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carnalcrows · 1 month ago

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The one with the Scandal

pariring: rockstar! male OC x male reader [profile]

summary: You’re not dating him. You don’t even like him like that. He’s younger. He’s your job. He’s also apparently into fixing your collar, looking at you like you’re his, and letting the entire fanbase run with it. You’re just trying to not get fired. He’s making it really hard.

content warnings: 18+, idol/manager dynamic, bottom male reader, Jiho is younger but he is in control, reader is spiraling professionally but holding it together (barely), scandal via leaked video, yandere tendencies if you squint, oral (reader receiving), Jiho calls the reader Hyung, someone is watching. also: subtle HR violations and bad decisions made in very quiet hallways.

word count: 3.1k

White Eclipse’s manager's job description didn’t include “babysit rockstars,” but here you were at 6:47 a.m., standing outside the dorm in socks, trying to get a key card to work while someone inside was blasting what could only be described as sad trap piano.

You didn’t bother knocking. They never heard it anyway.

The door opened a beat later—Jiho, hoodie half-on, eyes still sleepy, holding a toothbrush like it was a weapon.

“Oh,” he said, voice rough. “Thought you were food.”

You blinked. “It’s me.”

He nodded. “Right.”

Then he just… stepped aside to let you in.

No apology. No explanation.

You used to be surprised by things like that. Not anymore. It’d been seven months since you took over as White Eclipse’s full-time manager. Seven months of group chats at 2 a.m., misplaced earrings, broken in-rooms, passive-aggressive silence in makeup chairs. You were barely keeping the group running. You didn’t have energy left for things like normal boundaries.

Jiho wandered back down the hall. You followed, because your job required it. Not to hover, just to check the morning schedule—radio taping, press call, one-on-one interview for Juhwan. Makeup in twenty.

“You slept?” you asked, mostly to check.

Jiho shrugged. “Eventually.”

“Eat something before we go.”

He didn’t answer, which usually meant no.

You sighed, already noting it down in the log.

⋆｡°✩

The van ride was quiet, except for Doyun humming aggressively off-key to a song no one else liked. You were seated up front, checking your tablet, trying to remember if anyone had confirmed Jiho’s brand outfit for the shoot. You didn’t hear him move until he leaned forward between the seats.

“Hyung,” he said. His breath ghosted the side of your neck, too close.

You didn’t flinch, but your fingers stilled.

“Yes?”

“You left your charger last time.”

He held it out—your USB-C cable, neatly wrapped.

You blinked. “You… kept it?”

He gave a half-shrug. “Figured you’d come back for it eventually.”

Then sat back like nothing happened.

You turned toward the window. The city rolled by in silence. You didn’t say thank you.

You weren’t sure you wanted to know what else he was keeping track of.

⋆｡°✩

The radio taping was delayed by forty minutes. Not that anyone told you until you were already standing in the green room, watching the stylist re-iron Taeyang’s shirt while Juhwan paced like he was on trial.

You were half-listening to a PD explain the new segment structure when Jiho appeared beside you again—like he always did, like gravity.

He didn’t say anything. Just handed you a bottle of water.

You took it automatically.

A few seconds passed before you glanced over.

“…This isn’t mine,” you said.

“It’s cold,” he replied. “You like it that way.”

You blinked, unsure how to respond to that.

He didn’t stick around for a reaction—just walked back to the couch and sat, legs crossed, earbuds in, expression unreadable as ever. Like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just said something small and specific enough to stick in your brain like a splinter.

You told yourself it was normal. He probably remembered from a post-schedule snack run. He was observant. That was all.

It didn’t mean anything.

But when the boys were being ushered into the booth, he lingered again.

Waited until the others were out of earshot.

Then said, “You looked tired yesterday.”

Your hand paused on the equipment list.

“…That’s not part of your job description.”

Jiho gave a half-smile. Small. Secret.

“Neither’s remembering your charger.”

You didn’t smile back.

You wanted to.

You didn’t.

⋆｡°✩

That night, you stayed at the company building longer than you meant to. Not unusual—schedules had to be reshuffled, the stylists were panicking about a delivery delay, and someone had somehow misplaced two of Doyun’s in-ear backups despite the fact that you’d personally labelled them in obnoxiously bold font last week.

By the time you packed your bag, the halls were half-dark and the lights in the vocal practice room were still on.

You almost didn’t look.

You almost walked straight past.

But you didn’t.

Jiho was there. Again.

Seated on the floor, guitar in his lap, hoodie sleeves pushed up. His face was lit only by the screen of his phone, and he looked so relaxed—so out of uniform—that it threw you off for a second.

He didn’t see you right away. But the second you stepped into the room; his fingers stilled on the frets.

He looked up. And didn’t look away.

“…You live here now?” you asked dryly, trying not to let your voice give anything away.

“Only if you do,” he said, which wasn’t funny, but it made your mouth twitch anyway.

You sat on the bench near the wall, just to rest for a minute. Just to breathe.

Jiho shifted slightly, setting his guitar down.

“They let you have solo schedules today?” he asked.

You shook your head. “Temporary probation.”

He hummed. “For what?”

You gave him a look. “You really want me to spell it out?”

“I want to know what they think happened.”

His tone wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t particularly curious, either. Just steady. Like he was testing something.

You didn’t answer.

He stood slowly and crossed the room, not close, not quite, but just enough that the air changed.

“I know what I felt Hyung,” he said.

Your jaw tightened. “You can’t say stuff like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m your manager.”

He smiled, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Not lately.”

That sat in the space between you, heavy and uncomfortable and true.

You stood up, suddenly. Bag over your shoulder. Shoes already pointed toward the door.

