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fawnnlvr · 2 months ago

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quiet support | spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x catvalentine!reader

masterlist

summary: in which spencer reid realizes that he does in fact have one supporter in his journey with dealing with his addiction to dilaudid

word count: 2.3k

warning: addiction, kidnapping, all the themes of criminal minds, and cat valentine lore

author's note: i just really wanted to write a story where spencer reid had at least somebody to support him through his addiction. what better person than a girl who had been through it herself and is the type of person to offer unconditional love to those around me. pre-lobotomy cat is always in my mind

You had joined the BAU right after the a tragedy had struck the entire unit. Their number one prodigy was one the verge of dying after being kidnapped and tortured by an unsub. Although Spencer Reid was able to get some time off after the whole ordeal, he didn't fully use his time as he wanted his job to give him a sort of distraction from his racing thoughts. He wanted things to go back to normal.

Emily Prentiss had also joined right after you; the two of you creating big changes to a unit that is already on edge. When you accepted the position as the assistant, you would've never imagined you would've been assigned to the most psychologically grueling unit but that's just the way things go and it was times like this where you felt it was somewhat fate.

You recognized the signs. The agitation, those around getting worried about your behavior, the concerning gazes, the increased aggressive behavior, and the distracted mind. It was something you knew all too well.

Although you hadn't been apart of the team for long, it bothered you that everybody seemed to turn a blind eye. They were profilers weren't they? They could see what was happening? Even your high school friends had noticed quickly despite only really seeing each other during school days. The unit spent the most time together so how could they not say something?

Really, it wasn't your place to intervene since you were barely apart of the group. You mainly worked with JJ and contact was limited except for the occasional greetings and helping JJ with the briefings.

One day, you noticed Spencer get up from his desk and make his way to the bathroom, agitation clear on his face. You followed and waited outside, a neatly printed out photo and a staple in your hand as you stapled the paper on the wall. It was a support group with information on where and when it takes place.

You heard him coming out, "Oh my what a nice poster to help people!" you never were a good person to lie when it came to hidden intentions. You looked behind when the door opened and it was not Spencer Reid but another agent, "Oh hello, Agent Anderson. How's your day?"

Anderson lit up at the question and happily told you about it while you just nodded your head, nervously keeping an eye out for Spencer. The bathroom door opened once again and Spencer had zoomed pass the two and towards his desk. After Anderson finished his rant, you smiled and sighed when he left.

First attempt was a fail, but you weren't going to give up.

You came into work early the next day, and lingered around the coffee bar, waiting for Spencer to get his daily morning coffee at the exact time he always did.

"Hi Spencer!" you waved and he smiled and greeted your back, "10 sugars as usual?"

He nodded and this was your chance. You pulled out a pack of gum and started to unravel it. You wanted to show him a small alternative to whatever he was addicted to. Curiosity always got the best of Spencer as he loved to ramble about random things. "Whats that?"

"Gum! I like to chew on it whenever I'm craving something else."

"What would you be craving?"

"You know. The usual, but I think the sugars in this gum can really distract a person."

"Like nicotine gum?"

Your head snapped towards him, eyes narrowing as if he had told you highly classified information, "Of course not. I've never been addicted to nicotine. What are you trying to say?"

Spencer was taken aback by your sudden defensiveness and it seemed you were as well. An awkward laugh left you as you tucked a hair strand behind your hair, "I think I am going to start work now. Bye Doctor."

Okay so that did not go the way you had hoped so. Nicotine was a touchy subject for you as it had turned out, the British snack, bibble, you were so addicted too, had traces of it in the factory that seeped into the sweet snack. After it was banned, only then did you realize that you had a serious problem.

However, what you didn't know at that time was that a wheel sort of turned in Spencer's head. The next couple of days, you figured it was time to step back and reflect. Aggressively chewing your pink gum, you tried to calm yourself down to reflect on your defensiveness. Seeing a therapist had really helped you process your emotions and psychological issues, which you learned had nothing to do with your dyed red hair. The gum was in no way nicotine gum, as you slowly weened off of it long ago but still needed that chewing fixation.

You spun around in your chair at your desk that was next to JJ's. She was going through the case files and you just finished communicating with police precincts in New York.

A knock on the door brought you out of your daze. Your head looked towards who it could be and there was Spencer Reid, a nervous smile on his face as he opened the glass door.

"Hey. Sorry JJ, can I borrow [Name]?"

JJ had this smile on her face as she looked between you and Reid, "Go ahead."

You quickly stopped chewing your gum, grabbed the small trash can by your desk and leaned down to peacefully spit out the gum away from the public's view. The gum sticks were still in your pocket as you followed Spencer out the office.

Spencer noticed that you were unusually quiet, possibly thinking the same as he was. He led you towards a more quieter, private section of Quantico: their case file room.

"What did you need Doctor?" you tried to feign a normal tone but you would've needed to do more to fool a profiler. The two of you sat on a bench that was placed for those who had to search for hours.

"I know what you've been doing."

"What?" You dragged on the last syllable in a higher octave.

"I know it was you who put up those support group posters by the men's bathroom, inside the men's bathroom, the elevator, and in the lobby cork board." You tried to interupt and defend yourself, "I saw the pink double-sided tape and you used the same design for each one."

That last part quickly caused you to shut your lips, "Sorry." you quietly stated and your head hung Iow.

"It's okay. You don't have to apologize. I just wanted to thank you. I actually did check out when of the groups yesterday and it felt nice to open up to other people."

You turned to him and moved closer even though the bench was already quite cramped, "You did? How did we not see each other?"

"You went?"

"Yeah well I sort of kinda volunteer to help arrange it during my free time since it was groups like that that helped me."

"I went to the one at night."

"Oh! Yeah that's probably why." You smiled and moved away.

"I do want to ask, but I don't want to sound too intruding seeing as what happened at the coffee bar."

"Sorry for being defensive. I'm trying to work on that but ask me whatever you want Spencer! I promise I will be open to anything."

"Well I assume that you too were also addicted to something." he carefully worded his words, "How long was it till you felt like you didn't think about using it again."

For once, you really looked deep in thought. Your eyebrows furrowed as you tried to formulate your thoughts of this seven year long battle. "Well, I'm not sure I can tell you. When I was 16, I was addicted to this British snack called bibble."

"Wasn't there a big case for that with the FDA?"

"Yes. They were adding nicotine to make it more addictive, but the damage was already done by the time it was sent to the world. I had three giant stashes in my room and it would be the only thing I ate. Even after the stash was gone because my friends threw it away, I couldn't stop thinking about it and constantly craved it. The drawbacks were the worse and it took a lot for me to not buy nicotine products to fill the void."

"How did you resist?"

"I had people who cared for me. Enough to go to my house and take away any traces of bibble. Enough to research how to try and ween me off of it. Enough to buy me nicotine gum and other candies to fill the void. Enough to not go away even after I almost fought them. And enough to give me strength to recover and continue to choose recovering."

That is probably the sweetest and most nondisturbing story he had ever heard from you.

"They also handcuffed me to a recovered addict when they first found out to stop me from buying bibble."

And there it was.

"He was really a nice man and we made a promise to stop eating bibble or use any nicotine products. I still keep in contact with him whenever we get cravings and need support."

You then turned to Spencer and placed your hand on top of his, "I really didn't want to try and intrude since I am new to this team but you really reminded me a lot of myself and I just wanted you to know that you have a supporter. It really is a tough journey and I probably wouldnt be here if I didnt have people who helped me and I dont want you to turn into a version of what could have been me."

'You have a supporter' Those words replayed in Spencer's mind. He looked into your eyes, this warm feeling in his chest as he looked at the resolve in your eyes.

The two of you stayed silent for a while; a comfortable silence yet unspoken words lingered over his head. He glanced towards you; you simply had this smile of relief on your face, happy you got that off your chest, but you still felt a little worried and nervous. Almost as if you were unsure of what would happen now.

"When I first got kidnapped, I remembered thinking that this would have been the end. The unsub had a split personality and one part of him tried saving me in this deluded way through injecting me with a hallucigen."

You knew about the kidnapping but you were never sure about what exactly he went through during that time.

"In a messed up way, I would say that it saved me from what I was experiencing. The more he injected me with, the more that I felt the most calm I had ever felt in my entire life and it made me chase that feeling. When Hotch and the others found me, I—"

Spencer had to pause. He never really imagined he'd recount this story aloud, let alone to the a new agent he met less than a month again. Your hand found it's way back to his, rubbing your thumb to provide a sense of comfort.

"I ended up taking some with me when all was said and done and its still —" he spoke slowly and he could feel his voice crack. This was a smile side of vulnerability he wasn't even sure he had in him. He barely had the courage to look you in the eye as he retold it to you, but felt it was necessary after you shared yours.

Spencer did not have to say anything more before you gently took you hand off of his and wrapped your arms around him. One hand found the back of his head as you caressed his hair and he melted into you. It has been a while since he got a hug. The last one probably got was from Hotch when he found him in the graveyard but he initiated it. The last time anyone had initiated a hug with him was right before Elle Greenaway had left.

You gave a good hug, Spencer deduced as he practically melted into your gentle touch. He did not mind any germs at this time as all he needed right now was the support he longed for from those around him.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that, Spencer. You are so so so strong. Thank you for trusting me."

He wasn't sure how long he had stayed in your arms or how much time had passed since the two of you had entered the file room, but he was so glad that he went to talk to you. It truly was you who gave him the strength through your quiet unconditional support despite only knowing him for a month and only knowing this side of him.

The first rule of giving a hug is to never pull away first and that's a rule of life that you abide by. It was Spencer who pulled away from the hug and you simply stayed close to him. He wasn't sure where this journey will lead him and he couldn't estimate the difficulty either, but with you by his side to support him, he knew it would be okay.

But of course, even after these sweet moments, you would never change your surprising nature. "Shall I handcuff us together now?"

Spencer just smiled, happy you are still your jolly self and gently let you down with a small shake of his head.

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds angst #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds crackfic #spencer reid x catvalentine!reader #fawnnlvr writes

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orphiclovers · 1 year ago

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Actually I'm not done talking about yoohankim's awful digital footprint pre-scenarios. Kim Dokja gets a lot of flack for being chronically online and cringe and that's fair enough but let's just acknowledge that neither Yoo Joonghyuk or Han Sooyoung are ANY better.

For Han Sooyoung it's obvious. Despite having her own sucessful webnovel, presumably with fans who support her, she gets obsessed with her one hater who thinks she is a plagiarist, finds the "original" novel where this guy was the only commenter on every chapter, and instead of reading her own comments she spends her time reading HIS and imagining he's saying that about her writing. She does this for years. DERANGED BEHAVIOUR. Pre-scenarios Han Sooyoung has no excuse to be acting this crazy. Sent to internet jail for being weird online.

1863rd Han Sooyoung. Automatically get a pass to act unhinged bc after going through the apocalypse that's just expected and also the only person she talks to for 13 years is Kim Dokja and a creepy old man who calls her god, BUT. That being said she's a perfectly average and healthy internet user! Spends literally every waking moment writing a shitty webnovel so hard pieces of her soul chip away and infuse in it, sure, but she doesn't bother anyone, just does her own thing, posts the chapters and occasionally chats with her one commenter. The most normal one here. Somehow.

Kim Dokja. Big fan of a webnovel and can get intense about it sometimes, starts fights online defending his fave character, recommends the same novel so much he gets banned from forums, whatever. WE'VE ALL BEEN THERE IS WHAT IM SAYING. This is nothing too crazy, only about the level of an average fandom superfan. Uses his real name online which is certainly a choice but some people do that in real life too. Giving him a pass, I was also a cringey emo teen on the internet once. (and im still cringe and emo)

Yoo Joonghyuk as seen in Yoo Mia side story. Absolutely glued to his phone. He checks it while eating breakfast, while in the car being driven to work, while literally walking down the street so that Yoo Mia has to tell him to put it away and hold her hand! He is basically addicted to reading hate comments about himself. In his narration he mentions that there are only a few regulars in the forums he lurks in and that he recognizes all their usernames, accidentally revealing that he's in too deep and officially lost in the sauce. Even his manager tells him he should stop reading the comments because they clearly upset him, but he justifies it to himself by thinking quote, "If someone has a grudge against him, he just needs to be prepared to face that hatred. Then everything is under his control." That last line especially is such a cope, and reveals that this behavior is another one of his desperate attempts to feel in control of his life, and as pathetic as that is and as much as I feel sympathy this is being weird online and I'm sending him to Internet jail.

Bonus round: Secretive Plotter. Need I say anything. Absolutely glued to his phone AGAIN, no it doesn't make it better that sometimes it's his kkomas instead of him. Canonically has a bound book of every single comment Kim Dokja ever left on WOS, printed out, which is more freak mode than even Han Sooyoung went. Straight to jail.

#jesus this got long. now if only i could write fic this smoothly #orv #omniscient reader's viewpoint #kim dokja #han sooyoung #yoo joonghyuk #secretive plotter #orv spoilers #yoo mia side story #my posts

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yandereunsolved · 1 year ago

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Thicker than Dragon's Blood - ,, yandere Daemon Targaryen pining over Rhaenyra's friend

"𝘖𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥: 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦." word count: 3.8k cw(s): yandere themes, suggestive themes (slight nsfw), grooming, dubious consent, purity culture, misogny, & stockholm syndrome

✧ It all began the day that both you and Rhaenyra met in the nursery. Without the ability to speak, only to wail and babble, the two of you were instantly the closest of friends. There was no place where she went that you weren't either. You balanced out her reckless and bratty behavior. She wasn't the best friend to you, but you were stuck to her hip. You always took the fall for her so that she could keep her reputation untarnished. In those moments, you forgot your standing as a child of a noble—a Lord or Lady of a house standing strong. You always gifted her little things that you found as reminders of your bond. She paid you back through adventure and gossip. Occasionally, she would gaslight you if you heard something bad about her, but who wouldn't? She couldn't lose her best friend.

✧ In the back of those red-tinted memories was Daemon. Whenever he happened to be at the Red Keep, he always kept a close eye on what transpired between the both of you. At first, he saw an opportunity to stake his future claim as king by marrying Rhaenyra. Although his eyes always wandered to you. There was something about you that was just so innocent and corruptible. As you grew, so did Daemons intrigue with you. It soon ignited into a fiery infatuation, burning brighter than any flame in Old Valyria ever could.

