhelming amount of warmth and love she had brewing in her heart. “I’m just happy to have such a sweet daughter and a loving wife. I love y’all something crazy.”

“We love you, too, mommy,” Flora affirmed before you could even speak.

You held both of your girls, eternally grateful for the love you’d been given. Your mind was only focused on the now, not caring what the future held—only hoping that you had the two loves of you life standing alongside you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

a/n: hi hi! i hope you enjoyed!! feedback is always appreciatedddd. tell me how y’all feelll

taglist: comment HERE to be added!

tagged folks are down in the replies!!

#annie sinners #sinners 2025 #sinners fanfiction #wunmi mosaku #sinners #sinners fic #sinners movie #annie moore #annie sinners fanfiction #wlw #lesbian #sinners x reader #annie x reader #sinners fanfic #x female reader #x fem!reader #black fanfic writer #black reader #black tumblr

62 notes · View notes

ladymarvel27 · 3 days ago

Text

Red alert | Carlos Sainz

Carlos Sainz x Reader

Description: You're on your period.

Word Count: 752

Warnings: Make out, periods? (Idk if that's a warning)

f1 masterlist

He had a smile plastered on his face. He was going to see her, his girlfriend, his favourite woman. He opened the door to see her lying in the couch.

“Hey babe!!!” He exclaimed loudly, rushing to her, “I am back!”

“Hey,” she spoke. He immediately catches something is wrong.

“Amor? What happened?” He wraps arms around her. “Omg, your period started right?!” He asks, glancing at the calendar. She nods slowly.

“Which day?”

“Second.”

“Oh,” he nods, looking at her with pity in his eyes. He knows how overwhelming the second day can be. Then an idea popped up in his mind. He picks up his keys.

“Where?” She asks.

“I am coming,” he picks up his phone and leaves. Nearly half an hour later he returns, holding two bags, one full of candies, snacks, sweets chocolate and, pads. He places them on the table in front of her. She slowly smiles looking at them.

“This one’s my favourite,” she says picking up a chocolate.

His lips curl up seeing her smile, “I am going to shower, enjoys your sweets, okay?” He was about to leave when he turns, “Should I run you a bath after showering?”

“Yeah,” she nods, “that would be great.”

Some minutes later he comes out, just in boxers and a towel on his shoulder. “You can bath, go amor.” She smiles and gets up.

After a good bath and dressing up in comfy clothes, she comes out to find Carlos cooking in the kitchen, just in his boxers. His back muscles looked great as always. She approaches him from behind, wrapping arms around his waist, burying her head into his back.

“What are you making?” She asks, breathing the scent of the food cooking, “Smells delicious.”

“Your favourite pasta mi vida,” he replies.

“Thanks Carlos,” she softly spoke, “For everything.”

“There is no need to thank me amor. I was just doing boyfriend duties,” he turns around to face her. She blushes, burying her face into his chest.

“Amor, hey!” He wraps arms around her.

“How are you feeling?”

“Much better,” she replies pulling away. She presses a small kiss on his cheek, making a small crimson spread on his cheek, “Dinner is ready, honey,” he spoke, scooping her up in his arms.

“Carlitos! Hey! Put me down!” She exclaimed, fighting to get off his hold, which made him giggle. She was the sweetest. He takes her to table and put her down on the chair.

“Sit there, princess, I am going to dress up and bring the dinner.” She pouts and relaxes against the chair.

Her eyes brightened up seeing Carlos bring her favourite pasta served hot in two plates. She picks up and starts eating. Seeing her, he also sits down to do the same. Suddenly, he hears her sniffling.

He immediately drops his fork into his plate, “Hey! Hey! Amor! Princess? What happened?” She was happy and this sadness out of nowhere?

“I was craving this so so so much yesterday, Carlos, but I didn’t know how to make it,” He sits down hearing her, “Thank you Carlos.”

“Aww mi amor. You scared me there,” he gently caresses her shoulder then continues eating, “You’re welcome. I hope you’re enjoying it.” She’s just overwhelmed, he thought. She smiles and continues eating.