Jiho didn’t stop you. Didn’t move. Just said, quiet and sure,

“Then what are you still doing here?”

⋆｡°✩

You’re already at the studio before the sun finishes rising, two iced Americanos in hand, and neither of them are for you.

The schedule’s stacked—two back-to-back interviews, followed by a commercial shoot, and then a fitting for a brand collab you only got confirmation for at midnight. You don’t even realise you’ve been typing out emails with your neck tilted and your jaw clenched until someone passes behind you and mutters, “Hyung, you’re gonna shatter your teeth.”

It’s Doyun.

You don’t respond. Just hand him one of the coffees and tell him to finish it before makeup.

Jiho’s the last one out of the van when you arrive at the venue. Hoodie up, expression blank, one earbud in. He doesn’t speak until the others have wandered off in different directions. You’re halfway to the front doors, double-checking a logistics note, when he suddenly says behind you, “You forgot your charger... again.”

You stop walking.

“I didn’t.”

He holds it up anyway. Neatly wrapped. Slightly warm, like he kept it in his pocket.

“Don’t leave your stuff around if you don’t want me touching it,” he adds.

It’s not flirtatious. Not playful.

Just a little… too direct.

You take it from him without meeting his eyes.

By the time the day wraps, you’ve been on your feet for nearly eleven hours, you’re starving, and you’ve answered the same three questions from the same sponsor rep three separate times.

You’re in the back hallway finishing a call when the door beside you creaks open.

Jiho again.

Of course.

He doesn’t say anything. Just leans against the wall next to you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch.

“Is there a reason you’ve been following me around like a ghost today?” you ask, keeping your voice flat.

“Maybe.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re not subtle.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

There’s a beat of silence between you.

“You know they’re already watching,” you say quietly. “Even if nothing happens.”

He shrugs. “Then let them.”

You stare straight ahead. If you look at him now, you might say something you can’t take back.

He leaves without another word.

⋆｡°✩

It starts the next morning, before you’re even fully awake.

Your phone lights up with a buzz sharp enough to break through sleep, and the notification preview makes your blood run cold.

You don’t open it at first.

You already know what it is.

You sit up in bed, screen half-lit, and there it is:

A video.

Low-res, muted, zoomed in from somewhere behind the practice room window.

You, standing in front of Jiho.

Him, fixing your collar like he’s done it a hundred times before.

You, frozen.

Him, looking at you like no one else exists.

WHO is that? he looks like STAFF??? That’s the manager hyung. I’ve seen him in airport vids. They’re so domestic, what the hell 😭😭 The way he looks at him, oh my god, he’s SO GONE idc if it’s fake, this is the best ship in K-pop rn

It’s only ten seconds.

But that’s all it takes.

You can’t breathe.

The DMs are already coming in. Three calls from PR. One from someone in legal. Your group chat with the other managers is blowing up, and your name is already trending.

You close the app.

Open your notes app.

Start typing an apology that no one’s asked for yet.

Jiho.

Then you stop.

Because your phone buzzes again.

A single text.

[ come up to the roof.]

You stare at it.

Ignore it.

Then, against your better judgment, you go.

⋆｡°✩

The rooftop is quieter than you remember.

It’s probably not even technically accessible—some intern left the door propped open during a late-night smoke break once, and now everyone pretends it’s still locked. You used to come up here alone. That was before. Before the video. Before the call from PR. Before your name started appearing in the trending bar.

Now Jiho’s already here, hoodie sleeves bunched up to his elbows, fingers curled around a can of grape soda that’s starting to sweat through the aluminium. He looks like he hasn’t moved in an hour. Like this isn’t the first time he’s sat here, waiting for you.

You shut the door behind you.

He doesn’t turn to look at you immediately. Just nods toward the railing beside him.

You don’t sit.

“You saw it?” you ask.

He hums in response. You’re not sure if that’s a yes or a who hasn’t?

“You’re not panicking.”

He finally turns. There’s no smile. No bite. Just his usual unreadable calm.

“Should I be?”

You almost laugh, sharp and humourless. “This isn’t a joke.”

“I know.”

He tosses the soda can into the nearby bin without looking. Deadcentrer.

You cross your arms. “They’re going to kill this. Quietly. I’m already off the schedule for next week.”

“I noticed.”

You expect a flicker of regret. Frustration. Some trace of guilt.

You get none.

Instead, Jiho steps closer—not aggressive, just deliberate. There’s no camera up here. No PR team. No lighting cues or stylists, or handlers. Just him. Just you.

“They think we’re together,” he says, voice low.

You don’t answer.

“Maybe we should be.”

You look away. “Don’t do this.”

“Do what, Hyung?”

“Say things you can’t take back.”

He’s close enough now that you can feel the warmth from his body—his chest rising slowly, steadily. He doesn’t try to touch you. That would be too easy. Too obvious. Instead, he just stands there like gravity, like inevitability.

“I’ve been waiting for something to break,” he says, quieter now. “I just didn’t think it’d be a ten-second clip.”

You inhale through your nose. Try to stay steady.

“I’m older than you,” you say.

“So?”

“I’m your manager.”

He leans in—not touching, not yet.

“Not today.”

The silence between you hangs, taut and electric.

Then you walk away.

You don’t run.

But you don’t look back.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t answer his messages after that.

Not because you don’t want to. You just don’t trust yourself to say something that won’t get screenshotted and sent to HR. You spend the rest of the day buried in logistics—flipping through updated schedules, emailing photographers, pretending your phone isn’t buzzing every hour with a new article, a new fan edit, a new speculative thread. You don’t see Jiho for the rest of the day, and you let yourself believe maybe that rooftop conversation didn’t mean anything.

Then he shows up at your apartment.