✧ His interest, a word far too shallow to explain his attraction, was not unnoticed by your father, the head of your house. Daemon had many talks with your father. Your father did your best to sweet talk Daemon, but obviously he was able to see through it. He didn't need any convincing. That's how he became your tutor. He would spend all his free time dragging you away from Rhaenyra, forcing you to learn whatever he felt like teaching you that day. He wanted to cause a rift in your relationship with her. He was also beginning to feel possessive over you. Why has his neice caught your favor and not him? He could not allow this seemingly 'platonic' relationship with Rhaenyra to further escalate.

✧ The content of his teachings would seem less than savory to most. You had just barely risen past the age of a blooming maiden; that makes you fair game, correct? When you were in your younger years, he never taught you anything that could cause rumors to spread. After all, rumors in the Red Keep spread faster than a dragon's fire. He needed to make sure that you were old enough to keep your mouth shut. He needed to make sure that your age wouldn't be a problem. An age gap wouldn't cause rumors, but a child noble engaging in intimate acts like an adult prince? Unthinkable. He wouldn't ruin his reputation because of that.

✧ However, no gap in age or experience could stop him once you were old enough to be considered of age. He began teaching you the finer things in life, like how to please a man and how to please yourself. You were naive. You didn't know more than how a babe was made. You didn't realize everything was so complicated and embarrassing. He always stifles your moans during your private 'tutoring' sessions. He encourages you and tells you how good you are being. He speaks dirty words in your ears in High Valyrian. He gives you an extra reward if he can see you recognize some of the words in his teachings. It's an addiction for him. He can't get enough of your body and your figure. You had grown into yourself. It was a sight no other whore's body could even begin to match. The gods must have gifted you to him after everything he has done for the kingdoms.

✧ He gives you 'homework' and does more than just scold you if you don't complete it to his liking. Most of the time, he just enjoys watching you. Even after all his teachings, you are still so inexperienced. He hasn't taken the final step with you. He wouldn't take your full maidenhood yet, no. He simply couldn't. Not for any moral reasons. He just wanted you to keep your virtue a bit longer. That's one of the things that attracted him to you in the first place. He would have immediately taken any other slut, but you weren't that. You are a god(dess) among men. You deserve a romantic night filled with passion. A night where he can put a babe in you, fertile or not.

✧ As you began drifting away from Rhaenyra due to your tutoring sessions with Daemon, you were confronted. She clung onto you with tears in her eyes and asked why you didn't care about her anymore. She silently begged and pleaded for a good reason. Then she became enraged. She slapped you and demanded to know once again why you were drifting from her.

"Is it because of my uncle? Is your knowledge truly worth more than our lifelong partnership?"

You couldn't tell her the truth. You knew what you were engaging in with Daemon was scandalous. If you told Rhaenyra she may hate you, or even worse, use it to blackmail you so you are always by her side. You made up some flimsy excuse. You just said that you were insecure about always being near her, and Daemon said that she didn't like you anymore. That part about Daemon was partly true. He has been whispering lies to you about your relationship with Rhaenyra for years now. For better or for worse, you both are still as close as you were during your younger years, if not even closer now.

She finally calmed after you made your excuse. She didn't question its validity. She was just happy to finally have you back. She made you promise to stay away from Daemon as much as you possibly could. So, you did. Who were you to disobey the command of a princess, your closest companion?

✧ A sense of shame and dread fills you. You don't need a tutor anymore. After an hour-long argument with your father, he finally relents. He threatens that if their house falls out of the Targaryens good graces because you refused to be tutored by Daemon, he'll sell you out to a pleasure house. He didn't know how hard that hit you. You felt impure. You enjoyed what you did with Daemon. Why is that wrong? You were taught only to find pleasure in your future spouse. You found pleasure in him, and look where it got you. A strained relationship with your best friend that you had to fix, and your father threatening to sell you out to a whore house.

You feel like you are being attacked from all angles. Daemon begins to stalk you to get your attention. That's what you can call it, right? Stalking? You swear he's following you, even when he isn't. You thought you heard the guards speaking about reporting back to him. Something just feels more off about him whenever you get near him. Your mind began to repress all the memories of your intimate moments together. You just felt so confused, so lost, and so paranoid. Nothing felt right. You could barely remember your own name. At least you'll be able to find a suitor soon. You'll be able to put this all behind you. Not if Daemon has anything to do with it.

✧ After a few months, everything seems to be back to normal. There are no more of those weird tutoring sessions; you have rebuilt your relationship with Rhaenyra, and you even have some decent choices for a future spouse. You did have to carry on the bloodline as the eldest, after all.

Daemon, however, was far from 'normal'. Not that he ever was. Over those few months, people could notice the changes in him. He became more unhinged, erratic, and easily angered at the tiniest of mistakes. Behind closed doors, he was drinking all of the spirits he could get his hands on. He was spending triple the amount of time at brothels that he usually did. He forgot about everything else, except for the problem of the bronze bitch in the back of his mind. You were nothing like her. You were like a precious piece of jewelry made out of the finest gold and precious metals that were melted down by a dragon's breath. All he knew was that he needed to court you.

Not even commanding the Nights Watch could tame the beast within him. He flew Caraxes to contemplate. He would eye over where, somewhere off in the distance, you were in the castle. You were probably spending time with his neice, or gods forbid, another man, one of his men that he commands.

He's just never wanted anything more than you. He knows you aren't his kin or his blood. He knows that marrying you would be an impossible task. It would mean decreasing his chances of taking the throne. You had something, though; you had the Targaryen spirit in you. He could feel it every time he touched you. He could feel the heat simmering just beneath the skin. You were worthy of his seed and worthy of carrying his kin. He could always bribe one of his family members to use as a surrogate in case you have male genitalia or are infertile. Your babies would still be pure Targaryens that way. It just disgusts him to have to think of impregnating anyone but you.

✧ You had a tournament in honor of Rhaenyra finally being old enough to be courted. It was one that would end on a much lighter note, as opposed to the last one, which ended in her mother's death. It was partly your tournament as well. Well, that is what Daemon thought of it as. He would fight for you, and you alone. He understands that voicing this would be improper. You do see it in the way he glances at you while fighting in the rounds he is participating in. When he is not, he's staring into your soul. His eyes never leave your figure. You feel queasy; something is even more off about him now. Your ex-tutor didn't have any feelings past merely using you as another one of his flings; you tried to assure yourself. Only when the last round of the tournament was to commence did he ask for your favor instead of Rhaenyra's.

The crowd was shocked; some gasped, while others questioned the meaning of this. Was Daemon choosing you over Rhaenyra due to the infighting over who was to be the true heir of the Iron Throne? Was he simply being contrary, as always? Or did he want your favor because he harbored more than platonic feelings toward you?

It was unheard of, as it was customary for Targaryens to only ask for the favors of their family members.

He did the tournament. His actions made clear the message he intended to send; he did it for you.

Rhaenyra wasn't pleased. She threatened her uncle behind closed doors to stop hitting on her best friend. He laughed it off. He taunted her.

"As if there is anything you can do about it. They want me. They crave my touch."

✧ You only tried harder from then on to separate yourself from him. You purposefully avoided him, and it only became harder to do so. It was as if he had memorized your schedule by heart. Little notes and gifts began to be left on your bedding. They weren't signed, but you had a suspicion that it was Daemon's doing. You tried to express your concerns to your mother and father, only to be given a dismissive response. You tried to confide in your siblings, but your female one(s) only giggled and swooned over him. Your male one(s) simply huffed and waved you off, half-heartedly saying that they'd offer you some protection against the prince if the time came.

✧ You try to confront him. He admits that the gifts were from him. He doesn't admit the extent of his infatuation for you yet. You already seemed adamant on avoiding him. Scaring you off wouldn't do him any good because he still doesn't have a strong hold over the council or his brother. He promises to stop gifting you things and back off if you just do one thing with him. You reluctantly agreed without knowing what he was planning. If you knew it was to ride on Caraxes with him, then you would have simply walked off and not given his compromise another thought.

✧ You were intimidated by dragons; dare you say fearful of them. They always seemed to be able to pierce one's soul with their eyes. You refused to be near Rhaenyra's dragon, Syrax, for that exact reason. Now you were within ten feet of one, and you were practically trembling. Daemon was positively ecstatic underneath his facade of poised indifference. He would be able to exert control over you because of his title of dragon rider, if nothing else.

Syrax seemed like an innocent hare in comparison to Caraxes.

However, you surprisingly felt safe as Daemon placed your hand on Caraxes's scales. There was a certain vulnerability in Daemon's eyes that you had not seen before. He seemed to treasure these moments. Caraxes almost seemed to... like you? The dragon could sense his riders affection toward you. In turn, Caraxes felt the same need to protect you and be gentle. The beast even allowed you to scratch under his chin, a purr-like reaction emanating from his long throat. It was like nothing you had ever experienced before.

☾ The ride was breath-taking, both figuratively and literally. That's the only way you can describe it. It was the first time you felt safe around Daemon. He was in charge of making sure you felt comfortable in the air, his arms possessively at your sides as he controlled the reigns. He could feel your relaxed muscles against his toned chest. His heart swelled even further with an all-encompassing ecstasy that he had never had the pleasure of feeling before. Caraxes responded to both of you with a comforting roar, somewhere in between intimidating and reassuring. You had never felt true freedom in your life. For once, you felt it, even in the arms of someone you could consider an oppressor.

☾ You were aware of his wife. You knew that these strange feelings Daemon harbored for you had to be temporary. You at least admitted to yourself that he did hold some sort of romantic attraction to you. He admitted the least of it. Still, you fooled yourself into thinking they were temporary. Not just a fling, something more intimate but less binding than a marriage. Even with this knowledge, even after being introduced to Caraxes and riding him with Daemon, your hesitance was still fully rooted within your heart and mind—your soul. He took advantage of you before. You shudder at the thought. You enjoyed learning those things, but were you truly able to consent to them? You were of age. You push it away within your mind. It is the deepest reason for your hesitance, but you didn't want to think on it. Thinking of your tutoring sessions with Daemon only proved to fill you with heat and shame simultaneously.

☾ You chose to do your best to shake all of the invasive thoughts from your mind. You spent as much time as you could with Rhaenyra. She looked at you with such love and cowered behind you whenever things got too tough. From the shadows of the small council, one man in particular envied your relationship: Otto Hightower. He has taken to calling you 'Daemon's whore'. He has been the one since the beginning to spread whispers amongst those in the court about your loyalty to the crown.

Would you choose Daemon over Viserys?

That was a question many asked with their eyes and not their tongues. It was humiliating. You don't even want to associate with Daemon, and yet your time as his student has left your reputation forever scarred. Not to mention how many times you have chosen to state that Rhaenyra's mistakes were your own, for the sake of your friendship. Even with the whispers, it was not enough for Otto. He needed them to be screams. He needed everyone to see you as the whore you were! He has never grown soft towards you because of one simple fact: you threaten his entire plan for his family's ascension to the throne. Alicent has never been able to catch a Targaryen's attention, yet you are the best friend to one and the whore of another.

☾ It was a mistake for you to align yourself so closely with Rhaenyra. She ranted to you about what her fears were and how terrified she was at the possibility of not being the sole heir. You had to listen while Daemon plotted at Dragonstone. You hadn't seen him since the day you rode Caraxes with him. That was well over half a moon ago by now. You were relieved to finally be rid of his presence. Only you thought so. When the gods rose the moon high into the sky and nestled the sun beneath the cusp of the earth, he returned to you. That very night, after Rhaenyra had left your chambers, Daemon had snuck in. He surprised you and urged you to hush yourself.

You had no choice. He led you to the empty cradle, where the last heir passed after living for less than a day. There was a dragon egg in it. He whispered to you about all the things he wanted to do to you. He made a promise that one day your babe would be in the cradle, with his features and your personality.

It felt like a dream you would have after a fever. You still can't be sure it happened. After he left, the realm of dreams tugged you in once again. You woke up, and no trace of him was there. Daemon was getting bolder in his advances toward you. He still feared scaring you off completely, but he has to take what is rightfully his. He is the heir to the Iron Throne, after all.

☾ Years passed, and you grew older. Daemon was off fighting a war in the Stepstones; Alicent gave the king a male heir with another babe on the way; and Rhaenyra stuck closer to you than any tree sap could. Otto was less of a thorn in your side these days. As this time passed, you were plagued with tragedies every time you tried to take a lover. You were the eldest, and yet you were failing your house dearly. They tried their best to get you courted as well. Your entire family was just perplexed. Every suitor you were supposed to marry showed up dead before your wedding day. Were you cursed by the gods? It couldn't be Daemon, could it? It was so far away. He couldn't simply be orchestrating this while so far away.

It simply left you in tears every single time. Rhaenyra was your only solace. She grew more bratty and defiant of her father. She refused to marry that Lannister fellow. She rejoiced when your newest one came up dead. She couldn't help but smile. She didn't want you to get married and leave her. You both were meant to be companions. You are companions, the closest of them.

Still, your soul was aching, and your body was deprived of something it yearned for.

Were you really missing Daemon's odd behavior?

No, never.

Well, maybe.

☾ You didn't realize that perhaps you were even worried about him until he returned to the castle. It felt like a piece that had gone missing had finally returned. The king, his brother, was thankful for his submission and offered him one thing behind closed doors. What was that one thing you ask? Your hand in marriage. When Daemon strolled over to you and told you this, you were flabbergasted, even bamboozled. You couldn't just marry your best friend's uncle.

☾ You tried every excuse under the sun. You tried to say that you weren't up to the Targaryen standards of beauty; he said that you were created by the gods, so graceful and divine. You brought up the fact that you had no blood tied to Old Valyria; he stated that your soul was that of a dragon, more than worthy of his hand. You tried to reason with him by saying that he had another wife who he already struggled to take care of. That angered him.

"Don't ever speak about the bitch again, dear. Understand me?"

She died as you would learn later. Some sort of riding incident that led to her demise. You offered your condolences to Daemon. He laughed and said that he'd happily spit upon her rotting corpse. He didn't need to lie to you. He also wasn't compelled to tell the truth when you didn't ask for it. He'll make sure the whispers of him murdering his wife never reach your ears.

☾ Rhaenyra simply shrugged and thought that you marrying her uncle was at least a close match for her. She would still be able to speak with you. You would now be closer to her! She wasn't ecstatic, but pleased—maybe even smug. Whatever negative feelings she had toward her uncle being around you were clearly resolved. It only struck terror in your heart.

☾ Your family would help, right? No. Such a laughable thing. They were overjoyed. They also told you not to screw it up. Talks of the heirs you two would produce, the tie to the Targaryens bolstering your house's status, and many other reasons you didn't care to listen to.