After dinner, he cleans up and goes to bedroom to find her setting up another layer of sheet on the bed. “Oh, mi amor,” he hugs her from behind, “I hope you are not cramping, are you?”

She sighs deeply. He gets the answer, immediately taking off his shirt. He stacks up pillows and lies against them. “Amor, come here, let’s cuddle,” he opens his arms. She sits down on his lap. He wraps his arms around her waist. Their lips connect. She breaths out as he moves his lips down to her neck and then collarbones. After few minutes of intense make out, they breath heavily. She gives him a tired smile and places her palm on his chest, stabilizing herself. He pulls her closer connecting their temples, catching their breaths.

“That was…amazing,” she says, pulling away, her voice tired. He smiles gently at her. She yawns, “We should sleep.” He could clearly see the tiredness in her eyes. He pulls her closer and lays down on the bed, arms around her.

“Good night,” he presses a kiss on her eyes only to see she has already fallen asleep. She must be really tired. He chuckles to himself and closes his eyes.

Taglist: @itsjustvs4 @ice-man-goes-bwoah

Seperators credits: @saradika-graphics

143 notes · View notes

multy-d00dles · 1 day ago

Text

Sex hc for twst but like, less about sex itself and more about interpersonal/ how I see the cast relationship with sex. im proship/profiction and very into sex education, so respect your own dni.

Trein definitely thinks sex is a private matter, not sex negative per sé, but definitely more of a “I don’t care what you do in bed” type of guy.

Divus slept around, probably in his teen or young adult days, willing to brag about it around friends if two shots of vodka are added to the mix. Preaches sex-ed and consent.

the only thing Crowley is fucking is dying. But definitely masturbates

Sam is another one who slept around, with guys mostly. May or may not have a sex toys selling business.

Vargas FUCKS, he’s loud too and has gotten backlash for it

Riddle has HORRIBLE relationship with sex, like he knows it’s normal but feels ashamed of what turns him on. Cried when they showed how labor works in class

Trey empathizes more with his mom after learning how much pregnancies affect the body, probably the first top/dom alignment in Heartsaybul.

Hate to break it to y’all but Carter is into gang bangs, doesn’t care for their partner gender but is waay into his own pleasure. Knock him down a peg

Did Ace had a girlfriend? Yes, did they do it? I don’t think so, for me he only hit first base and they broke up before it happened (nothing concerning happened, they just weren’t compatible). Still feels self councious abt his performance since then

Deuce, This king is scared, but curious, but scared. The talk on STDS frightened him for life

bottom Bottom bottom!! Leona Kingscholar is 100% not putting much effort in sex, likes to be pampered and cuddle. Immediately dizzy after orgasm

Ruggie is the first guy with a dildo toy, it hurt the first times, but learned that mosturizer goes a long way.

Thank GOD Jack’s got good people in his family who don’t shame him when he can’t control his way to stress relief. He also cums a LOT and hates cleaning after.

Azul is the first guy I can see into body worship, like it doesn’t get him hard per sé, but it’s his favorite thing.

Floyd drive is fucking horrendous, can go for hours and cumming doesn’t make him stop. Which is bad bc his thing doesn’t go forever, gets very upset when he can’t continue.

Another one for the sex toy user, Jade is into some ‘risky’ things (such as orgasm control). Thinks fluffy handcuffs are impractical but fashionable

Contrary to popular belief, Kalim knows more about women's health than anyone, definitely the person you want around when ur fighting period. Also very polite during sex, consent king!