It’s late—past midnight. You’re wearing an old shirt and mismatched socks, half-asleep, when the intercom buzzes. You think it’s a food delivery at first. You didn’t order anything. But when you answer, all you hear is—

“Hyung— It’s me.”

You don’t open the door right away. You hesitate. Long enough to consider what this will mean if you do.

But when you finally unlock it, he’s standing there. Hoodie off. Cap gone. Just Jiho—his real face, glasses slightly fogged from the night air. He looks calm. Like he’s been here before.

You don’t ask him why he came. You don’t need to.

He steps inside like he’s done it before, like this is normal— hoodie slung over one shoulder, hair pushed back messily from his face. He looks like he belongs here, even though you’ve never invited him in, not really. You tell yourself you’re only letting this happen because you’re exhausted. Because there’s no one else around. Because you’ve already been dragged into the narrative, so what’s one more mistake?

But you know better.

You always have.

You lock the door behind him and turn to find him watching you like he’s memorising something.

“You always leave it open when you’re nervous,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“The collar. You don’t button the top one. You fidget with it when you’re trying not to look at me.”

You don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say.

Jiho walks past you—through the short hallway, into the living room, casual like he’s heading for the kitchen. He doesn’t. He stops at the edge of the couch and looks back.

“You gonna keep pretending?”

You cross your arms defensively. “Pretending what?”

“That you don’t want me to stay.”

That lands harder than you expect. Not because he’s wrong. But because you’ve been trying so hard to keep that exact thing from showing on your face for weeks.

And maybe you haven’t been as successful as you thought.

When you don’t answer, he turns fully. Walks up to you slowly, deliberately, until the heat from his body reaches your chest and you have nowhere else to go.

He touches the collar of your shirt. Just the fabric. No skin. Yet.

“You should stop wearing this,” he murmurs.

“Why?”

“Because I want to take it off.”

Your breath catches. He hears it. You know he does.

Then, carefully, he undoes the top button. Then the next. You don’t stop him.

“You’re shaking,” he says softly.

You didn’t even realize.

“I—Jiho, this is—”

“Too late.”

He steps forward. Presses his mouth to yours—once, slow and sure. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t push. But there’s heat behind it. Control. Like he’s waited long enough, and he’s not going to let you talk your way out of it now.

You kiss him back.

⋆｡°✩

He leads you to the bedroom without speaking, only touching you where he needs to—your wrist, your hip, the small of your back. You sit on the edge of the bed, and he kneels without hesitation, hands sliding up your thighs, eyes locked on yours.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he tells you. “But you don’t get to lie to me either.”

You nod.

That’s all he needs.

Jiho peels your pants down with practised fingers, pushing them past your hips, then your briefs. You’re already half-hard, pulse thudding like your body’s already a step ahead of your thoughts.

He leans in. Licks a slow stripe up the underside of your cock.

Your hands twitch at your sides. You don’t touch him. Not yet.

He doesn’t look up when he takes you into his mouth. Just sinks down, slow and steady, jaw relaxed like he’s done this a dozen times—maybe not for anyone else, but in his head, you’re sure he’s thought about it. Over and over.

His tongue presses firmly along the base. His lips seal around you, and he moans—soft, like it’s for him, not you. The vibration makes your knees buckle.

He takes his time. Pulls off to suck at the head, just enough to make you gasp. Then down again—deeper, sloppier now, until your cock hits the back of his throat and he still doesn’t stop.

You manage his name. Once. Barely.

His hands grip your thighs, firm and steady, keeping you in place. He sucks you down again and again, never breaking eye contact, never faltering. He wants you to watch. To know exactly how far he’s willing to go.

When you start to lose control—hips stuttering, breath slipping—he only tightens his hold and hums around you again. That pushes you over.

You come with a choked breath, your hand in his hair, every nerve lit up. He doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t spill a drop.

When it’s done, when your heart’s still racing and your fingers are trembling, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like it’s nothing.

Then he leans in again, not to kiss you, but just to speak.

Voice low. Calm. Possessive.

“Next time,” he murmurs, “you’re going to beg for it.”

⋆｡°✩

You wake up before your alarm.

The light in your bedroom is pale, soft, barely filtered through your blinds. The air is cool against your skin, your sheets kicked halfway off the bed, your body still aching in that strange, satisfying way. Not sore. Just… used. Thoroughly.

Jiho is still asleep beside you.

His hand is curled against the pillow, palm up, fingers relaxed like he has nothing left to chase. His mouth is parted slightly. His hair’s a mess. One leg is tangled with yours beneath the blanket.

You lie there for a moment, still and quiet.

You don’t know what time he fell asleep. You don’t know if he meant to stay. You don’t even know if he thinks this was a one-time thing or the start of something. You should care.

You do care.

You just don’t know what to do with it yet.

Eventually, you get up. Carefully. Quietly.

You don’t leave the room, just stand near the doorway, shirt half-on, trying to figure out what you’re supposed to feel. It doesn’t feel like a victory. Or relief. It just feels inevitable.

You reach for your phone out of habit. You’ve got two unread messages.

One from your replacement manager, asking if you’re available for a rescheduled meeting later in the week.

And one from an unknown number.

[hope you enjoyed last night. This is just the beginning.]

No context. No name. But your stomach drops anyway.

You read it again.

And again.

Behind you, Jiho shifts in the sheets.

You don’t turn around.

Not yet.

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inkykeiji · 4 months ago

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purge me, purgatory

character: caleb warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, pseudo-cest, noncon that turns into dubcon, a hint of dacryphilia, toxic masculinity, reader is a bit of a brat, size difference, manipulation, praise, caleb can get a little mean, nightmares, toxic relationship, power dynamics, pet names words: 5.3k

notes: i started working on this piece before caleb had even been released and i am SO glad i finally finished editing it. this also wasn’t supposed to be nearly as long as it became but alas, such is my curse (◞‸◟；) please heed the warnings above and stay safe!