☾ You were—are trapped. You were to marry a man that you couldn't make up your mind about. It could be worse. Every strange thing must have been because of the gods, right? If only you knew the lengths Daemon went to marry you. The people he threatened, the people he beheaded, the poisons traded in markets that aren't pure of heart but dark and foreboding. He finally felt at peace. So did Caraxes. Your family would be so perfect. He could already see you holding a babe in your arms that he had bred into you. Is this what you truly want? Or is that hesitancy in your soul still strong enough to pull you out of his hold and help you escape him?

#hotd #asoiaf #house of the dragon #daemon x reader #hotd daemon #daemon targaryen #prince daemon targaryen #the rogue prince #yandere daemon targaryen #yandere daemon #yandere daemon targaryen x reader #yandere daemon x reader #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon x you #daemon x y/n #yandere #yandere headcanons #yandere house of the dragon #yandere house of the dragon x reader

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junkdrawerfan · 1 month ago

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People are way too harsh about Bruce being a “hypocrite.” Being a parent is hypocritical. You do things and realize they’re bad and tell your kids not to do them. And even if you, as an adult, recognize your behavior is bad and harmful and toxic and you continue to do it, that doesn’t mean you should allow or want your kids to do that behavior.

If your parent smokes and tells you not to smoke, they’re not a hypocrite. If your parent drinks too much coffee but warns you against caffeine addiction, it’s because they’re living with the aftermath of bad decisions. If your parent chooses a dangerous job where they could die violently and painfully but wants you to chose a different career path, it’s because they love you.

So if Bruce is advising caution and self care and limits that he won’t give himself, that doesn’t make him a hypocrite. It makes him a parent.

If his kids call him a hypocrite and complain that Bruce will work 16 hour days but won’t let them, that makes them dumbass kids who will have the realization the day they have kids.

It’s called family, my guy.

#batfamily #bruce wayne #dc batman #batfam #my thoughts #batman headcanon #listen there is plenty of bad parent Bruce examples in canon #this is not one of them #and I’m tired of people claiming #Dick or Jason or Tim are rational and Bruce is just an over controlling asshole #he’s controlling in totally valid ways #but not this #number one Bruce Wayne defender

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imastoryteller · 1 year ago

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19 Most Common Character Flaws in Horror Fiction

Curiosity: Characters who are overly curious may investigate dangerous situations or places, leading to their downfall.

Arrogance: Arrogant characters may underestimate threats or refuse to heed warnings, putting themselves in danger.

Recklessness: Characters who act impulsively or without considering the consequences may find themselves in perilous situations.

Naivety: Naive characters may be easily deceived or manipulated by villains or supernatural forces.

Overconfidence: Overconfident characters may believe they can handle any situation, leading them to take unnecessary risks.

Stubbornness: Stubborn characters may refuse to listen to advice or change their course of action, even when it's clear they're in danger.

Greed: Greedy characters may prioritize personal gain over safety, leading them to make unethical or dangerous choices.

Distrust: Characters who are overly distrustful may alienate allies or miss crucial information, making them more vulnerable.

Cowardice: Cowardly characters may abandon others in dangerous situations or fail to confront threats when necessary.

Impulsiveness: Impulsive characters may act without thinking, leading to mistakes or putting themselves in harm's way.

Lack of Empathy: Characters who lack empathy may disregard the well-being of others, making them more susceptible to manipulation or isolation.

Overprotectiveness: Overprotective characters may prioritize the safety of loved ones to the detriment of their own safety or the safety of others.

Addiction: Characters who are addicted to substances or behaviors may make irrational decisions or be more easily controlled by external forces.

Obsession: Characters who are obsessed with a goal or idea may pursue it at any cost, even endangering themselves or others.

Paranoia: Paranoid characters may see threats where none exist, leading them to take extreme measures or isolate themselves unnecessarily.

Lack of Self-awareness: Characters who lack self-awareness may fail to recognize their own limitations or the impact of their actions on others.

Insecurity: Insecure characters may doubt their own abilities or judgment, making them more susceptible to manipulation or self-destructive behavior.

Ignorance: Characters who are ignorant of the true nature of the threats around them may underestimate their danger or fail to take necessary precautions.

Desperation: Characters who are desperate may make rash decisions or ally themselves with dangerous individuals or entities in hopes of achieving their goals.

#writing tips #writing advice #writers on tumblr #writeblr #creative writing #fiction writing #writerscommunity #writing #writing help #writing resources #horror #horror fiction #ai assisted

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yanderemystic · 8 months ago

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sofia falcone yandere headcanons pretty pls????

— Sofia’s traits: Manipulative, paranoid, possessive.

Sofia has suffered so much. Damaged bits sticking to her skin—biting anyone who deemed too close, except for you. Somehow, you were able to get her collected. Snuck into her heart when she needed someone the most; when trust was given the most, and now she can’t let go of you.

For a potential relationship with her, she uses those around you as a springboard. Everything is terrible all of a sudden; even if everything was great before, you and Sofia became even closer.

Sofia points out every mistreatment. Anything in the past to the current issues. The changes in behavior, canceled dates, and sudden constant avoidance. Sofia reassures you that it isn’t your fault. It’s them. You can’t trust them, at least not anymore. The two of you belong to each other savagely, requiring each other in more ways than them.

Her favorite thing in the entire world is hearing you talk. Even in a room full of people, she could recognize yours best. When eating out, she hums toward you—acknowledging what you’re saying, but she ends up lost anyway. She enjoys your conversations, even if she isn’t very knowledgeable about the topic. Focusing on how your tongue moves, teeth whistling, and how your voice croons between sentences.

Opening about her past is gut-wrenching—the constant betrayals and the terrifying fear of abandonment scare her. But she works on it for you. Allowing you to visit her therapy sessions, she slowly opens up about her scars and how each one has a thick memory connected to it. Her eyes watch you closely when you touch them, fingers dragging along the rugged edges. She expects pain but gains an addicted love for your soft touch.

She is constantly touching you. Despite her private demeanor, she's very clingy. Constantly having her arm interlocked with yours, keeping you skin-close. Her lips are always chasing yours, droning you in if you are too slow for her liking. Hands interlocked with an iron grasp, and deep hugs that are met with inhaled neck kisses. Her nails endlessly drag against your skin, chuckling when you get goosebumps.

Loyalty is very important to her. Sofia expects you to keep her updated on your day, change of schedule, or your list of friends. Call her after work and before bed. Tell her all about the dates and what you did during the time she’s gone. If she suspects lies, a sense of breaching trust, she becomes demented.

She hates being violently jealous, but she needs you to realize strangers are parasites. If she senses they are a threat, she acts on it. Despises when people are too close to you, make you smile, or even laugh. The enormity of her possessiveness is dangerous. Sofia will test limits, leaving thick blotches of lipstick to show others, and if that isn’t enough, possibly a dead body will be shown of how crazy she is for you.

But, assuming time will only tell, it’s better to keep her distracted and collected—helping her with the urged warnings. Reassuring her and keeping promises. Nosing the area between your neck and shoulder, relishing your weighted body on top of hers. Your heart is what she craves. The sound of your lub-dub is a lullaby, keeping her very grounded.

Once embarking as her romantic partner, Sofia will be sleeping with you permanently. Your apartment is now both yours, and sometimes you'll wake up with her beside you; originally going to bed without her. She sticks to your flesh—cold hands interlocking each other around your lower stomach, nails intending your flesh, squeezing when she feels you slightly move. She keeps you in bed with fleeting kisses until you have to absolutely leave.

Sofia adores how you smell. An odd adoration, but she can’t help it. Your smell helps her more than anything. Constantly complimenting you that you smell wonderful, even if you hadn’t showered. She’s not sure why she loves your scent so much, but it’s like an addiction. Your t-shirts, hoodies, even bras are shared—constantly pulling up your shirts, and inhaling. Goosebumps crawling underneath her skin, thrusting her heart faster, and just edging her to near ecstasy. Makes her nerves clench close, and bones go numb.

So sorry this request came out late, I had some family emergency. Although, I had fun writing this! Requests are still open ♡

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aventurineswife · 11 days ago

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i just had the BEST FIC IDEA ever listenlistenlisten so like what if the reader is like a violinist or something that performs at the casino where aventurine gambles (they’re partners), and lets say she was just kind of beside him while he was gambling with someone after she had just performed, and then when deciding on the next thing to gamble or whatever the guy starts asking to bet the reader and makes comments on her being talented n shit and just overall creepy comments, and immediately aventurine is all what the fuck hell no and gets all protective and stuff😨😨😨😨😨😨😨😨😨😨 (is it obvious that my crippling fanfic addiction got to me at school)

Some Things Are Off the Table

Summary: After a stunning violin performance at the casino, you sit beside Aventurine as he indulges in a high-stakes gamble. When his opponent makes an unsettling suggestion—betting you as part of the game—Aventurine’s carefree facade shatters, revealing a fiercely protective side. He swiftly shuts down the idea, making it clear that you are not a prize to be won. As tensions ease, Aventurine reassures you in his own charming way that, while he may gamble with everything else, he would never gamble with you.

Tags: Aventurine x Female!Reader, Protective Aventurine, Slow Burn, Possessive Behavior, Subtle Angst, Fluff with a Hint of Danger, Banter, Established Relationship.

Warnings: Mild Threats, Uncomfortable Advances, Protective Behavior, Gambling Themes, Slight Language, Light Angst.

The air in the casino buzzed with tension, the scent of expensive cologne and spiced liquor hanging thick in the atmosphere. Golden lights flickered above, casting a warm, decadent glow over the velvet-draped tables where fortunes were made and lost in the blink of an eye.

You sat beside Aventurine, the smooth lacquer of your violin still warm beneath your fingers from your recent performance. The crowd had adored you, as they always did, but the real audience that mattered sat beside you now—Aventurine, eyes gleaming like chips on the table, hands deftly playing a different kind of game.

Cards flicked between his fingers as he leaned back in his chair, a lopsided grin playing at his lips. His opponent—a wealthy investor with a penchant for reckless bets—matched his smile with something far less charming. You recognized the type immediately. Greedy, arrogant, and drunk on power, the kind who thought the world revolved around their whims.

"Aventurine, my friend," the man drawled, taking a sip of his brandy, "we've been raising the stakes all night. Your money, my money—it’s all getting rather predictable, don’t you think?"

Aventurine twirled a golden chip between his fingers, feigning boredom. "And here I thought unpredictability was the charm of the game. Got something more interesting in mind?"

The man’s gaze slid toward you. A cold prickle ran down your spine as his smirk widened. "Your lovely companion here," he mused, tapping a finger against the table. "She’s quite the talented thing, isn’t she? Stunning performance earlier. Seems like she’s worth quite a bit herself."

Your breath hitched. The room felt stifling, the weight of his words pressing down like an unwelcome touch. Aventurine’s fingers stopped mid-spin, the chip clattering onto the table. Slowly, languidly, he leaned forward, his ever-present grin sharpening into something dangerous.

"You must be joking," he said lightly, though there was no humor in his tone. "You’re a braver man than I thought if you believe you can wager a person. Let alone—" his eyes flicked to you for the briefest second, unreadable yet burning with something fiercely protective, "—mine."

The man chuckled, oblivious to the sudden shift in atmosphere. "Oh, come now. It’s all in good fun. A little game, a little risk. You’re a gambler, aren’t you? What’s the harm in—"

Aventurine moved faster than you could register. One hand slammed onto the table, sending chips scattering, while the other clamped down on the man’s wrist in an iron grip. The jovial, carefree mask had cracked, revealing something cold and lethal beneath.

"Let me make something crystal clear," he murmured, voice smooth but sharp as a blade. "I gamble with money, property, my own damn life if I feel like it. But her?" He jerked his chin toward you. "She’s not a bet. She’s not a prize. And she’s sure as hell not yours to even think about."

The investor paled, his bravado faltering under Aventurine’s piercing gaze.

A beat passed. Then another.

Aventurine smiled again, slow and deliberate, as if nothing had happened. He released the man’s wrist and leaned back, picking up a stray chip. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ve lost interest in this game." He flicked the chip across the table. "Consider that my final wager. Play with yourself if you’re so desperate for stakes."

With that, he stood and turned to you, offering his hand. "Shall we?" His voice had softened, but the fire in his eyes remained. Without hesitation, you took it, letting him guide you away from the table and the lingering stares of onlookers.

As soon as you were away from prying ears, he let out a sharp breath, his grip tightening around your fingers. "The audacity of some people, huh?" he muttered, a ghost of irritation still clinging to his tone. Then, softer, "You alright?"

You squeezed his hand back, offering a small smile. "I’m fine."

His gaze searched yours, assessing, before his signature smirk returned. "Good. Because if that bastard so much as looks your way again, he’s leaving this casino with a lot more than just an empty wallet."

You laughed, the tension finally breaking. "And here I thought you didn’t play for keeps."

Aventurine tilted his head, eyes gleaming as he lifted your hand to press a lingering kiss against your knuckles. "For you? Always."

And just like that, the game continued—but this time, you weren’t just a spectator. You were the one thing Aventurine would never gamble with.

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group-dynamic · 2 months ago

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Okay, I'll bite: I think that Langdon is a devastatingly sad character.

Watching someone who is very capable and "put together" spiral out due to addiction sucks. He doesn't look like we think an addict should look, he has a wife and kid(s), a stable job as a healthcare worker, he saves lives--

We see who he COULD be and IS at his core through our initial ignorance of his addiction, which makes the realization that he's been stealing from patients and high at work that much worse. The image we wanted to believe was a mirage, and we don't want to believe it because he was "so nice to us" (aka Mel, the avatar of goodness) and how could someone that capable of good also be an addict? In fact, it sucks so much to see that we're angry at him for disappointing us, just like Robby.

And that's why addiction is so devastating. It grabs hold of people regardless of their health or status or connections. It seems like Langdon's got everything going for him, and he still has an addiction. An addiction to something he was probably initially prescribed (if we take him at his word). And it sucks.

Langdon is devastating because we are still watching him spiral out, and it makes him look petty and cruel and immature when he is really scared and desperate. He is not ready for help. His addiction only became "public" knowledge a few hours ago. We are watching someone we knew to be confident and unfazed become erratic. He is not able to see sense or logic because his addiction is doing that to him. He is not in control right now.

The thing is, the show allows us a bit of our newly developed bias toward Langdon. He is pathetic in that final moment. Robby is sick of him in that moment. His comments to Robby seem so cruel because Robby can't help it. . .

But the parallels he makes between himself and Robby ARE there. The difference is that Robby isn't an addict, so we sympathize with him. And, yes, there are degrees here. Robby didn't steal from patients, but he did yell at his co-workers like Langdon did, and Robby is also refusing to get help despite it affecting his job performance and personal well being.