I know people like to picture Jamil as kinky but I don't, I don't see it personally. Very vanilla but likes to give his partner massages during aftercare

"Vil is a pillow princess" WRONG. He's already pampered and given the princess treatment everyday by his fans. Likes to take charge when hes in bed

Rook is 100% a vouyer, the idea of having sex doesn’t turn him on as much as it does watching others do it. The only problem he does it without people consent ♡

Epel thinks sex is a competition, probably the e most kinky out of the first years.

if you think Idia fucks I’m sorry to disappoint you, he does NOT. This guy needs a HUGE amount of preparation

Ortho knows about sex the way Wikipedia lists it, he will make his own experiences but this is all he will get for now

Malleus is a virgin, like full on “I haven’t kissed anyone yet” virgin.

I would have said the same for Lilia but, considering what we now know form chapter 7,,,

If I didn’t say that Sebek wants to be dominated I’d be doing a terrible job. Gets turned on pretty easily too, but never enough to cause him boners

Silver is a biiit struggling with sex because he keeps falling asleep during the middle of it. May have some rape/cnc fantasies that he’s not too proud of.

35 notes · View notes

mai505 · 1 day ago

Text

Now playing || EVERYTHING by The Black Skirts

The Gentle Ache of Almost

or: Simon decides to join you on your trip back home unexpectedly falling into the soft claims of domesticity

It had been 2 days since you had decided to return to your hometown. And Simon fucking Riley decided to join you on your joyride. The flight back had been gruelling ,the 8 long hours giving you not only back problems ,but a wicked migraine aswell. The first step outside the airport felt like you have been thrown into a Time Machine.

The last time you had been here ,you were young just done with school and a whole world to see. Now 3 years later the grey concrete building outside the lavish airport still remained the same ,the air still cold the clouds still dark and the wind still howling. The early January sting stayed on your blushed cheeks as you took the same bus you had taken countless of times. Stepping up the language flowed from you easily, the routine memorised as if you had never left.

The apartment stayed the same aswell as you tuned your lock in the door opening the wooden barrier with a thud. The familiar smell hit you like a truck and the sight of your room pulled at your heartstrings. The ensemble of paper still stuck to your wall with the cheap tape you had gotten from the grocery store. The band posters in your closet with forgotten clothes from your previous self. The same books with marking and jotting of your every thought. “Nice room” Simon had said taking in a different part of you. At the base he had never known you like this, such deep parts of your souls and past.

The unexpected accompaniment from Simon still a mystery to you. Yet you had gone with it as you gazed upon not only just a room but your room.

Now two days later you both had settled in nicely. You would be lying if you said that there weren’t any tears shed on the first day quietly beneath the hot stream of the shower. Being back had taken a toll on you and Simon knew it, he would be lying if he wouldn’t admit that he had heard your sobs and asked himself the same question, of how he would act if he ever returned to his birthing place. Yet soon enough you had done the basics again, you both had gone grocery shopping having a free language lesson on the way teaching Simon the basics. Cleaned the apartment aswell as cooked your first meal.

You knew very well that your 18 year old self would go into cardiac arrest if she found out you came back 3 long years later, let alone with a guy where there was barely a friendship blooming. You had announced you would be coming back to your friends and now your phone was flooded with messages from close people you haven’t seen in long. Now you stood infront of Simon a person usually escaping social events and asking him to do exactly that.

“You want me to do what?” He blinked back suprised at you. Sitting on the black couch, which was definitely more worn than it should be he lounged back in sweatpants and a black T-shirt hugging his physique perfectly, the grey laptop perched on his lap questionable data displayed brightly on the display. “I just need you to attend a dinner with me.” You glanced back at him hope churning in your stomach.

When your friend Clara had spammed your phone about you having to meet her new fantastic as she put it boyfriend you had no other choice but to oblige, yet showing up alone was humiliating for reason which you didn’t want to go into detail to explain.

To your shock Simon agreed quite easily as-well. He uttered a simply sure before returning back to his task. He knew he had to go without his mask and knew he would have to leave the safety of your apartment. Yet your hometown was small, the few people were nothing compared to the big city he had grown up in. He had no problem sacrificing that part of himself to make you feel better. Counter to what you believed, he wanted to get to know you, know your past which shaped you into the person you became today. And what better place to start than where you grew up.