You know Caleb has nightmares. You’ve seen the toll they take on him: exhaustion hanging heavy over hunched shoulders, staining sunken eyes with rings of purple, face twisted into a grimace as he collapses in the chair across the table from you, an untouched bowl of apple oatmeal steaming in front of him.

“Another one?” you’d always say, voice so kind and cautious, so wan and worried, bottom lip caught between your teeth muddling the question.

“Yeah,” he’d always respond, dragging a hand down his face as if he’s trying to scrub the fatigue from his features. “But don’t worry about me, pipsqueak. I’m okay.”

You know Caleb has nightmares—but they’ve never been as bad as this one.

Because tonight, it wakes you from your slumber, roused gently from sleep’s embrace by the rough whimpers seeping through the thin drywall separating your bedroom from his.

They sound painful, terrified little noises that keep catching on the uneven hitches of his breath or splintering sharply in his throat, unintelligible pleads sprinkled throughout, too muffled for you to make out the content and chopped up by hiccups.

A dull, dense pang sears through your heart at his yelped out No!, emotion growing thick in your throat and stinging your eyes. Fingers curling in linen, you hug your blanket to your chest, a feeble attempt to quell the ache.

There’s nothing worse than hearing your big brother—your one and only protector, always—in such intense agony.

And it isn’t stopping.

It’s too much to bear, your nose beginning to twitch with the threat of tears, and you kick your legs free from your duvet, bare feet hitting cold hardwood a moment later.

“C-Caleb?” your timid voice soaks into the wood of his bedroom door, followed by a soft rap of knuckles. “Caleb, are you alright?”

You’re met with a deafening silence, so thick you swear you can feel it weighing down on your chest, lungs crushed beneath the force, ears ringing with it.

“Caleb?” you press your ear flush to the door, eyes squeezed shut in concentration—the ruffling of sheets, the quiet groan of a bedspring, and then, a sniffle.

Something cracks in your chest, splits itself open so big and so wide it has you hunching over in pain, shoulders curling inward as if your body is trying to keep from tearing apart, one hand flattened over your sternum, the other gripping the brass doorknob.

Another sniffle and the knob is turning, the door falling open, your body stumbling through the threshold.

Your breathing is laboured, ragged and unevenly shoved from your lungs by a rapidly palpitating heart, a choked version of his name mangling itself in your throat.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, but his voice is thin, weak, fragile, fingertips thumbing aggressively at his eyes, flesh mopping up remnants of teardrops.

It’s a tone of voice that you’ve never heard before, a tone that turns your blood to shards of ice in your veins, a tone that has unease blooming at the base of your spine, crawling up the notches one by one.

Because Caleb has never been afraid before; you’ve never seen Caleb afraid before. Out of the two of you, he’s always been the strong one, the brave one, the ‘I-can-and-I-will-take-on-anything’ one. He’s always been your guardian angel, your watchdog, your shield from all the bad and scary things in the world.

You thought he always would be—it is what he promised, after all.

But right now he looks so small surrounded by a crumpled sea of cotton, tufts of hair clinging to his sweat-drenched temples, muscles tense and rigid, like a predator ready to pounce at the slightest hint of danger.

It has you rushing towards him, falling into his waiting arms—trembling, but safe—and clutching at the collar of his worn t-shirt. Instinctively, your face nuzzles into the crook of his neck, cedar and peppermint streaming down your throat to fill your lungs with him. Your chest swells with his essence, held deep within your core, a natural sedative, your heart beginning to slow.

Home; your big brother will always smell like home.

You allow yourself another moment to steep in his scent before you finally pull back to look at him, hands clasped tightly around his neck, fingers toying with the strands of hair at the nape of his neck—a nervous habit for you, a calming sensation for him.

“What happened?”

“Nightmare,” he chuckles, but the word is shaky. “Pretty standard stuff. Nothin’ to be concerned about, pipsqueak.”

And his facade of nonchalant is good, but it isn’t good enough to fool you.

Frenetic eyes search his face, noting the sheen of cold sweat glazing his skin, the salt that has dried his lashes in thick spikes, the panic swimming in violet irises, concern weighting the corners of your lips.

“Caleb,” you begin slowly, “you woke me up.”

His brow furrows, eyes narrowing slightly.

“I…Did? Has that ever happened before?”

And that’s all it takes, really, to have Caleb switching into his Big Brother Mode, stern and straight to business, the need to know if he’s disrupted your precious sleep before much more important than the terror he was experiencing mere moments ago, as if your comfort matters more than his own.

“No,” your fingers push into his hair and his head dips, a hum vibrating in his chest. “This one was bad. I can tell.”

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, his neck curving more, his forehead nearly bumping against your collarbone.

“I’m worried it’ll come back the moment you close your eyes,” you admit, nails raking along his scalp, a shiver coursing through his body, following your ministrations.

“How many times do I gotta tell you? You don’t need to worry about me.”

And although it’s supposed to be a reprimand, it comes out soft, no heat to his voice as his head follows your touch, tilting to the side and allowing your fingers more room to move.

He has told you, many times before in many different tones, but that doesn’t mean you’ll ever actually listen.

It isn’t your fault; you can’t help how much you care for him.

“Just because I don’t have to, doesn’t mean I won’t,” you huff out, a bite to your voice. “It doesn’t matter how many times you say it; it isn’t going to stop me from caring about you, so you might as well—”

He looks up suddenly, brows knitted and eyes hard.