Addiction is a complicated disease, and it is deserving of sympathy and understanding even when we recognize that we can't excuse the negative or harmful behaviors someone does while battling that addiction.

But one thing this show highlighted--intentionally or not--is that we're happy to sympathize with one crisis, but not another. Robby lashing out isn't his fault. His panic attack is not his fault. He's stressed. He's overwhelmed. We accept that he's "earned" his behavior.

Langdon is an addict, though. How could we ever see that as anything but his fault?

#the pitt #the pitt spoilers #Langdon #frank langdon #I am not a Frank apologist but if we're going to imagine people complexly we have to include people who aren't “perfect victims” of #their own pain or mental health crises or diseases #I think it was right to spend our focus on rehabilitating our views of Santos first #But I'm ready for deeper conversation about Langdon now #also I need to get out of the Pitt #my brain's writing five paragraph essays about this show on an hourly basis #Also the last line is meant with a tone of irony in case that was ambiguous

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vaginalvr · 1 month ago

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can you please right something along the lines of spencer and a cam girl reader (who he’s masturbated to) who meet in public (ex: bookstore) because he recognizes her voice or a tattoo (something identifiable ) and they have semi-public sex😇😇 love your writing keep up the amazing work !!💝

a/n HELLO SO CUTE!

Spencer Reid x Camgirl!Reader

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

cw: Explicit sexual content (18+) Semi-public sex (in a bookstore) Masturbation mention Voyeurism/exhibitionism themes Mild language/profanity Power dynamic (cam girl x viewer dynamic) Risk of being caught (public setting) Consensual but risky behavior

The last thing Spencer Reid expected when he walked into that used bookstore was to hear that voice.

He froze mid-step, the well-worn copy of Carl Jung’s Man and His Symbols forgotten in his hand as the sultry, melodic tone wrapped around his brain like velvet.

He turned his head slowly.

There you were.

Jeans. Loose sweater. Hair half-up, half-down. Completely normal-looking. Not bathed in colored lights or licking a popsicle in lingerie like the last time he saw you.

But he knew it was you. The voice gave it away—soft and husky, slightly amused as you answered something the store clerk asked. And then… confirmation: when you turned slightly and reached for your phone, the hem of your sweater lifted just enough for him to catch a flash of the ink on your ribs.

A tiny outline of a raven perched on a crescent moon.

He’d seen it a dozen times.

Usually right before he came all over his own stomach.

His mouth went dry. He knew it was you—LunaNoirX, the cam girl who’d wrecked his sleep schedule for the last three weeks.

And now you were here. In his city. In this bookstore.

Spencer felt his heart thunder in his chest, half panic, half something far darker. His rational brain told him to walk away. But the part of him still addicted to watching you spread your legs for anonymous strangers on a webcam refused.

He moved toward you.

You were flipping through a hardcover when you noticed him. Tall, messy hair, kind eyes. Definitely cute in a quiet, nerdy way. But it was the way he looked at you—like he knew something—that made your skin prickle.

“Hi,” he said. Voice gentle, but his eyes were laser-focused.

“…Hi,” you replied, instinctively guarded but curious. Something about his expression made you pause.

“I’m sorry if this is weird,” he started, voice low, cautious. “But… do you go by Luna online?”

You blinked.

Shit.

His eyes dipped briefly to your side. You knew what he’d seen.

The tattoo.

You felt the blood rush to your face, but you forced a calm smile. “That depends on who’s asking.”

He swallowed hard. “I—uh—sorry. I’m not trying to be creepy. I just—” He adjusted his satchel awkwardly, suddenly sheepish. “I’ve, um… seen your videos.”

You arched a brow. “Just seen?”

Spencer flushed pink. “Okay. I’ve… watched. Several times.”

You tilted your head, intrigued by his nervousness. He looked like he’d feel guilty masturbating to you, even as he did it.

God, he was adorable.

And hot in that bookish, always-thinking-too-much way. Something fluttered low in your belly. A reckless idea unfurled.

“Well,” you murmured, stepping a little closer, “do you have a favorite?”

His throat bobbed. “The one with the… the mirror behind you. Where you use the glass toy.”

You smiled slowly. “You have good taste.”

The air between you crackled. He looked like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. Or his brain. His knuckles were white around the strap of his bag.

“Do you come here often?” you asked, letting your voice drop just enough to mimic the tone you used on camera.

His breath hitched. “Sometimes… I like the quiet.”

You took another step closer. There were hardly any people in the store. The clerk was nowhere in sight. The tall shelves created narrow, hidden aisles. No cameras. Perfect.

You glanced behind you. “Wanna find a quieter spot?”

His eyes widened. “Wait, really?”

You smiled.

—

You pushed him back gently into the darkest corner of the poetry section—nobody ever came back here. It was dusty and quiet and perfect. He hit the shelf with a soft thud, eyes wide, lips parted as you slid your hands up under his sweater, fingers tracing the warm skin of his stomach.

“Is this okay?” you murmured.

“Yes,” he breathed, voice cracking. “God—yes.”

You pressed your lips to his, swallowing the groan he let out as you kissed him hard, deep, demanding. His hands hovered like he didn’t know where to put them until you grabbed them and put them on your hips.

He gripped you tightly, kissing you back with an urgency that surprised you. He was usually so composed, but now he was moaning into your mouth, rutting his hips forward like he couldn’t help it.

You slid your hand down between you, cupping the thick bulge in his jeans. “You always got this hard for me when you watched?”

Spencer whimpered. “Every time.”

You worked his belt open quickly, sliding his jeans down just enough to free him. His cock was thick, flushed, and already leaking. You wrapped your hand around him and started stroking.

His head fell back against the shelf with a soft thump. “Fuck—”

“Keep quiet,” you whispered, pumping him slowly. “Or someone might hear.”

He bit his lip hard, trying to obey. You kissed down his neck as your hand worked him faster, thumb swiping over the tip. His hips bucked into your palm.

Then you turned, hiked up your skirt, and bent forward to brace your hands on a low shelf.

“Condom?”

He nodded furiously, fumbling in his bag. “Yes—yeah—got one—fuck—”

You heard the rip of foil. A second later, his hands were on your hips.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, almost reverent.

“Spencer,” you said, voice breathy, “I’ve fantasized about this since I saw you.”

He didn’t hesitate again.

He slid inside you with one long, slow thrust. You bit your knuckle to keep from moaning too loudly, eyes fluttering closed as he filled you.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You’re so—warm—tight—”

He started thrusting, slow at first, then faster. You braced yourself against the shelves, the spines of books digging into your arms as your body rocked forward with each deep snap of his hips.

Spencer grunted softly behind you, clearly trying to stay quiet. “You feel even better than I imagined,” he murmured.

You smiled against your hand. “You thought about this?”

“Every night.”

His thrusts grew more desperate, erratic, his hand sliding around to rub your clit in tight circles. The forbidden nature of it—hidden between shelves, anyone could come back here—made your orgasm build faster than usual.

You came with a soft cry, legs trembling, walls clenching tight around him.

Spencer cursed under his breath. “Gonna—fuck—”

He slammed into you once, twice more—and then stilled, hips pressed flush as he came hard, stifling his moans against your shoulder.

Silence followed. Just the sound of breathing.

He pulled out gently, tying off the condom, and helped you straighten your clothes.

You turned to look at him, flushed and a little dazed. He was pink-cheeked, hair even messier, mouth parted like he still couldn’t believe it.

“That was…” he started, then trailed off.

You smirked. “Better than the webcam?”

He let out a breathless laugh. “So much better.”

You reached into your bag, pulled out a slip of paper, and scribbled something on it.

“My number. In case you want an encore.”

He stared at it like you’d handed him the Holy Grail.

You winked.

Then you left him in the stacks, jeans barely buttoned, still catching his breath—and utterly wrecked.

#criminal minds #spencer reid smut #criminal minds smut #criminal minds x you #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x fem reader

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skzophreniic · 4 months ago

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say she wanna fuck me later; girl im into it

featuring: aussie singer christopher bahng x afab reader

genre: smut with plot

warnings: toxic relationship. semi-public sex. illegal drug use, alcohol use. extremely concerning behavior from ALL characters. i am in no way condoning or romanticizing any of these actions, it's just a work of fiction. DO NOT TAKE DRUGS. if you, or any of your loved ones suffer with addiction please click here. minors do not interact.

notes: part one of my new series. chase atlantic songs X Skz. this one is inspired by the song into it. i highly suggest listening to it as you read. also, i have no idea how drugs work guys, so im just making shit up, don't judge me. as usual, feedback is always appreciated! or you can hit me up and we can squeal together lmao

The first time, it was a mistake.

That’s what he told you, breathless and wrecked, his forehead pressed against yours in the dim light of a hotel room neither of you belonged in. But mistakes don’t happen twice. They don’t happen over and over, city after city, his voice hoarse from performing, his hands shaking from whatever he took before he found his way back to you.

Mistakes don’t leave bruises in the shape of his fingers on your hips. They don’t make you crave the taste of smoke and liquor on his lips, don’t have you counting the hours until he stumbles back into your orbit, drenched in sweat and sin.

But here you are, again.

The hotel is different this time—different city, different skyline, same story. The sheets smell like someone else’s perfume, and his shirt is wrinkled like it’s been pulled off and put back on in a hurry. You don’t ask, and he doesn’t offer. He just stands there, framed by the glow of the streetlights bleeding through the window, looking at you like you’re something inevitable.

He swipes a hand over his face, exhales slow. “You shouldn't pick up when I call.”

“Don't call then.”

His lips twitch, the ghost of a smile, but there’s no humor in it. He unbuttons his shirt with one hand, the other spilling the contents of his little plastic bag on the nightstand by the bed. You watch from across the room, in that little black dress you know he likes.

He presses his fingers against his own tongue, wetting it, before pressing it against the white powder, hard enough for it to stick, then sucks on his finger.

You watch as his lips part, as his pupils darken, as his shoulders drop just a little like the weight of the world isn’t so heavy when he does this. He tilts his head back, eyes slipping shut, and you recognize the look that crosses his face—devotion. The kind of surrender that people spend their whole lives chasing.

He only ever looks like that for two things.

Drugs.

And you.

The thought makes your stomach twist, but you don’t dwell on it. Because he’s looking at you now, licking his lips, reaching out a hand. “C’mere,” he murmurs, voice thick, lazy.

And you go. Of course you do.

His fingers trail up the hem of your dress, slow, deliberate, as he tugs you between his legs. “You hate this, don’t you?” he muses, hands skimming your thighs, breath warm against your skin.

You don't answer, instead opening your mouth and lolling out your tongue, asking.

His gaze flickers, dark amusement curling at the edges of something deeper, something neither of you are willing to name.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, tapping his finger against your tongue, smearing the remnants of his high onto your taste buds. “That desperate for a taste?”

You close your lips around his finger, suck slow, let your teeth graze his skin just to watch his jaw tighten. Just to remind him that you know how to play this game, too.

He exhales sharply, tilting his head as he watches you, watches the way your lips part when he pulls his hand away. “Fuck,” he breathes, almost reverent.

He presses his finger back against the powder, and onto his own tongue, before he's sitting up and kissing you before it dissolves, pressing it against your tongue.

The bitterness coats your tongue, mixing with the taste of him, and for a second, it makes your head spin—not just the drugs, but the way he kisses you, slow and deep, like he’s trying to crawl inside your lungs. Like he wants to ruin you in a way that sticks.

His hands are on you now, gripping your hips, tugging you closer until you’re straddling his lap, the fabric of your dress riding up your thighs. His fingers dig into your skin like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. Like maybe this—whatever this is—grounds him in a way nothing else does.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he mutters against your lips, the words slurred, smudged with exhaustion and chemicals. His hands slide up, tracing the curve of your spine, fingers ghosting over the back of your neck. His breath hitches when you shift against him, when you bite down on his bottom lip just hard enough to make him groan.

“But you keep calling,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to look at him, to see the way his pupils are blown wide, his lips parted.

A sharp exhale, his fingers tangling in your hair, tugging just enough to make you tilt your head back. “You like it,” he says, and it’s not a question.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. The truth is already there, thick in the air between you, tangled up in the way you keep coming back to this—to him.

His grip tightens, his fingers threading deeper into your hair, and when he tugs, your breath stutters. He watches you, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, like he’s memorizing the way you react to him. Like it matters.

Maybe it does. Maybe that’s the worst part.

His lips ghost over yours, a breath away, teasing. “Say it,” he murmurs.

You swallow, pulse hammering, his breath hot against your lips. His words linger between you, thick and taunting, daring you to deny it.

But you don’t.

Instead, you let your fingers slide up his chest, nails scratching lightly over his skin, just to feel the way his muscles tense beneath your touch. You tilt your head, lips brushing against his.

“I’m into it.”

“Yeah?” he breathes, his grip tightening on your thighs, dragging you impossibly closer. “Show me.”

Your hands trail down his chest, slow, deliberate, like you’re mapping out all the places you’ve already claimed.He watches you, his breath shallow, his pupils' dark pools swallowing up what little light remains in the room. You know he’d been smoking before you got there. The drugs have hit by now—he’s drifting, untethered—but you know he sees you. Feels you.

His hands roam, greedy and desperate, slipping under the hem of your dress, gripping you like this is the only thing keeping him from spinning out.

Your lips hover over his, teasing. “Is this what you want?”

His breath stutters, a sharp inhale through his teeth. His fingers tighten on your thighs, his body coiled so tight you almost expect him to snap. His lips part, but he doesn’t answer, just watches you, pupils wide and dark, pulse thrumming beneath your fingertips. It’s fascinating to see–the way his entire body is covered in goosebumps and you’ve barely even touched him, pupils blown wide, following your every move.

“I want you on it,” He breathes, practically whines.

You smirk, rolling your hips once, your panties against the bulge straining against his jeans, slow, deliberate, just to watch the way his jaw clenches, the way his breath shudders out of him like you’ve knocked the air from his lungs. “On what?” you murmur, teasing, even though you already know exactly what he means.

“Don’t start,” he warns, voice low, wrecked. His head falls back against the headboard, eyes locked on you, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Don’t act like we haven’t done this before.”

You drag your nails down his bare chest, roll your hips again, slower this time, watching the way his fingers twitch against your thighs, the way his breath comes out in a ragged, uneven exhale. His chest rises and falls erratically, his shirt slipping from his shoulders, exposing more of his skin to your wandering touch.