The two days had almost felt like months both of you already settling in a routine. You had given him a spare key and told him places he could go which were foreigner friendly. When he was home you both cooked together, ate together went shopping together, sat on the couch together, watched movies together basically everything. He still slept on the couch even though you had offered your bed. The tall man had refused opting for the uncomfortable leather wrapped sofa instead.

“You got a tux?” you questioned. A soft hum was all you needed as confirmation walking back to your room picking endlessly at the still there dresses. You weren’t sure if you’ll fit but right now that wasn’t the matter. Mentally preparing for the evening was.

After showering getting yourself cleaner than in the last days where you had marinated in ugly sweats and ripped t shirts you felt clean, pretty even if you would dare say. You glanced at the dress suprised at still the accurate fit the zipper though an apparent problem.

”Simon could you help me please.” you softly called out knowing he was occupying the bathroom since the last ten minutes. He hadn’t seen you the whole afternoon and as the sky slowly twisted into a stunning twilight he had wondered if you had perhaps left the house.

Upon hearing your call he held the hopeless task of taming his hair, the blonde locks had gotten slightly longer and he had never put much care to it since it usually stayed hidden behind the confines of his mask.

You stood infront of the long standing mirror in the corner of your room, pictures from 11.Grade still taped to the corners of the black metal lining the mirror in swungen design. Simon entered his tie resting unknotted on his white shirt as he looked up at you, his breath being knocked right out of his lungs.

You looked breathtaking. The dark red dress fell down gracefully to almost your ankles, your feet wore nice heels black in colour which made you a bit taller than you actually were, the silk material of your dress wove itself around your body getting slightly tighter around your waist, hugging the curve of your hips. The dress showed some cleavage modest to a point yet still enough to imagine the rest. You had left your hair in its natural state as it fell gracefully down your back your golden jewellery stood out against the dark Color the bracelets on your wrists clinging.

You moved your hair to the side to reveal an open zipper, the black lace of your bra slightly visible from under the part you had managed to close in your own. Taking a deep breath Simon walked over as his warm hands left hot traces on the skin it touched as he closed the zipper till the top. Softly you turned around facing him head on even with the heels he still towered over you by quite a lot your eyes fell to his open tie as you raised shaking hands to tie it for him.

“You look beautiful.” he whispered out without thinking. You blushed at the sudden compliment him noticing the slight flush you cheeks got “Thanks.” you mumbled back “You clean up pretty well yourself.” you added with a smile. A chuckle left his lips as he looked down at your own. “You nervous.” he asked gently noticing your shaking hands. “ A bit.” you murmured “Clara can be a bit much plus I haven’t seen her in long.” you explained. He simply nodded while you continued fumbling with his tie. “There.” you gave him a pat on his chest before asking him it was alright. He took a look in the mirror, indeed you had knotted it perfectly, the simple Windsor knot done so well he couldn’t have even compared. “Where’d you learn that?” he said turning to you. You shrugged your shoulders spritzing more of your intoxicating perfume on your wrists”Used to do it a lot for my father”.

Even though what you had said was barely a sentence Simon felt it was the most intimate thing you have ever said, especially since you never talked about your family and one would think you don’t have any. During work you never mentioned your parents, friends or any other relations despite how open cheerful and talkative you were, once one would think about how much they actually knew about you it was nothing.

You talked a lot but never revealed details about yourself. The crinkle of the key was heard as you came back Simon still gazing in the mirror”Okay enough staring at your face pretty boy we’re gonna be late.” you huffed turning around while shrugging a black coat on. The comment fazed him. You thought he was pretty ?

Taking the public transportation felt odd to Simon as you both stood there fully clad in formal dress wear inmidst tired looking people often throwing looks at you.Yet you stood there confident in your presence. You didn’t want to walk since it was “too cold” as you had put it but really you just weren’t ready to walk that long in your heels. As soon as you left the warmth of the stuffy tram the previous excuse seemed to fit just right. The cold wind nipped at your exposed face and you couldn’t help but tighten the shawl around your neck hoping for some sort of warmth.