“Who’s the big brother here, huh?” violet scours your face, his gaze bright and sharp, searching for an answer. “Who’s job is it to take care of who?”

“It is our job to take care of each other,” you say, palms flattening to the sides of his head and inhibiting him from looking away. “It’s a joint effort, Caleb.”

The hinges of his jaw flex beneath your touch, a forceful sigh flaring his nostrils, his shoulders deflating a little in your stark stubbornness. An argument is nipping at the tip of his tongue, desperate to pry past his lips and reassert authority, but his teeth clench, molars grinding together.

“Why don’t I stay with you tonight?” you continue, thumb smoothing out that thick vein in his forehead. “Might make you feel better if you’re not alone—kind of like the way we used to make blanket forts in the living room during really bad thunderstorms.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that—”

“Come on,” you whisper, brushing a strand of damp hair back from his temple. “Let your little sister take care of you for once, yeah?”

“I’m fine—I’ll be fine—”

“You always say I make everything better, so…” you shrug, eyes searching his. “Let me make this better. Please.”

The sincerity straining your voice is potent, so much so that he swears he can feel it surrounding him in a suffocating embrace, soaking into his skin and permeating his muscles with something dense and heavy. It weighs him down, roots him to your aura, immobilizing him physically and mentally, the sweetest poison.

Swallowing, he looks away from your piercing eyes.

“It’s not—”

“Caleb,” you whine out, petulant, his name dripping out stringy and thick through a pout. “What is with this reluctance to allow me to take care of you every once in a while? It’s not fair.”

You sound like a fucking child, and for a moment Caleb is transported back to your shared youth, that telltale pout a lethal weapon he has encountered many times before, that telltale pout a lethal weapon he has yet to find a defence from, an antidote for.

And you, well, you know this—he knows you know this, your infamous brattiness finally making an appearance, usually a foolproof way to get what you want from him, even it if comes with a hefty dose of reprimand.

Your gaze, glassy and hard, is framed by furrowed brows, nose scrunched up in typical distaste.

His stare searches your own, and you hold your expression open for him—so willing, so wanting—his own eyes darkening with something you can’t quite place. A shiver skitters up your spine, but you swallow against the unease, continuing.

“I want to help,” you say. “Please.”

It isn’t right—he doesn’t need your help, shouldn’t need your help, fated to the role of big brother and, by extension, Man of the House; if anything, it should always be him comforting you.

Well, that, and the undeniable fact that having you in such close proximity—so intimate, sharing a bed after a nightmare—is tantalizing, and that makes it dangerous.

But he doesn’t know how to say any of that, how to thread those thoughts into sentences and push them from his disinclined tongue.

Or maybe he just doesn’t want to.

Either way, it doesn’t matter, because in the end you get your way, just like you always do—just like he always lets you.

“Alright,” he finally says, the word nothing more than a defeated huff of breath. “Alright.”

Disappointment sinks hard and heavy in his chest, and Caleb bites his cheek, disgusted with himself. It’s stupid to feel such dismay; he should be used to this by now. Maybe he had hoped that this time, he would be strong enough to deny you. How utterly silly of him to believe he was capable of such a feat.

“Gosh,” you roll your eyes, playfully nudging his nose with your own. “Don’t sound so excited.”

But your amusement is not contagious, Caleb’s expression steadfastly dismal, your smile fading as your brow crinkles in confusion.

“Hush, now,” he says, but his voice is gentle, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead. “You need rest.”

The numbers glowing on his nightstand indicate that yes, you do need rest, you both need rest, and you nod, allowing Caleb to manhandle the two of you beneath his blankets.

The delicate scent of warm toffee and fresh orchid engulf him, one of Caleb’s strong arms curled around your waist, slotting your back up against his chest.

“Sleep,” he instructs, the order rumbling his ribs, his voice low and gruff. “My little protector.”

“Shut up,” you mumble, but your eyes slip shut. “You’ll be thanking me in the morning.”

But Caleb’s not so sure.

Because despite your presence being warm and comforting and full of home, Caleb can’t fucking sleep.

Because you are too fucking close. Abnormally close; inappropriately close, and it’s driving him up the Goddamn wall.

He’s tried everything—first shuffling away a little, just to put a couple inches of space between your bodies; close enough for you to still feel his presence, and for him to still feel yours, but not too close to be considered indecorous.

When that didn’t work, when your body sensed the loss and instinctually sought out his own, Caleb shoved himself so his back was pressed flush to the drywall—as far as he could possibly get without physically removing himself from the bed entirely—but that didn’t help, either.

Because you’re like a little magnet, attracted to his body heat, burrowing through wrinkled sheets to glue yourself to his form as if it is natural, normal, entirely intuitive.

Even in sleep, you’re greedy.

Caleb supposes he’s even worse.

Caleb could, realistically, turn away from you—present you with his sculpted back and protect his front from your unconscious attacks; or leave the bed entirely, opting to sleep on the too-small, too-scratchy sofa in the living room downstairs so he doesn’t have to worry about hands with minds of their owns—hands desperate to touch and grope and mark, hands that can’t keep to themselves. Caleb could wake you up and firmly insist that you go back to your own bed, exercising his Big Brother Authority and overruling any and all of your rebuttals and arguments—but he doesn’t, because he can’t.

Because he’s fucking weak, weak to his own wicked whims, a slave to his sins, drowning in his own desire. It’s too good of an opportunity to give up, his deepest, darkest indulgences presented to him on a platinum platter, crafted by the devil himself. And Caleb isn’t strong enough to resist it’s enticing allure, ironclad willpower melted to sticky silver in the heat of your body, seeping from your flesh into his, poisoning his blood and his brain.