His patience is hanging by a thread—you can feel it, see it in the way his jaw clenches, in the way his grip on you tightens. You could push him, keep teasing, but there’s something intoxicating about having him like this—already undone before you’ve even really started.

Chris’s hands slide up, bunching up your short dress so that his fingers splayed wide over your bare ribs. “I swear to fucking God,” he breathes, voice strained, almost desperate. His hands slide down your body to unbuckle his belt, but his hands are shaking so badly, all he does is fumble.

You catch his hands, stilling them, and he looks up at you, dazed. “Relax,” you whisper, teasing.

His hands flex against your thighs, a sharp inhale cutting through the thick air between you. “I can’t.”

You make quick work of his belt, undoing the buckle with deft fingers, sliding the leather free before tossing it to the floor. His breath hitches when your hands move lower, when you palm him through his jeans, feeling the heat of him through the fabric.

His head falls back against the headboard with a muted thud, his hands gripping your hips, bruising. “Fuck,” he exhales, voice barely more than a breath.

Your gaze flickers over his shoulder, to the sheets that don’t smell like you. The perfume clings to the air, sweet and sickly, a reminder of whoever warmed his bed before you got here. A lesser woman might bite her tongue, pretend not to notice. But you aren’t her, and he sure as hell isn’t the kind of man who deserves the courtesy of silence.

“Guess she wasn’t enough for you, huh?” you murmur, voice dripping with something venomous, something possessive. You cock your head, smirking as you press your palm against the bulge in his jeans. “Didn’t scratch the itch?”

Chris’s jaw flexes, his fingers tightening on your hips. “Don’t,” he warns, voice low, frayed at the edges.

But you’re not in the mood to play nice. Not when he keeps coming back to you like this. Not when he acts like you’re some bad habit he can’t quit, even with other girls in his bed, on his lap, under his hands.

You lean in, lips grazing his ear. “Maybe she didn’t let you fuck her like she hated you,” you whisper, rolling your hips against him. “Maybe she didn’t make you work for it.”

Chris exhales sharply, nostrils flaring, eyes blown wide with something feral. His grip on your hips tightens, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. For a second, he just stares at you, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. And then—

You barely have time to react before he shoves you onto your back, your head hitting the pillows as he looms over you, the air between you charged, electric. His hand wraps around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, like he needs to feel your pulse beneath his fingers. Feel how it hammers against your throat, just for him.

Chris laughs, breathless, humorless. “You talk shit like this,” he mutters, shaking his head. “But you keep coming back.”

“So do you.”

His hand tightens around your throat, just enough to make your breath stutter, just enough to remind you who’s in control. His grip is firm, possessive, like he owns you, like he's daring you to fight him on it.

"You always run your fucking mouth," Chris mutters, voice dripping with venom, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded. "But you always end up right here, legs open, dripping for me."

You glare up at him, nails digging into his forearm, but you don’t deny it. You can’t. The proof is slick between your thighs, your body betraying you like it always does when it comes to him.

He tilts his head, watching you like he’s amused. "What’s wrong, baby? Nothing smart to say now?" His fingers flex around your throat, a silent warning. "Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought."

You swallow, the movement pressing your throat against his palm. You refuse to break first.

His grip slides down, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw before gripping your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, slow, teasing. “You wanna act like this doesn’t get you off?” He tilts his head, smirking. “That’s cute.”

His other hand trails lower, dragging up the hem of your dress, the rough pads of his fingers grazing over your bare thighs. The anticipation coils in your stomach, tightening with every second he takes his time.

“Bet you’re already soaked for me,” he muses, voice dipping lower, darker. “Bet you’ve been waiting for this.”

You glare up at him, defiant, but the moment his fingers press against the damp fabric between your legs, your breath stutters. He hums, smug. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

His fingers move slowly, a light, teasing touch that makes your hips jerk forward instinctively, chasing more. Chris watches, amused, eyes flickering between your face and where his hand disappears under your dress. “You say my name when you get yourself off?” he asks, voice thick with arrogance, fingers pressing harder, rubbing slow, torturous circles over your panties. “Or do you pretend I’m not the only one who gets you like this?”

You don’t answer, but you can’t stop the way your body responds to him, the way your thighs tremble as he keeps working you open.

Chris exhales sharply, dragging your panties aside, his fingers slipping through your slick folds. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “Dripping for me, baby.”

His fingers leave you for only a moment, just long enough to reach for the small mirror on the nightstand, the neat white lines already waiting for him. You watch as he rolls up a bill with practiced ease, bringing it to his nose. He inhales sharply, the sound cutting through the thick silence between you, head tilting back as the high crashes through his system.

Chris exhales slow, blinking up at the ceiling, and for a second, he looks completely weightless—like the chaos in his head has stilled, if only for a moment. Then his gaze drops back to you, pupils blown wide, lips curling into something dark and satisfied.

“You love this shit,” he mutters, voice heavy, thick with the rush of chemicals and lust. His fingers tease you, slick and lazy, dragging through your folds with just enough pressure to make you squirm. “Love letting me fuck you up, huh?”

His fingers push inside, slow, lazy, and your nails dig into his forearm, grounding yourself in the press of his body against yours. He watches, lips parting slightly, mimicking yours, as he curls his fingers, dragging them along that spot that makes your back arch and your thighs shake. The smirk that pulls at his lips is nearly smug.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement and something darker. “You act like you don’t fucking need this.”

Your body betrays you, hips rocking forward, seeking more. Chris laughs, low and dark, withdrawing his fingers completely just to hear you whimper. He watches the way your lips part, the way your chest heaves, taking in every twitch, every shift. You can feel his breath ghost over your lips when he leans down, his nose brushing yours.

“You love letting me wreck you, don’t you?” he muses, his voice soft, taunting. His fingers trail up your inner thigh, featherlight, so close to where you want him but refusing to give in just yet. “Love knowing that no matter how many times I walk away, you’ll let me crawl back inside you like I fucking belong there.”

You breathe out a shaky laugh, tipping your chin up in defiance even as your body betrays you, rocking toward him, silently begging for more. “Fuck you,” you mutter, voice thinner than you’d like.

Chris grins, all teeth, his fingers still teasing, still hovering just shy of where you need him. “That’s the plan, sweetheart.”

You shift beneath him, pushing up just enough to press your lips against his, to feel the remnants of the drugs on his tongue, the taste of chemicals and sin coating his mouth. He groans, low and guttural, his control slipping just a little when your teeth graze his bottom lip. His grip on your thighs tightens, and then suddenly, he’s pushing you back down against the mattress, pinning you beneath him with his weight.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his forehead dropping against yours, his breath uneven. His fingers flex against your thigh, like he’s trying to anchor himself. “You make me so fucking stupid.”

Your body arches into him, aching, pleading, but he’s already there, already lining himself up, already sinking inside with a ragged exhale that sounds like relief.

It’s fast, brutal, nothing soft about it. He fucks you like he needs it, like this is the only way he knows how to breathe. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open, keeping you where he wants, where he needs.

Every thrust knocks the air from your lungs, steals the words from your lips until all that’s left is the sound of skin on skin, his low, filthy groans, the way your name drags from his throat like a prayer he doesn’t believe in.

Chris doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. He’s chasing his own high, using you for it, taking what he wants, what he needs. And you let him. You take it, every rough thrust, every bruising grip, every desperate, needy sound that falls from his lips.

Because this is what you both do.

Use. Ruin. Destroy.

______________________________________________________________

The dressing room is small, barely more than a closet, the air thick with sweat and the lingering hum of the crowd just beyond the walls. Chris is still pulsing with the energy of the stage, his body electric, his skin glowing under the dim bulbs. He tastes like salt and heat, his chest still rising and falling too fast, adrenaline keeping his limbs loose and restless.

"You—" The word barely leaves him before you're on him, pushing him back against the counter, fingers yanking at his belt, fumbling, rushed. He helps, sort of—hands unsteady, shoving his jeans down just enough, breath coming fast and uneven.

No time for teasing. No time for anything.

You drop to your knees, and he lets out this ragged sound, half-laugh, half-moan, his fingers finding your hair, gripping tight when your mouth wraps around him. He’s already hard, already twitching, already a fucking mess, and the second your tongue drags over him, his hips jerk forward like he can’t control it. You lean in and drag your tongue along the underside of his cock, slow and wet, feeling him throb against your lips before you take him fully into your mouth.

"Shit—" His hand tightens, a sharp pull against your scalp. "Yeah, just like that—"

The door isn’t locked. Anyone could walk in. His name is being screamed just outside this room, time ticking down, the show waiting. It makes it worse. It makes it better.

The heat of his skin, the weight of him in your mouth, the way he twitches every time your tongue drags along a sensitive spot—it’s overwhelming. It’s intoxicating. You press your hands against his thighs to steady yourself, taking him in deeper, swallowing around him until the tip brushes the back of your throat.

Chris groans, a wrecked, guttural sound, his grip in your hair tightening as his hips twitch forward, the edge of desperation creeping in. "Fuck, I–" He barely gets the words out before his breath shudders, thighs trembling under your touch.

Someone knocks at the door.

"Chris! Two minutes!"

His whole body stiffens, a sharp inhale punched out of his chest, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even pull away. If anything, the urgency makes him more reckless, more desperate. His abs clench as you suck him harder, faster, messy and wet, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin.

He’s so fucking close. You can feel it in the way his thighs tighten, in the way his breath comes sharp and shallow, his cock pulsing against your tongue. His grip in your hair turns bruising as he grits out, "M’gonna—"

And then he’s spilling down your throat, his whole body shuddering, hips stuttering against your lips as he moans—deep, broken, lost in it. You swallow everything, letting him ride it out, your tongue flicking over him until he’s too sensitive, his body twitching as he groans low and shaky.

For a moment, all he does is breathe. Ragged, uneven. His chest rising and falling too fast, his fingers still tangled in your hair like he doesn’t want to let go. Chris exhales sharply, running a hand over his face, still catching his breath.

A thumb swipes over your bottom lip, smearing the mess, his half-lidded gaze burning into you, still glazed, still wrecked. But then, for a heartbeat, something shifts.

His eyes, usually dark with unrestrained hunger and desperation, flicker with an unfamiliar softness. The relentless, feverish rhythm of his touches falters, and he hesitates. Instead of reaching to claim you with the same raw urgency, his hand lingers on your cheek. His rough grip slackens, and his expression—so often a mask of relentless need—betrays a flicker of something else: tenderness.

Then he’s pulling you up by your jaw, meeting you halfway to kiss you. It’s a quiet, gentle kiss—a soft caress that speaks of apologies and longing rather than conquest. His lips, warm and unexpectedly tender, press against yours with a delicate insistence that makes your heart both ache and flutter. It leaves you gasping for breath in a way he’s never left you before.

There's a banging at the door. “Chris! We need you out here, now!”

The spell is broken. He’s stepping away, and you’re stepping forward, reaching for him,

“Chris–”

But he’s shaking out his wrists, already turning toward the door.

He doesn’t look back before he leaves.

______________________________________________________________

It’s the last time you see him. Or even hear from him. Every text goes unanswered, every call, straight to voicemail. You wait–wait like the pathetic dreamer you are, hoping that that kiss meant something to him, falling deeper into the void of delusion you’ve built with your own two hands. You devour any information about him you can find on the internet, anything, knowing full well how much of a desperate bitch you’re being.

But you can’t bring yourself to care. Not with that last kiss lingering on your tongue, not with the curse of knowing you almost had him, almost had him in the way you wanted—completely, irrevocably, beyond just the heat and the ruin.

Almost.

The days stretch into weeks, and then months. Every night, you tell yourself this is the last time you'll check his socials, the last time you'll search his name, the last time you'll replay every second of that final night over in your head like a fucking broken record.

But you do it anyway.

Over and over.

______________________________________________________________

It’s been a year; you're over it. You swear you are.

The afternoon sun spills lazily over campus, warming the stone pathways as you stand in a loose circle with your friends, conversation drifting easily between topics. Laughter hums around you, light and unbothered.

“I swear to God,” Yeji groans, tossing her head back dramatically, “if Professor Allen assigns one more article, I’m gonna start sending him readings. See how he likes it.”

Hyunjin snorts. “You’re acting like you even do the readings.”

Yeji glares. “First of all, rude. Second of all, I skim—”

“—the first paragraph and call it a day,” you finish for her, smirking.

She gasps, clutching her chest. “Et tu?”

You laugh, about to respond, but stop dead when someone brushes past you. You don’t recognize him, not at first, with his hood up, jacket zipped, his face mostly obscured. But that scent. You would recognize it anywhere.

Something deep and familiar, the mix of his cologne and skin, a warmth that lingers even after he’s passed. Your throat goes tight. Your breath stumbles.

No.

He wouldn’t. He knows better.

You force yourself to keep talking, to keep nodding, to not turn around. But your pulse is already thrumming, a slow-building panic mixed with something darker. Because he’s close. He was right there. And when you finally allow yourself to glance sideways, just for a second, you see him.

Not fully—just the slant of his jaw under the hood, the way his fingers flex at his sides like he’s holding himself back. He doesn’t stop walking, doesn’t say a word. But when he reaches the library steps, he slows.

Waits.

Your stomach tightens.

No.

No, no, no.

Your fingers clench around the strap of your bag.

Before you know it, can register what the hell you're doing, an excuse is falling from your lips and you’re turning on your heel and following him.

The moment you step inside the library, you spot him.

Chris stands tucked between the bookshelves, hood drawn low over his face, but it does nothing to hide him—not from you. You know the way he holds himself, the way his fingers twitch at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to reach for something—someone.

Your blood is already simmering as you make your way toward him, each step measured, controlled. You don’t rush. You don’t let yourself look panicked. Because if you do—if anyone sees—this could all go to hell.

Chris notices you immediately, his shoulders dropping like he’s relieved, like he actually thought you wouldn’t come. And for a split second, his expression is almost soft—almost. But then he sees the fury in your eyes, the tension in your frame, and that softness vanishes.

The moment you see him, you know.

Not just because of the scent—familiar, overwhelming, still burned into your memory after all this time—but because of the way he moves. Too jittery, too restless, like his own skin is too tight, like the air around him is pressing in from all sides.

Chris is high.

You can see it in his pupils, blown wide and glassy, in the way he can’t stay still, shifting from foot to foot, running a hand through his already-messy hair. He looks wired, strung out on something more than just adrenaline.

His tongue darts out, wetting his lips, and for a moment, you think he might actually speak first. But then his mouth snaps shut, jaw clenching as he exhales sharply through his nose.

You don’t ask him why he’s here. You don’t ask him where the fuck he’s been.