In the distance you saw the restaurant the illuminated sign displaying proudly its name. From far you could already make out your friend. Sighing harshly you turned to Simon as you headed towards the entrance and also the woman and man”Brace yourself.” you whispered. Just then a high pitched squeak was heard as your name was screamed in delight, the woman waved excitedly. “You’re here!” she exclaimed loudly turning to hug you tightly. “How long has it been ,what 3 years?” she shakes her head in disbelief “God you’ve only gotten prettier.” she gushed. “Looking great as always love.” you smiled genuinely at her before embracing her in the hug.

Simon mustered the exchange with confused eyes he barely understood anything, you talking in your language. Taking in the woman who was yapping at you, she looked exactly as you had described. Standing a bit shorter than you with a silver dress that stood out like a sore thumb she looked just how you explained, someone who craved attention. The woman’s blonde hair fell straight over her shoulder and her heavy silver necklace stood out against her pale skin. You looked like the complete opposite standing next to her and Simon couldn’t help but notice that somehow you had gotten quieter listening actively to what she had to say.

Clara turned to the man behind her and pointed at him while saying something you obviously understanding as you shook his hand and smiled politely. Boyfriend Simon would’ve guessed that had him thinking of precisely how you had planned on introducing Simon. In a blink you had turned to Simon placing a hand in his arm “ This is Simon.” you said sweetly,”Simon this is my friend Clara and her boyfriend Max”. Clara’s eyes peaked in interest as she held out a hand “Nice to meet you.” she said her English heavily accented. “Let’s go in should we “ Max said, the first time talking for this evening. He was a rather short man, only a few inches taller than you yet he seemed nice. Simon tried to refrain from judging.

You rushed through the door first desperate to get out of the cold when Clara came up next to Simon. “You’re from Britain right, sorry for my bad English.” she laughed slightly. “No problem.” Simon recounterd politely. “So Simon you must be special.” she started as his questioning gaze deepened, she continued,”You’re the first boyfriend she’s introducing.” she said simply following your lead into the restaurant.

Something about that made his heart warm first, the fact that Clara thought he was your boyfriend, that he was worthy at all and second that he was the first, the first to sit down with your friends and talk in a couples way.

The dinner was gruesome Clara wouldn’t stop, talking at some point she even switched back to her more comfortable language ignoring the fact that Simon didn’t understand. You sat there not even a trace of boredom on your face as you listened for 3 hours straight to whatever she was talking about, patiently sipping your drink you nodded and ever so often chimed in. Simon on the other hand couldn’t hide the displease on his face. Clara’s boyfriend chose his phone as source of entertainment, while all Simon could do was angrily jab at the chocolate cake with too much sugar. After a while he slid it over to you softly patting your thigh in the process. The heath from his warm hand made you pause for a second as Simon hand never left and it didnt for the rest of the dinner.

Sadly, as Clara put it, the dinner had to come to an end because her boyfriend had underestimated the innocent looking fruit martinis and was now slurring his word and tripping over pure air. You and Simon both sober as a rock bid your farewells both smilingly tightly yet as soon as they were out of view the grin dropped. “I told you brace yourself.” was the first thing you said to him noticing his heavy sigh of relief. ”Yeah, but not actually brace yourself” he encountered. You just smiled before linking your arm around his. “Let’s go home my feet are killing me” “Want me to carry you” Simon questioned.

The question took you back as you laughed whole heartedly. ”Yeah sure.” you joked. Simon only shrugged before effortlessly picking you up bridal style holding you close to his chest. ”I didn’t actually mean it you brute put me down.” you shrieked the shock of being picked up nearly causing you a heat attack. Simon softly chucked alongside you as he put you down.