That’s what you do to him; you eat up his logic and spit it back out, mangled and gross, you consume his highly prized self respect and military-grade discipline and reduce him to something desperate and degenerate.

And eventually, finally, his worst nightmare comes true.

It’s stifling in his bed, the fabric of his t-shirt damp with sweat—yours, his, does it matter?—and plastered to his body. His tongue has turned to sand in his mouth, dry and grating and heavy. Swallowing does nothing to alleviate the discomfort, the action rough and sticky, the gummy walls of his throat sticking together with the motion.

Water would be nice, but there’s no way for Caleb to slip from your embrace—a thigh thrown over his hip, a palm pressed to his sternum—without ruining your peaceful slumber.

And you do look oh-so-peaceful; so serene, so ethereal, so fucking breathtaking that it’d be a crime to spoil such a sight.

Moonbeams stream through the window, painting you in strokes of translucent silver. It catches on the beads of sweat adorning your neck, dewdrops that glitter with the steady throb of your jugular, and Caleb feels saliva begin to flood the underside of his tongue, thick and slimy.

Sweat has water in it, doesn’t it?

It happens before he even has a chance to think it through, a primal desire his body knew needed to be met, tongue unfurling from its cavern slow and sick to trace along that jagged pulse.

Your neck arches into his taste, offering him more—such a good little sister, you are—and he takes, a slave to temptation, tongue flattening against your flesh and licking one long, wide stripe from the notch of your collarbone to the hinge of your jaw.

It’s delicious, better than anything he could’ve ever imagined, and Caleb laps at you again, harder this time, rougher this time.

Your essence, salty sweat and bitter perfume, explodes on his tastebuds, and something rattles, roars to life, deep within his chest. It ignites a hunger within him that cannot be sated— dark, desirous, depraved as it claws at his sternum, no matter how much he takes, it always wants more, his desperate attempt to feed it only working to make it more voracious.

It awakens the monster rooted at the core of his soul, a sordid creature borne of something illicit and sinister and wrong many years ago. It sparks the ever-simmering addiction kindling in his rotten, charred heart—a craving that flares higher, burns brighter with every passing second, leaving him intoxicated and stupid, drunk on your aura.

If he doesn’t cut it out he’s going to lick your skin raw—how many licks to get to your sugary sweet center?—your saccharine sweat staining his tongue.

His mouth latches over your collarbone and sucks, tongue swirling around the knob as his teeth scrape, nipping superficially. Tiny tangles of capillaries snap beneath the force, violet flooding the tissues beneath the thin barrier of skin—and oh, how sweet your blood must taste, how shameful to have it trapped beneath your flesh.

A soft moan vibrates in your throat as Caleb seals the mark with another heavy lave, pressing a singular kiss to the rapidly developing bruise. Pulling back slightly, violet eyes sweep across the mess he’s made of your flesh, fleeting marks that will fade much too quickly for his liking.

A callused thumb ghosts over the bloom, an involuntary whimper catching in his throat.

“So pretty,” he breathes to himself, caressing the mark again.

A delicate shiver quivers through your flesh, procured by his airy words, and Caleb coos, tongue washing over your skin again in a crude caress, his hot breath cool against the glaze of saliva he’s painted in its wake.

“Y’like that?” he whispers, the question barely more than a wisp wafting over your soaked skin. “Y’want me to do it again?”

You answer with the softest mewl and a groan rumbles his ribcage, his hips snuggling between your spread thighs, a dainty wheeze pressed from your chest as his weight bears down on you.

His tongue lolls out from between his teeth, thick strings of drool dripping off the tip to drizzle along your neck, sopped up a mere moment later as the slick muscle rolls along your flesh, following the scrape of his front teeth.

Another gentle tremble ripples through your form—such precious responses to your big brother’s mouth!—and he runs his teeth along the curve of your throat again, revelling in how such simple actions can pull such gorgeous reactions from you, entirely subconscious.

That must mean you like it, right? Such responses clearly connote your enjoyment, don’t they? You ought to know, on some subconscious level, that it is your big brother doing this—that it is Caleb’s lips and Caleb’s tongue and Caleb’s spit, that it is Caleb that you are reacting to.

It’s impossible to quell the slow gyrating of his hips as he feasts on your flesh, aching cock grinding against your thigh in messy little circles, fully hard and tenting flannel. He can feel the small pool of pre-cum steadily garnishing the slit, leaking through his PJ pants to leave shimmering smears of his perverted pleasure along the silky skin of your inner thigh.

He’s getting greedy—he knows he is, but he just can’t seem to restrain himself, your essence too alluring to resist; a compulsion, uncontrollable and unquenchable.

He should stop before you wake to your big brother gnawing at your neck and humping your thigh; really, that’s what any good, decent big brother would do. Your rest is important, after all.

He should do a lot of things.

But he doesn’t, because he can’t.

Or maybe he just doesn’t want to.

The sensations are overwhelming; something he’s spent several years denying himself, something he’s spent several years dreaming about—it doesn’t count if it’s just in his head, right?—and he finds himself drowning in it, embraced in the ecstasy.

“God, fuck,” he whimpers, curse cracking in his throat. “You feel so—so good.”

Forehead pressed into the crown of your head, his breath is sweltering and damp along your hairline, rough little moans spilling from his lips with each rut of his pelvis.

“Y’so perfect for me, letting me use you like this,” he manages to gasp out, eyes squeezed shut, imagining how stunning you must look in the throes of pleasure; dazed eyes glazed with lust and rolling back in your skull, lips licked raw and mouth dropped open as the sweetest symphony plays on your tongue, spine bowing off his mattress as pure rapture climbs the notched vertebrae.

Oh, what he’d give to see such a sight, just once.