Instead, you step closer—just enough for the scent of him to hit you full force, for his breath to mix with yours in the sliver of space between you. His pupils track the movement, slow and deliberate, and for the first time in a year, you feel the weight of his presence again, pressing down on you like a vice.

And you fucking hate it.

"You're out of your mind," you whisper, voice cold and sharp. "Do you even know where you are?"

It clings to him, thick and suffocating—the way his pupils swallow the color of his eyes, the way his hands twitch like he can’t quite keep them steady. He’s a mess of shallow breaths and restless energy, swaying just slightly on his feet, like the weight of the world is finally crushing him.

And maybe it is.

“I need your help,” he rasps, voice raw, broken.

The words slam into you, knocking the air from your lungs. A year. A whole fucking year of nothing—no calls, no texts, no explanations. You grieved him like a ghost, hated him like a curse. And now he’s just here, standing in front of you, looking at you like you’re the only person in the world who can save him.

Your stomach twists violently, rage and disbelief clawing their way up your throat. “You have to be kidding me.”

Chris drags a shaky hand through his hair, pacing, restless. “I don’t have time for this.” His voice is fraying at the edges, unraveling. “One of my own friends—someone I trusted—sold me out. They tipped off the cops. If they find my stash, I’m done. My career, my future—it’s over.” His breath shudders. “I need you to hide it.”

Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.

You take a step closer, your breath shallow, your voice steady even as your hands tremble at your sides. “You don’t get to do this, Chris.”

His jaw tenses, and for the first time, his mask slips. Just enough for you to see the exhaustion, the weight pressing down on him. His fingers twitch again, like he wants to reach for you but knows he shouldn’t.

“I didn’t mean to—” His voice cracks, and he swallows hard. “I fucked up.”

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Which time?”

Chris exhales through his nose, his gaze flicking to the ground, then back up to you. He looks like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he finally, finally, takes a step forward. Just enough that the space between you shrinks, the scent of him clouding your senses. Just enough that you can feel the heat of him, the way he’s barely holding himself together.

“I need you,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “I don’t have anyone else.”

Your breath hitches. Your resolve wavers.

Chris notices. Of course he does.

His fingers ghost over your wrist, just a brush, just a test.

And when you don’t pull away—when you don’t slap his hand, don’t shove him back—he exhales, like he’s been holding it in for a year.

“Please,” he murmurs.

Your hands clench at your sides.

You should say no. You want to say no. Every part of you is screaming at you to walk away, to let him deal with the mess he made, to let the consequences finally catch up to him.

But then you look at him. Really look at him.

Chris isn’t just high—he’s unraveling. His fingers won’t stay still, his shoulders are too tight, his breath too ragged. And his eyes—fuck, his eyes. Wide and bloodshot and filled with something you can’t name, something that makes your chest ache even as your fists clench. He looks like a man on the edge of a cliff, teetering too far forward. Like he’s one wrong move away from falling.

And somehow, against all logic, he’s decided you are the thing that might keep him from going over.

Your stomach twists violently.

"You can’t ask me for this," you say, voice barely above a whisper.

Chris swallows, his throat working around something thick. "I know."

But he’s still looking at you like you’re the only thing tethering him to the ground, like without you, he might just come apart completely. And it makes you feel sick. Because part of you—some deep, fractured part of you that never really stopped wanting him—wants to be that for him.

You drag in a slow breath, clenching your jaw so hard it aches. “One week.”

Chris blinks. “What?”

“You get one week,” you repeat, voice sharper now, cutting through whatever fog is clouding his head. “You figure your shit out, and then you come take this garbage back because I’m not—” Your voice wavers, and you hate it. You steel yourself. “I’m not getting caught up in this, Chris.”

His eyes flicker, just for a moment, a sharp flash of something like hope, but the remnants of desperation still cling to his expression. “One week,” he repeats, voice barely above a breath, like he’s testing it out, like he doesn’t believe it. But you can see it in him—he’ll take whatever you’re willing to give, no matter how little, no matter how broken it might be.

You exhale sharply, stepping back a fraction, distancing yourself, even though every fiber of your body wants to close that space. The library feels too small now, too suffocating. Chris remains still, his presence like a weight pressing down on you, but you refuse to move closer, refuse to let him drag you back into his chaos.

Chris nods once, sharp and small. “One week,” he repeats, and the words should sound like a deal, an agreement, but instead, they land like a promise. Or maybe a plea.

You holds his gaze for one more second, then turn before you can second-guess herself. Chris stays where he is, rooted to the floor, watching you walk away. His jaw tenses, his breath shudders, but he doesn’t move.

Because if he moves, he might follow her.

And if he follows, he might never let you go again.

______________________________________________________________

The week crawls by, each day stretching longer than the last. You try to focus—on classes, on assignments, on anything that isn’t him—but it’s useless. His voice lingers in the back of your mind, his eyes, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

You tell yourself you won’t wait. You won’t check your phone every time it vibrates. You won’t wonder if he’s going to show.

But when it finally rings—his name glowing on the screen—you answer before you can think twice.

"Hey."

Silence. A hesitation, just long enough for doubt to creep in. Then, his voice—soft, uncertain.

"I'm outside." A beat. "If… if that's still okay."

Something tightens in your chest. You glance out the window, at his car lingering just outside your building, forcing your grip to loosen around your phone.

“Are you going to come up?” You ask, trying to sound nonchalant, fingers toying with the hem of your t-shirt. You’re just in that simple tee and sweatpants, your face bare. It’s the first time you haven’t dressed up to see him.

You can hear him inhale, imagine him bouncing his knee from where he sits in his car. “I didn’t think you’d want your roommate to see me.”

You brush your hair out of your face, eyes locked on the car outside. “She’s not here. Visiting her parents for the weekend.”

Chris is quiet for a second too long, like he’s weighing the invitation, considering if he should take the step over the line he’s already toeing. Then you hear the jingle of his keys as he pulls it from the engine. “Give me a sec.”

Your stomach tightens as you hang up, fingers gripping your phone a little too hard. You don’t know why you said that. Why you gave him the chance to be close again. You should’ve told him to stay in the car, should’ve just handed him his shit and sent him on his way.

But instead, you stand there, frozen, pulse hammering in your throat as you listen for the sound of his footsteps in the hall.

A knock. Soft. Hesitant. Not the way he used to knock, not the way he used to waltz into your space like he belonged there.

You exhale, slow and measured, before unlocking the door.

And there he is.

Chris stands in the dim glow of the hallway light, hood still up, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He looks… tired. Not just in the way his eyes are rimmed red, the slight tremor in his fingers, but deeper than that. Like he hasn’t slept right in months. Like the weight of whatever’s been chasing him is finally catching up.

He exhales when he sees you. “Hey.”

He’s sober. Exhausted, his hair standing in a hundred different directions like he ran his hands through it a million times, but sober.

“You look like shit,” you say finally, your voice quieter than you intended.

Chris huffs out a breath, not quite a laugh. “Yeah. Feels about right.” He ducks his head, his hair in his eyes. “You look beautiful.”

You swallow hard, fingers tightening around the edge of the door. You don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t let the way his words settle in your chest distract you from the fact that he shouldn’t be here—that this shouldn’t be happening.

Chris shifts on his feet, glancing past you, toward the inside of your apartment. He doesn’t step forward, doesn’t push. Just waits.

You should tell him to leave. Tell him to take his shit and go.

Instead, you step back. Just enough.

Chris exhales, something flickering in his expression—something like relief, like gratitude, like he wasn’t sure you’d let him in. He hesitates for only a second before crossing the threshold.

The door clicks shut behind him, and suddenly, the air in the room is heavier. You can feel him everywhere. The scent of his cologne, the warmth radiating off him. It’s suffocating and familiar and everything you swore you wouldn’t let yourself want again.

He doesn’t belong here. Not in the soft glow of your apartment, not in the quiet hum of your space that’s been untouched by him for over a year. But he’s here anyway, and you can feel it in your bones, the way he fills the room, the way the air thickens just by his presence.

You close the door. Neither of you speak.

Chris drags a hand through his hair, finally pushing his hood down. His dark eyes flick around the room, taking in everything—the textbooks on your desk, the half-empty cup of tea on the counter, the blanket thrown haphazardly over the arm of the couch. Domestic. Normal. Everything he isn’t.

His gaze settles back on you, his throat working like he wants to say something, but the words don’t come.

So you speak first.

“Do you want something to drink?”

He clears his throat, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I–yeah. Just..just water.”

You nod, turning toward the kitchen. Your movements are steady, controlled, but your heart is hammering in your chest, every nerve hyper-aware of the man standing behind you.

When you turn back to him, glass in hand, he’s watching you. Not in the way he used to—not with hunger, not with heat—but with something you can’t quite place. His fingers twitch at his sides, and when he finally reaches out to take the glass, his touch lingers. Barely. Just long enough to send a shiver up your spine.

He drinks, slow, deliberate. Like he’s using it as an excuse to keep from speaking. His throat bobs, his lips parting around the rim of the glass, and you hate that you notice, hate that you remember what those lips felt like against yours, what they tasted like when he kissed you that last time—soft and lingering, like an apology, like a goodbye.

But he’s here now.

And you don’t know what the fuck that means.

Chris exhales as he sets the glass down, raking a hand through his hair. His shoulders slump, his body finally stilling in a way it hasn’t all night. He looks wrecked. He looks lost.

And then, finally, he speaks.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he says, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. His gaze flickers to you, raw, exposed. “I don’t know if I even can.”

You lean back against the wall, arms cross across your chest. “Fix what?”

He leans his head back opposite you, exhaling. “I don’t know. Everything. Myself.” He glances down at you through the hair over his eyes. “Us.”

Your chest tightens but you purse your lips, unwilling to say anything. His expression softens.

“I’m sorry.”

Two words. Small. Insufficient. But the weight of them still lands heavy in the space between you.

You fold your arms over your chest. “For what?”

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and you know he understands the real question beneath your words. Which thing, Chris? Which fucking thing are you apologizing for?

His jaw tenses. “For all of it.”

You let out a breath that feels like it’s been sitting in your lungs for a year. You don’t know what to do with this—this version of him, the one who looks at you like he regrets everything, the one whose voice doesn’t hold the usual bravado but something closer to guilt.

It would be so much easier if he came back the way he left. If he was still that same reckless, selfish, untouchable version of himself. You could hate that version. You could send him away without hesitation.

But this? This is harder.

Chris shifts on his feet, rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to disappear like that.”

“You did, though.” The words come out flat. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

He flinches. “I thought it was better that way.”

“For who?”

Chris doesn’t answer right away. His eyes drop to the floor, his fingers flex at his sides. “For you.”

A bitter laugh pushes past your lips before you can stop it. “Bullshit.”

His gaze snaps back up. You shake your head, unable to keep the anger from bleeding into your voice.

“You don’t get to come back after a year and act like you did this for me, Chris. You left. You fucking ghosted me like I was nothing. And now, what? You suddenly need something, so I matter again?”

“No.” His voice is sharp, urgent. “That’s not—fuck.” He drags a hand down his face. “I never stopped thinking about you.”

Your stomach clenches. You hate how badly you want to believe him.

You look away, focusing on the wall, the floor, anywhere but his face. “Then why did you leave?”

Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.

Chris exhales, and when he speaks again, his voice is lower. Rougher. “Because I was fucked up. Because I thought I was protecting you. Because I didn’t know how to be around you without wanting more than I should.”

Your breath stumbles.

Chris steps forward—just half a step, just enough that you can feel the warmth of him again. He hesitates, fingers twitching at his sides, like he wants to touch you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

“I wasn’t good for you,” he murmurs. “I’m still not.”

Chris is standing close now, too close, his presence like gravity, pulling you in even when you know you shouldn’t let it. His breath is shallow, his fingers still twitching like he doesn’t know what to do with them. And his eyes—fuck, his eyes. Dark, wide, searching.

You take a slow breath, steadying yourself. "Then why are you here?"

Chris exhales sharply, his gaze flickering away for just a second before locking onto yours again. “Because I didn’t know where else to go.”

The words settle between you like a confession, and something in your chest twists painfully.

You should be angry. You are angry. But anger is easy. Anger is safe. What scares you is the part of you that still wants to reach for him, to pull him in, to fix the cracks in him even though you know you’ll only end up breaking yourself in the process.

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides. "You don’t get to do that, Chris. You don’t get to leave me for a year and then show up and say that."

“I know.” His voice is quiet, raw. “But I’m here anyway.”

Chris is still waiting, still watching you like he’s bracing for you to tell him to go. And you should. You should slam the door on this before it’s too late, before you let yourself believe that this time will be different.

But then Chris reaches out.

It’s hesitant, like he expects you to flinch away, but you don’t. His fingers barely skim yours, a whisper of a touch, but it’s enough. It sends something electric skittering through your veins, something familiar and dangerous and impossible to ignore.

Your breath catches.

Chris notices. Of course he does.

“I fucked up,” he says again, softer this time. “I don’t know how to make it right.”

You shake your head, exhaling a laugh that isn’t really a laugh at all. “You think you can just show up here and apologize and everything will be fine?”

“No,” he says. “I think I can show up here and tell you the truth for once.”

You stare at Chris, searching his face for any sign that this is just another one of his half-truths, another attempt to say just enough to keep you from slamming the door in his face. But there’s something different in the way he’s looking at you now—something raw, something stripped down to the bone.

And that’s almost worse.

Because if he’s telling the truth, then you don’t know what to do with it.

Your voice is quieter this time, not as sharp, not as sure. “Then say it. Say whatever it is you came here to say.”

Chris swallows hard, his fingers flexing at his sides like he’s physically holding himself back. Then he exhales, his breath shaky, his whole body tense like he’s about to step off the edge of something.

“I left because I was scared,” he says finally. “Scared of what I felt. Scared of what it meant.”

Your stomach tightens, a sharp pull of something between anger and heartbreak. “Scared of what?”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Of you.” His gaze flickers away for half a second before he forces it back to yours. “Of how much I—” He stops, his jaw clenching. “Of how much I fucking needed you.”

The confession knocks the breath from your lungs.

Chris drags a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding into his features. “I didn’t know how to handle it. You were—” He stops again, shaking his head like the words won’t come out right. “You made me feel things I didn’t know how to deal with. And instead of facing it, I ran.”

You inhale sharply, something breaking open in your chest. “And now?”

Chris takes a step closer.

You don’t step back.

“Now I know that running didn’t change anything,” he says. His voice is rough, almost desperate. “I still need you. I still—” He swallows. “I never stopped.”

Chris shifts, hesitating like he’s afraid any sudden movement will make you disappear. His voice is softer now, barely above a whisper. “Say something.”