“So how do you know the chatter box”? He asked. You stifled a laugh at the nickname before thinking of what to say. You looked up at Simon, who was already looking at you expectantly. So you told him everything there was to know about Clara. Of how you met her in 5. Grade at the measal age of 11 both of you young and hopeful for a new school year in a new school and class. How she was the one who you ran to with boy issues and she the same. How you both once had a night in the living room during a class trip where the electricity had failed and you had climbed out of the window. “She’s not one of my closets friends.” you confessed. ”Yet we’ve been friends for so long she’s just always been there” you smiled”she’s great really even if she never shuts up” you grinned up at the sky the stars beautifully reacting the night sky. By time you had said a couple of word you had already started you full blown rant laughing and telling stories about your school life and Simon drunk of every single thing like a thrirsting man.

When you were done you both had reached home already, the gray concrete building seeming more welcoming than anything right now. Pushing the keys into the lock you opened the door, the warmth revealing in your body as you pushed off your coat Simon following your lead.

You both stood in the span of your kitchen as you asked him if he wanted tea, him simply nodding never turning down a cup of tea. Putting the dusty kettle on the stove you silently turned to Simon. “Do you know how to dance?” came his deep voice. It snapped you out of your day dream as you took in his question. He noticed your questioning face. ”You mentioned you took classes briefly could you teach me?” he looked at you rather gently. Your heart ached at the fact that he had remembered such a detail from the whole novel you had told him.

You nodded chuckling as you both stood in the dimly lit kitchen. “Put your hands here” you guided his hands to your hips as you placed yours on his shoulders, both of you swaying to the nonexistent music. You softly instructed him on where to put his legs and how to move his feet when you easily fell into a rhythm.

”You’re a natural.” you laughed.”very fast learner” you noted. “Only thanks to my great teacher” he added smoothly. You laughed laying your head on his chest now only swaying on the spot his own arms around your hips pulled you closer to him almost like a hug as you connected your arms behind his neck.

The whistle of the kettle brought you out of your dance as you smiled up at him, he returning it in the slightes yet you know it was a big thing to get even any kind of reaction out of him.

You gazed up into his kind eyes his rather beautiful eyes as if finally taking the time to appreciate their actual beauty. Simon overall was an attractive man you knew that, always did. With his strong and powerful build it contrasted stark against the soft and quiet personality you had gotten to know. “I should go change.” you broke the heated gaze averting your eye to the door and feeing yourself reach out of Simon’s warm embrace. He agreed returning to the bathroom to take a shower.

It was already quite late when you finished as you ventured into the living room fully assessing the couch it looked far too uncomfortable for Simon to sleep in. ”Everything okay” came his deep tone as he made you turn. You mustered him for a second. “Do you wanna sleep in the bed” you blurted out. “It’s just the sofa is really bad for your back and looks absolutely horrible to sleep in god you must not be sleeping I’m so sorry-“ Simon stopped your nervous rambling my placing his hands in you shoulders “Hey is that okay with you ,I mean me sleeping next to you?” he asked sincerely. You nodded.” Words darling “ he mused. “Yeah it’s okay.” you breathed out. “Then let’s go I’m bloody tired” he said softly.

You merely nodded tiredness clouding your body aswell. Slipping in under the warm covers felt welcoming after a long evening of walking your exhausted body sprawled onto the mattress before softly turning.

You held your breath almost waiting for Simon to slip him. You heard him take off his shirt before chugging it inside corner getting into the bed with a groan and pushing himself under the covers. You turned to him stopping shortly realising exactly how close you both actually were. “Goodnight Simon” you whispers. “G’night love” he smiled before reaching over and softly placing a kiss on your hair. The action was so innocent so small yet it left you giddy as butterflies erupted in your stomach.

You turned away from him to hide your smile not knowing he knew exactly how big your grin was under the blanket. He gently pulled you into his warm chest, spooning you the warmth radiated off of him as he softly brushed his hand through your hair. The last things you remembered as you soundly drifted off.

#cod x reader #ghost cod #simon ghost riley #simon riley x oc #simon riley x reader #cod #simon ghost x reader #simon riley #simon riley cod #simon riley x you

42 notes · View notes