He wishes he could trick himself into thinking that a singular instance of experiencing such beauty would be enough to keep him from committing such a heinous act of indecency ever again, but he knows that isn’t true.

Because already he wants more, gluttonous for your body, yearning to be buried in the warmth of your sweet little cunt; and he’s barely taken anything at all yet. Caleb can’t imagine what sort of creature this monster would evolve into under such circumstances. Too much is never enough.

Caleb sure as hell can’t trick himself into believing such nonsense, but he sure as hell can trick you.

He doesn’t realize you’ve awoken until he hears your tiny voice, muffled by his chest, fingers pressing into his tensing abs.

“Cae—Caleb?” his hips stutter at the sudden sound—so quiet, so scared—his cock twitching against your leg. “What are you doing?”

“Shh,” he hushes you, body sliding down yours so he can search your face, so you can see the sincerity, the desperation, shining in his gaze, his cock pressed hot and hard against your core. “Just—” his hips roll once, a groan catching in his throat as his shaft is enveloped by your swollen lips, so easy to feel through the flimsy fabric of your pyjama shorts. “—Enjoy it.”

“Wh-What?”

“Come on, just this once.”

“Caleb,” you begin, and the fear in your voice, tinged with a sick sort of curiosity, has another moan clawing at the back of his tongue, hips rolling into yours slow and purposeful. “This isn’t right…”

“No one has to know,” he slurs out, nuzzling his cheek against your temple in a crude form of comfort. “We keep so many secrets—what’s one more?”

“No, Caleb—” your hands furl into fists, pushing into lean muscle, and a dark, decadent sound of amusement drips from Caleb’s lips. Oh, how pathetically precious the you think you could ever shove him off.

But your squirming is beginning to annoy him, that telltale aggression building in his chest—an anger only you seem to evoke, especially when you’re being uncooperative—and he snarls, pulling back a little to fix you with an unimpressed look, his hips pinning you to his bed.

“Tell me it doesn’t feel good,” he glares at you, his words a cross between a growl and a whine, and it’s hard to tell if it’s a demand or a plead. “Go on, fucking tell me. Say ‘it doesn’t feel good, Caleb. Your cock doesn’t feel good, Caleb’. Come on.”

Your lids clamp shut in the face of his intense, invasive stare, tears blossoming along the seam of your lashes, a pitiful squeak catching in your throat as your head shakes.

“No? Why not?” A hand wreathes itself around your jaw, blunt nails biting into your cheeks, the pain causing your eyes to spring open. “Is it because you can’t?”

The question has that same taunting tone he’s used since you were kids—that infuriatingly blasé I’m-better-than-you cadence, the one that proclaims that you’re stupid and he’s superior, that he always wins—and a fierce flame of determination ignites within your ribs, eyes hardened and teeth barred.

“It—It doesn’t feel—Oh, oh, Cae—”

And you’re trying, trying so desperately to force those words from your tongue, to spit them from your lips and devour the smugness glinting in his eyes, but then he’s moving again, the slick head of his cock rubbing over your clit in precise movements—back and forth, back and forth.

That isn’t fair, but when has Caleb ever played fair, really?

He’s got you completely trapped beneath his body now, his knees digging into the mattress as he shifts his weight, forcing your thighs open wider.

“What was that? I didn’t quite catch it.”

“I—It’s not—It doesn’t—” A mewl of frustration slices your sentence, chased by a groan of defeat.

“C’mon, angel, spit it out already if it doesn’t feel good.”

Squinting in the face of his mocking stare, you steel yourself, throat rippling with a thick swallow of resolve.

“We shouldn’t—” The sentence splinters with a whine, your words pulled taught between virtue and desire.

Tears cloud your eyes, rendering Caleb nothing more than a shimmering blur, and you blink rapidly in an attempt to clear them, tiny droplets caught by your lashes.

“You’re a terrible liar, y’know that?” he breathes, the question damp on the shell of your ear. “I can feel how turned on you are, silly little girl.”

His hips rock forward once in accentuation, the movement slow and purposeful, as if to prove a point. His clothed cock glides over your drenched cunt with ease and the head strokes your swollen clit again, another torrent of heat rushing to the apex of your thighs.

“And you know what this tells me?” his voice drops to a whisper. “It tells me you like it.”

Pins of humiliation erupt across your cheeks, tingling heat flooding your face. A soft sob stutters your chest, head shaking in weak denial—a denial that you like it, or simply a denial that this isn’t moral, neither of you can be sure.

“Besides, don’t you wanna take my mind off that stupid nightmare?” His voice drops an octave, deep and devious, chills skittering across your skin. “This—” he rolls his hips once in emphasis, “this will help.”

“Cae…”

And he can hear it; can hear the internal struggle reflected in your voice, a tug-of-war between the need to please and the obligation to do what’s right.

“Come on, be a good little sister for me—you said you wanted to make me feel better, right? This will make me feel better. This will make me forget all about it.”

This will bring him to the crest of bliss, the closest to Heaven he’s sure he’ll ever get.

“I…I don’t—”

“Why can’t you just enjoy it with me, huh?” Caleb murmurs, dragging the words along your jaw then planting a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Give in to it. Just this once.”

It doesn’t take much coaxing before you’re nodding into his neck, body gone slack beneath his own; you’ve always been so easy for him, so eager to obey even with venom in your mouth and fire in your eyes. Caleb supposes that’s just a big brother’s influence.

Because no matter how much you retaliate, how much you taunt and tease him, you have always wanted to be his good little girl. Praise from Caleb is sacred, precious, and rarely doled out. It must be savoured, protected, cherished.

And so you allow your big brother to find comfort in you, in the warmth of your body, in the melody of your moans, praying that this short-lived ecstasy will be enough to cleanse his mind of its nightmares.