You wet your lips, forcing yourself to breathe. “What do you want me to say, Chris?”

He flinches, just a little. Like he wasn’t expecting that. Like he thought you’d have some kind of answer, when the truth is, you don’t.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “That you understand? That you—” He exhales sharply, his hands curling into fists before he relaxes them again. “That you still—”

“Don’t.” The word is sharp, cutting through whatever he was about to say. “You don’t get to ask me that.”

Chris swallows hard, nodding once. Like he gets it. Like he deserves it.

The night hums around you—distant traffic, the whisper of wind through the trees—but all you can hear is the quiet sound of Chris breathing, the weight of everything he isn’t saying pressing between you.

You sigh, softer this time. “Chris.”

His gaze snaps to yours, desperate, waiting.

“I can’t be the reason you stay,” you say, your voice steady but gentle. “And I won’t be the reason you break yourself trying.”

His brows draw together, a flicker of something like panic flashing across his face. “That’s not—” He stops, jaw tightening. “That’s not what this is.”

“Isn’t it?” You tilt your head, studying him. “You show up here, after a year, after leaving me behind, and suddenly you want another chance?” You shake your head, not in anger, but in something softer. Sadder. “You’re still searching, Chris. Still trying to find something to hold onto. And I won’t be that. Not like this.”

Chris runs a hand over his face, his shoulders tense. “I’m not asking you to fix me.”

“No,” you say quietly. “But you want me to be the thing that makes this easier.”

He flinches.

You don’t push, don’t press where it hurts, but you hold your ground.

“I loved you,” you admit, and the words feel like pulling stitches from an old wound. “Maybe I still do. But I won’t have you in pieces.”

Chris stands there, his breath uneven, his whole body trembling like he’s barely holding himself together. Then, barely louder than a whisper— “I don’t know how.”

His voice cracks, and the sound of it—God, the sound of it—splinters something inside you. His eyes are wet, his throat working as he tries to swallow down the weight of his own admission.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. It would be so easy to reach for him, to pull him in, to tell him you’ll help him figure it out. But that’s not your place. Not anymore. Chris drags a shaky hand through his hair, his breaths uneven.

“I don’t—I don’t know how to fix myself.” His voice is thick with tears, his body tensed like he’s waiting for you to turn away, to give up on him entirely. “I don’t even know where to start.”

You exhale slowly, steadying yourself before you speak. “Then start small.”

Chris blinks at you, like he wasn’t expecting that. You keep your voice soft but sure. “Find a rehab center. Talk to a therapist. You’ve been carrying all of this alone, and it’s too heavy. You need help, Chris.”

His jaw tightens, his hands clenching into fists before he releases them. He nods once, barely there, like he’s trying to take in your words but isn’t sure how.

“Figure out what’s hurting,” you continue, gentler now. “And then work on healing it. Not for me. Not for anyone else. For you.”

Chris exhales sharply, dragging his sleeve across his face, but the tears keep coming. “I don’t want to do this without you,” he whispers. “I don’t want—” His voice catches, and he shakes his head. “I don’t want to lose you.”

You swallow against the lump in your throat. “I don’t want to lose you either,” you admit, the words quiet but honest. “But if I hold on to you like this, we’ll both drown.

He doesn’t move when you reach for him, cupping his cheek softly, thumb brushing away the stray tears. You pull him toward you, resting your forehead against his.

Chris squeezes his eyes shut, his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. For a moment, you think he might argue, might fight against the truth of your words like he always does. But when he opens his eyes again, there’s something different there—something breaking, something shifting.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” he admits, voice so quiet it almost gets lost in the night air. “What if I—I don’t know how to be without you.”

You step forward, just a little, just enough to be close but not close enough to fall. “You won’t be without me,” you say, gentle but firm. “I’ll be hoping for you. I’ll be rooting for you. But I can’t be with you—not like this.”

Chris nods, but it’s shaky, uncertain, like he’s trying to make himself believe it. “And if I get better?” His voice is raw, desperate in a way that tugs at something deep inside you. “If I—if I figure it out?”

You inhale, the ache in your chest tightening. “Then maybe you come find me.”

Chris’ breath stutters. His eyes flick across your face like he’s memorizing every part of you, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks.His hand reaches for your face, shaking, hesitant, fingers threading through your hair.

You let him touch you, just this once. Just for a moment.

His fingers tremble against your skin, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. But you won’t let him make this harder than it already is. You bring your hand up, gently wrapping around his wrist, grounding him.

“Chris,” you whisper, and the way his eyes snap to yours—like your voice is the only thing tethering him to the earth—almost undoes you.

He swallows hard, blinking rapidly against the tears still threatening to fall. His thumb ghosts over your cheek, the touch so heartbreakingly familiar it makes your chest tighten. “I don’t want to go.”

“I know,” you say softly. “But you have to.”

His breath shudders as he exhales. “And if I’m not strong enough?”

“You are.” Your fingers tighten around his wrist, steady, certain. “You just have to believe it, too.”

Chris lets out a broken sound—something between a laugh and a sob. He presses his forehead to yours, his body trembling. “I don’t know how to say goodbye to you.”

You close your eyes for a brief second, letting yourself feel it. The weight of him, the warmth, the way his presence has always felt too much and not enough all at once.

Then, you pull back. Not much, but enough. Enough to be clear.

“This isn’t goodbye,” you murmur. “This is me giving you the chance to come back as the version of yourself you’re meant to be.”

Chris’ breath catches. He nods, but it’s slow, reluctant. Like a part of him is still holding on, still hoping there’s another way. But there isn’t.

You step back, and Chris’ hand falls away from your face.

The night air feels colder without his warmth so close.

He stares at you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours, like he’s trying to find something—maybe a reason to stay, maybe a reason to believe he can do this.

Then, finally, he takes a step back.

And then another.

His hands shake, his breath still uneven, but this time, he doesn’t fight it. He just looks at you, memorizing, holding on to whatever piece of you he can before he turns to go.

He pauses for a moment, glancing back at you. "What did you do with it?"

You know what he's asking. You smile slightly. "Threw it in the river the same day I got it."

Chris stares at you, something flickering in his eyes—something like understanding, something like devastation. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, his hands clenching at his sides.

He exhales a shaky breath, glancing away for a moment before looking back at you. "Good," he says, but it sounds like it hurts to say it.

You nod, the ghost of a smile still lingering on your lips. "Good," you echo, softer.

Silence stretches between you, heavy but not unbearable. It feels like an ending. A real one.

Chris drags a hand through his hair, eyes flicking over you one last time, like he's trying to commit you to memory. And then, finally, he turns.

You watch him go.

His shoulders are hunched, his steps slow, hesitant, like he's still fighting every instinct that tells him to stay. But he doesn’t.

This time, he leaves.

And this time, you let him.

The night is quiet when he's gone, the absence of him settling over you like a sigh, like the closing of a book you thought you might never put down.

You inhale deeply, closing your eyes for just a moment.

Then you turn, stepping back into the light, and walk away.

______________________________________________________________

Two years have passed.

You know this not just by the changing seasons or the inevitable countdown to graduation but by the world itself shifting, reshaping in ways you never expected.

Chris went on an indefinite hiatus from music nearly a year ago. The headlines had been relentless—speculation, concern, theories spun out of control. But the truth, the quiet truth buried beneath the noise, was that he had admitted himself into rehab.

You remember staring at the news article, your coffee growing cold between your hands. There had been no fanfare, no dramatic statement—just a quiet, honest confession in an interview months later: I needed help. So I got it.

You never reached out. And he never did either.

Now, you’re here—twenty-two, a senior in college, balancing coursework and a part-time job at a café that smells like burnt espresso and exhaustion.

And right now, you’re pissed.

Rush hour has turned the place into chaos, your boss is breathing down your neck about an order that isn’t even yours, and someone just knocked over an entire tray of drinks, leaving you to mop up a mess that isn’t your fault.

You exhale sharply, pushing stray hair from your face as you grab your notepad and make your way to the next table, your voice tight with forced patience.

“What can I get you?”

There’s a pause.

Then—

“How about ten minutes of your time?”

The voice stops you in your tracks.

Deeper. Steadier. But still him.

Your grip tightens on the notepad as you finally look up.

Chris leans back in his chair, watching you with that same quiet intensity that always made you feel like the only person in the room. You don’t give him the satisfaction of reacting. You just stare back, unimpressed.

“Five minutes,” you say flatly.

His lips twitch. “Generous.” You arch a brow.

“I can make it three.”

Chris huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I think I’ll behave.”

You tap your notepad against the table, tilting your head. “So? Is this where you tell me you’ve spent the last two years soul-searching in the mountains, learning inner peace from a wise old man with a beard down to his knees?”

Chris grins, quick and easy, like muscle memory. “Close. The wise old man was my therapist, and his beard was more mildly unkempt than knee-length.”

A snort escapes you before you can stop it. Chris’ smile softens at the sound, like he’s been waiting for it. You shut it down quickly, clearing your throat.

“So, you actually did it.”

His expression turns serious, just a little. “Yeah. I did.”

You hold his gaze. “Good.”

Something flickers in his eyes, something unreadable. Then, casually, “You still throw things in rivers when you don’t know what to do with them?”

Your stomach tightens at the memory. You should’ve known he’d bring it up “Depends. Planning to give me something else to get rid of?”

Chris hums, considering. “I did have a mix tape ready. Very moody. Lots of self-pity.”

You roll your eyes. “Tragic that I’ll never hear it.”

“Truly.” He pauses, watching you again. “You look good.”

You hesitate for half a second before responding, keeping your voice light. “I get a lot of fresh air.”

Chris smirks. “Ah, yes. The glamorous café life.”

"You joke, but I will make you pay for a coffee if you keep sitting here.”

He presses a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Chris laughs again, but this time, it’s quieter. Realer. Silence settles between you, softer than before.

Then, smoothly—too smoothly—he leans forward a fraction. “So… is there someone?”

You blink. “Someone what?”

He shrugs, all casual, like he’s not watching you too closely. “Someone who gets to bother you during your shifts without needing to buy coffee first?”

The question shouldn’t catch you off guard, but it does. You tilt your head, feigning thoughtfulness.“That’s what you’re asking with your last two minutes?”

Chris huffs a laugh, but his fingers tap restlessly against the table. “Just curious.”

You hesitate, then shrug. “I’ve gone on dates.”

His jaw flexes, just barely. “And?”

You sigh, giving him a look. “And nothing.”

Chris watches you for a second longer, then nods, like he’s filing the answer away. “Good.” You raise an eyebrow.

“Good?”

His lips twitch. “I’d hate to be competing with some six-foot-something finance bro.”

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “I’d pay to see you go head-to-head with one.”

Chris hums. “I’d win.”

You scoff. “Bold assumption.”

He grins. “I’ve been working out.”

You roll your eyes but don’t fight the small smile tugging at your lips.. “And you?”

Chris hums, considering. “Well, my therapist and I had a very meaningful relationship for a while there.”

You snort. “That does not count.”

“I disagree. We had weekly dates. I overshared. He judged me just enough.” Chris grins, then shakes his head. “No. No one.”

Silence again.

Chris watches you, waiting. But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask for more than you’re willing to give.

You tap your pen against your notepad, weighing your next words carefully. Then, finally—soft, simple, certain—you say, “I’m glad you’re here.”

Something shifts in his expression, something that looks a little like relief. Like maybe, after all this time, he finally believes he deserves to be.

You nod toward his empty cup. “But if you’re planning to sit here all night, you’re gonna have to order a coffee.”

Chris grins, small but real. “Yeah?”

You shrug. “House rules.”

He leans back in his chair, considering. “Then I guess I’ll stay a little longer.”

The café hums around you, the rush of customers fading into background noise. You should be moving, taking orders, doing anything other than standing here, caught in the pull of something that still feels a little dangerous.

But you don’t move.

Chris studies you for a second longer, then exhales, slow and steady. “One coffee, then,” he says, tapping the table. “Surprise me.”

You scribble something on your notepad. “You’re getting decaf.”

He groans. “Cruel.”

Chris groans, but there’s no real frustration behind it—just something softer, something familiar.

As you turn to leave, he calls after you, voice quieter this time. “Hey.”

You glance back.

His fingers drum lightly against the table, hesitation flickering across his face before settling into something steadier. “It’s good to see you.”

The words land heavier than they should. You don’t let them show, just offer a small, knowing smile. “Yeah,” you say. “You too.”

Then, before the moment stretches too long, you slip back into the rush of the café—into the orders, the chaos, the normalcy of it all. But there’s a shift, small but undeniable, like something once left behind has found its way back.

And maybe this time it’s here to stay.

358 notes · View notes

madwomansapologist · 2 months ago

Text

SOMEONE TO KISS YOU GOODNIGHT | CHILDE

synopsis ; childe can’t accept a reality in which you have needs he isn’t the one fulfilling. so he fulfills them.

tags ; extremely dark content, dead dove do not eat, mother-son incest, major age-gap (20 years), mentioned domestic abuse, explicit sexual content ft. noncon, nipple play, oral sex (reader recieving), and overall childe being creepy and insane.

warnings ; 3.4K (???), reader's husband is pretty much the villain here, that's me trying to get back to writing after a hard time so please don't jugde the writing that much, and again dead dove do not eat.

tagging ; my beloved @madaqueue

Warmth is priceless in Snezhnaya—as are all the things no one sells. Ceaseless as her blizzards, Tsaritsa’s domain stretches into a gelid eternity. It’s easy to get used to it. There’s no space for summer nostalgia in a land of everlasting winter.

Childe used to think Tsaritsa was courteous in allowing his bedroom to be free of her presence. He can see it now. How you, his mom, paid the price for his warmth. Your fingers used to be gelid back then, stroking his hair as you put an end to his nightmares.

His nightmares started around the time coldness invaded more of his house. Unending staircases paired with screamed complaints echoing down through the hallway. Snakes crawled after him when the first bottle of rum shattered on the kitchen wall. Childe can’t remember what he dreamed of the day he discovered you had blood inside your body.

(Childe does remember you cleaning his nose with your sleeves, telling him to keep it a secret when you placed an expensive chocolate from Natlan on his hand. He shared it with you.

Childe remembers waking up to you still there. Tracing back, that’s the night he started growing up. No longer able to continue as a foolish boy, Childe locked the door and stared at the ugly cut on your upper lip. He kissed it better.

It didn’t work back then.)

Childe bleed for the first time not long after. Disciple of a woman as cold as his archon, Childe discovered the depths of his strength in the Abyss. A sting of iron followed his every step, immaculate skin collecting victories. There’s something addicting about taking down beasts larger than life.

His rage made him survive. His rage granted him a vision. His rage showed how much better he was from the beasts hidden within the entrails of the world. For months, Childe was a warrior no one could compete with.

Three months in three days. Childe came back home unlike himself.

All you did was wash the blood from his hair. He had no nightmares anymore, the monsters in his dreams nothing but competitors for him to defeat. His prize, forever warm and soft. What a busy mom he had, praising him in his dreams and hugging him on his bed. He wasn’t your little boy anymore, it didn’t stop you from staying there to make sure he wouldn’t disappear again during the night.

For a while, things got better. The years after his transformation were good. He would read stories out loud to put his siblings to sleep and watch in silence as you kissed their foreheads. Childe started waking up earlier than you, cooking breakfast and checking what the blizzard damaged during the night. He would kiss your cheek and walk the kids to school.

You saw the blood on his clothes, noticed the healing scratches when Childe lifted his sleeves to cook. His mom wasn’t known for recognizing danger unless it was right under her nose. You wouldn’t had married that thing disguised as man if you were better at that.

It surprised Childe that you hadn’t ignored those signs. It surprised him even more when you actually mentioned his behavior. The way you did it.

“Ajax”, you said his name slowly. You never say it lightly. Washing his scarf, hands sensitive from the cold water and blood, you looked into his eyes. “Is it my fault? Did you took your father’s violence because there wasn’t anything better you could take from me?”

His throat throbbed. For a second, Ajax was a boy again. He is his arrogance and hostility and desire for what shouldn’t be his, but Ajax is still that weak boy crying because his mom was in pain. He’s still there, kissing your swollen eye just to discover his kisses aren’t magical like yours.

Ajax cried instead of killing the bastard who made his mom suffer. He defeated beasts with ease. Why hadn’t he act before? What stopped Ajax from freeing you from torment? He killed when he had to. He could’ve started sooner.

“You’re not to blame, ma.” Ajax swallowed a sob. He took the scarf from your hands, drying your skin with his thick coat. A Fatui stands before you, cheeks rosy. “I could never take anything from you. I want you whole, just as you are.”

You rolled your eyes, red earring reflecting moonlight into Ajax’s half of the pair.

Things were good. His bloodlust was welcomed by his duties as a Fatui. His siblings didn’t knew what it felt like to be awaken by cold hands. Those gelid years belong in the past now, unable to hurt them. Then his father started drinking again.

Dinner served, Tonia slept before it due to a fever. Teucer was too young to be trusted with glass, playing with his food on the bowl more than chewing on it. He dropped it on the floor, you and Anthon laughed at his pout. His father let go of the bottle and reached for your arm.

Childe impaled his hand with a dull knife before it could touch you. Eyes widened, you grabbed Teucer in your arms and covered Anthon’s eyes as you pulled him towards his bedroom. Another surprise. It barely took you a second to react.

How could someone not indulge in such a dependable wife? How can there be a man unable of loving you the way you deserve it? Childe can’t understand that.

He found you drying Tonia’s sweaty forehead. Does your selflessness come from being a mom? Or are you a mom only because of how selfless you are? He wonders how you would be if he wasn’t born. If you could rewrite those twenty years of your life, where would you be? Would Childe be there, too?

As whenever the thought comes to haunt him, Childe decided to ignore it.

“You should eat, ma”, Ajax knocked on the open door. Legs visibly shaking, you sat on the armchair and accepted the plate he made for you. He took care of Tonia in your place. “I was careful. It’s not even bleeding anymore. It’ll only hurt so don’t worry.”

You took a bite of the meat he cooked. The red sauce made you flinch. Ajax swallowed thickly at your silence. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

“Don’t mind me”, you sighed. “I’m nothing but a tired woman sulking on her regrets.”

Ajax tasted iron on his tongue. “What do you regret?”

“Not getting divorced”, you confessed too easily. He spotted an empty wine bottle under Tonia’s bed—your truth fuel. “I thought you’d hate me and grown into a resentful man. What a waste. If I knew it would happen either way than I would’ve rather dealing with it back in Liyue.”

Ajax choked on his tears. Kneeled in front of you, words failed him. He hugged your thighs, staining your pants with blood. “M-ama I never… I don’t hate you. I swear. Don’t hate me, ma. I’m still your boy. Don’t regret me, mama.”

“Ajax, I don’t regret you”, you didn’t hesitate. Stroking his hair, another hand rubbed circles on his back. “Didn’t when you were my darling boy and I won’t now that you’re a Harbinger. My son will always be loved by his mom, get it?”

“Do you resent me?” Ajax whispered. It was all he could do. “Tell me the truth.”

“There’s nothing you can do to change how I felt when you returned to me all those years ago”, you said. Holding his chin, you made Ajax look up and cleaned the warm traces of tears on his face. “Never do that again.”

Ajax wasn’t sure of what you meant. He nodded either way.

It wasn’t always like that. His father used to be a good person before becoming a cruel one. A man made of awful jokes and badly phrased analogies. He used to make you laugh. That’s what kept Childe from taking responsibility.

At his burial, staring at his closed eyelids, Childe wondered about his reasons for the first time in his life. How does a man hit his wife but only give their kids the best he could? How did he taught justice and compassion without burning in shame? Thinking about it for too long left a bitter taste on his mouth.

Childe held his siblings close on the way back home. Teucer was too young to understand death. The night before, Anthon confided to him that he was mostly pretending to be sad. He was ashamed for not being able to cry without you there to see it. Tonia only sighed when she heard the news.

His siblings share the same opinion, each on their own way. A good father that isn’t a good man can’t be truly loved. You think so, too. You regret not divorcing him. It wouldn’t have taken that many years for Childe to deal with the problem if he knew that sooner.

A man stinking of rum shouldn’t hope to wander his way back home during a Snezhnayan blizzard. Not in a land where the wind isn’t freedom but palpable danger. Not when knowing his murderous son is back at home and resenting him more at each passing moment. Not after his wife drunkenly wished to be single again.

An unfortunate yet predictable accident. That would be easier for the kids to deal with and your heart is fragile enough as it is. Childe baked a cake that night. Meringue and all. He sat on his father’s seat, right beside you, and served every kid.

His father should’ve seen it coming.

Childe assumed the duty of caring for his family’s comfort and safety. His money was put to good use. There weren’t any needs inside his family’s home, only welcomed desires quickly to be fulfilled. Fabrics from Sumeru, dishes from Inazuma, Liyue’s ancient books. The more expensive the wish, the happier Childe was to grant it.

Dealing with comrades scheming instead of simply acting with the strength they have, Childe would think about his family. Picture the woman waiting for him, unaffected by the blood on his hands. Picture the kids he loves more than himself, so similar to him they could be his.

Childe thought to be satisfied with the little he had.

You were fixing your necklace when he made home from the market. On the table, he saw red earrings and a purse. Childe inhaled. He washed his hands and came back to sit on the couch, watching as you struggled with a necklace.

“The kids are quiet today”, he commented. Tone soft, eyes sharp.

You’re all dolled up, smelling like qingxin and padisarah soap. Your scent wasn’t half as sweet as the sight of you on that dress. Childe got it for you months ago during a trip to Liyue. Black silken with a high slit showed the pearly lace adorning your thigh.

You wore it as his companion to a Harbingers feast. He still remembers the hatred within his heart when Dottore kissed your knuckles and stained the silken evening glove matching it. He was forgiven by praising him in your presence.

“It’s Sonia’s birthday party. Her dad invited them all, haven’t I mentioned? I’ll get them tomorrow morning.”

You have a date.

It makes sense. It’s been a few years with his dad out of the picture. It was a matter of time before you decided to search for something more. To search for love, companionship or perhaps just a company for cold nights. It makes sense, so why haven’t Childe prepared himself for that?

“What do you want to eat?” Spreading his legs, Childe felt his eyelids twitch. “No need to vote this time, it’s your choice.”

Head tilted, you put on your earrings with a small frown on your face. “I was… Well, I hadn’t talked about it before because you were away for a long time and I didn’t knew if you would even want to know…”

“I’m sorry for being so busy”, said Ajax, interrupting your anxious rambling. If he wasn’t sure of it being a date before then Childe would be now. “I’ve made you feel neglected, haven’t I?”

Sitting beside him on the couch, you hesitated. “I know you have much to do. And I don’t expect you to waste your free time with me.”

He grabbed your hand, pulling you weakly towards him. Hugging you, Ajax closed his eyes. “Waste?” He breathed in, nose against your head. Childe cupped your cheek, thumb smoothing your tinted lips. “I miss you, ma. All the time.”

It was a matter of time for you to attract someone else’s gaze and decide to give it a chance. You’re a human being that requires attention and company like all others. But you’re a widower in a home warm with the promise of no more harm.

You stayed home for the night. Didn’t mentioned the date when Childe started cooking or when he told you to take off your heels. He called you fancy and all you did was smile, sitting on a stool as you changed the subject to the opera you went to last week.

You poured the wine, him already taking a sip as you continued to fill your glass to the brim. You always drink more than you should, which is way less than anyone would imagine. Childe finds endearing how lack of endurance is what keeps you away from being an alcoholic.

It was your choice, Childe repeated to himself later as he tried to sleep. You kept on drinking. When eating dinner at the table, on the couch talking about the last opera you watched, on the balcony appreciating the northern lights. It was your choice to keep on filling up your glass.

The sky was a few hours away from sunrise when you made your way upstairs to your bedroom. Childe took you in his arms at the first stumble, carrying your sleepy self with ease as you murmured something about your weight. He put you down on the large bed, covering you with thick blankets, and went downstairs to get water for your future headache.

Childe almost crushed the water jar when he came back to your bedroom.

Your dress was on the floor. So were the necklace and earrings, a pool of silken and gold. The lace around your thigh was still there, pressing against your skin as you opened the wardrobe. It was the only thing covering your body, which only worked to show how bare you were.

Childe leaned against the doorframe, not once thinking about turning away. He admired unashamed, memorizing every detail of you. The black panties at your ankles, your birthmarks, the shape of your hips when there were no clothes to mark it.

A white linen shirt covered your body. He recognized it. The texture of it, the weight it had on your shoulders. It belonged to his father. Childe bit his tongue and corrected himself. It belonged to your late husband.

You dressed up for someone else earlier. The lace and small panties, the lack of a bra. You smelled like something made to be devoured. And now you undress in search of comfort from a late man’s belonging. Still, no matter what you wear, your bed is empty. There’s nothing but expensive blankets to warm you.

How lonely you must be feeling. In need of someone to hold you through the night. Has a long life of selflessness finally came to an end? Did you noticed you spend a life giving and want to take until you’re satisfied? Childe thinks greed would fit you perfectly.

What a stupid mistake he made. Childe truly did neglected you.

Watching your happiness would’ve been enough for him. Knowing the kids won’t remember how often you used to cry would’ve been enough. Telling strangers about his lady waiting back at home would’ve been enough—you’re his home, the one he’ll always belong to and with.

Why did he assumed that would be enough for you? Is that how he’ll go for the rest of his life? Playing pretend while his mother sleeps alone, wearing the clothes of an abusive husband because that’s still better than being completely on her own? Being alone beside each other can really bring any comfort to you?

It all was enough for him but Childe won’t accept a reality in which you have needs he isn’t the one fulfilling.

Childe locked the door. He put the jar on the bedside table, taking off his gloves as you laid on top of the blankets. Loose hair all over your face, your eyelids were already closed. Childe called your name. You didn’t react.

Childe climbed onto the bed, his shadow engulfing you. What are your dreams about? Have you ever had nightmares like he used to? You look peaceful. Serene. Comfortable beneath him. Childe will keep you like that. Forever satisfied, not a need or wish ignored.

He kissed you—mouth pressed softly against your lips. You didn’t even move. In this cold land there’s nothing as warm as your breathing hitting his face. Childe cupped your cheeks, tongue carving a path between your lips. Murmurs go unheard as Childe’s heartbeat echoed on his eardrums.

You tasted like fine wine. He understands you now. Why you’d never know when to stop filling your glass. Childe can’t get enough of it, too. Childe hopes you won’t blame him for being just like you and not stopping when he should’ve.

Childe let go of you, hardly breathing as he admired your swollen lips. Your chest moved up and down, as if a man wasn’t touching you in the way you miss so. His silly mom drinking more than she can deal with. It won’t be a problem. He’ll be there to tell you when to stop, keeping you safe and warm.

Your neck was sensitive. Sighs and weak moans vibrated on your throat. Your eyelids closed tighter, jaw clenching when Childe bit hard enough to mark. He wonders how long it has been since you’ve last been kissed there. Licking the mark, Childe wondered about all the places in need of care.

He groaned when his mouth reached the linen. There’s so much you can wear. All the things Childe got you, beautiful fabrics that don’t smell like him. He’ll take care of it, too. Give it a day and all his clothes will burn to ashes. Starting with this one.

Childe ripped the shirt, revealing the rest of your body to him. The rug turns into shreds. There are no delicate touches when Childe takes it away from your skin and throws it on the lit fireplace. He wastes no time watching it burn, coming back to lay on top of you.

You flinched, breathing loudly. Childe abandons any false decency he could pretend to still have. His mouth waters, drool falling on your rigid nipple. He holds your waist and sucks it, eyes closed as he finally gets to do it again. Mouth full of you, Childe moans as he licks and bites your soft skin.

A palpable reaction finally comes out of you. Deep in a drunk slumber, all you can do is whimper and move your legs in useless attempts at stopping whatever is happening to you. You moan when he sucks your clit. Move your hips up and down unaware that it’s his tongue rubbing against you. Stains the blanket beneath your body, feverish as Childe kept on licking and kissing.

You cum when his fingers tease your slit. Childe thinks you do. Your legs shake, your mouth open as you struggle to breathe. Your chest moves fast, nipples he can’t stop thinking about marking more. You’re dripping on his face.

So defenseless. So fragile, falling apart while sleeping still. You were made to have rough hands keeping your legs apart so you can’t stop yourself from feeling all this pleasure. To have a man in love touching you in all the right places. Your body fits so well in his hands. It’s almost like you’re asking for it.

Childe knows you’re not. It’s just nice to pretend.

He learned through Snezhnaya’s weather that exposure is how one gets used to something. Constancy does what violence and fear could never accomplish on their own. He learned at home that love isn’t conditional. Your son will always be loved no matter what.

Childe will keep going until you awake. Then Ajax will kiss you better.

all my present and future takes on him are severely influenced by how easy it was to defeat him with lv 30 arlecchino. i'm sorry.

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