“There’s my good girl,” he hums, pleasant and triumphant, the reverence sealed with a chaste kiss to the edge of your hairline.

Then he’s pulling away and sitting back on his heels, an arrogant little smirk materializing on his lips at the discontented whine that sounds at the back of your throat. Violet stares down at you with such passion it nearly burns, his callused palms pushing your knees open wider, following the V of your thighs until finally, finally, he reaches the apex.

“Fucking Christ.”

Drenched silk outlines the contours of your cunt—No undies, huh? How naughty—and Caleb reaches out, tracing the shape, pointer finger ghosting over every bump and dip and curve.

“Gorgeous,” he breathes to himself, gaze hungry and unblinking, enchanted by your body—enraptured by your arousal, captivated by your reactions; the way every graze of his fingertip sends a delicate wave of pleasure tremoring through your flesh; the way his touch makes your lashes dither, unsure if they want to stay open or snap shut. “Let me see it.”

Potent lust leaves his voice husky, and while his sentence is a statement, it comes out as a plead—desperate, desirous.

Vying fingers pull your sleep shorts aside to reveal your glistening cunt, a whine vibrating deep in the back of his throat. Chest heaving with yearning, his trance stays unbroken, his mouth parted and his tongue pulsing with each of his heavy breaths.

For a moment everything is still, silent, Caleb revelling in the radiance of your body.

Then something snaps, the final thread of thin resistance broken, and he’s surging forward, teeth catching on your upper lip as his mouth collides with yours, procuring the prettiest little yelp to crack in your chest. He swallows it down greedily, tongue breaking through the barriers of lips and teeth to lavish your mouth in his spit.

His hips are moving again, shoved snug between your spread thighs, sharp hipbones carving bruises into supple flesh. Each forceful roll of his pelvis has his cockhead catching on your hole—so close, so close—a vicious shudder coursing through his form.

And he can feel it, he can feel your cunt through the thin flannel of his pyjamas—teasing him, taunting him, tempting him, each gentle contraction begging for him to stuff it full—another groan rattling from his mouth into yours.

It’s all simultaneously too much and not enough, the soft breaths of his name exhaled hot and heavy onto his waiting tongue and the eager fluttering of your cunt desperate to suck him in and the nails scrabbling at the back his neck and—and Caleb feels like he’s going to burst out of his fucking skin, flesh starting to split at the seams, if he doesn’t get more, now.

He’s hardly aware of what he’s doing, moving on pure instinct as a hand snakes between your bodies and paws at the waistband of his pants, the heel of his palm pushing it down just enough to free his aching cock.

A faint Caleb, no, wait! tugs at the back of his consciousness, blotted out by sheer lust as his palm wraps around the base of his cock, head bumping purposefully against your hole.

The cry that shatters in your throat as he shoves himself into your cunt is nothing short of gorgeous, his own responding whine straining his throat. One quick, hard thrust to bury himself to the hilt is all it takes before his cock is throbbing, filling you with copious amounts of cum—so much, too much, and Christ, when has he ever cum like this?

It’s so intense that it has his whole body tensing, pleasure whiting his vision and wiping his mind and all he can smell, feel, taste is you, you, you—toffee and orchid shooting straight to his brain, your body knotted with his, hips rocking up in desperate little movements as you try to fuck yourself on his spent cock, your sounds of pleasure sweet on his tongue and he licks into your mouth, starved for more.

“Caleb, Caleb, Caleb!”

“M’here, baby,” he slurs against your mouth, rubbing his lips into yours. “M’here, come on, make a mess for me.”

He isn’t even sure you cum—something he’ll berate himself for in the morning—but in the moment it doesn’t even matter, his brain so poisoned by the pleasure that it’s turned to a pulsating mush, intoxication flooding his veins as he submerges himself in you. His hips stutter as his cock twitches with those last few ribbons of cream, almost as if he’s trying to fuck his seed deeper into you, before his trembling muscles finally give out, Caleb collapsing on top of you.

“God,” he gasps out, lips moving against the crown of your head. “Th-Thank you.”

The gratitude is punctuated by a kiss to your hair, his breath hot and erratic on your scalp.

“Thank you,” he says again, a singular arm twined around your waist as he manhandles you both onto your sides, your body cradled close to his chest.

And for the first time in a long time, Caleb falls into a peaceful sleep.

#caleb x reader #caleb x you #caleb x y/n #caleb smut #caleb lnds smut #lads smut #lads x reader #tw pseudocest #tw toxic relationship #inky.caleb

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dearlenore · 3 months ago

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ARREST ME BUT MAKE IT SEXY2 / S.REID / SUMMARY - Spencer rescues a very annoying agent

PAIRING: agent!reader x spencer reid / w/c: 1.4k / fluff

a/n: shoutout to @cheriesbucky for being the absolute ANGEL who suggested this

The basement was dim, damp, and reeked of mold and motor oil. The ropes around your wrists were tight but not impossible—you’d been trained for worse. Still, that didn’t mean you weren’t pissed.

“What is it with unsubs and bad lighting?” you muttered, shifting in the old wooden chair you were tied to. “What, the budget didn’t cover lightbulbs?”

Across the room, your kidnapper paced. He wasn’t particularly bright, though he thought he was. That was always the worst kind—delusional with a God complex and a knife.

“I thought you fed types were supposed to be smart,” he sneered, stopping just a few feet from you.

You raised a brow. “I am. You, however, kidnapped a federal agent in the middle of a BAU investigation. Not really a Mensa moment.”

He didn’t like that. Predictably, he stormed over and gripped the collar of your button-down shirt, yanking it hard enough to pop two buttons free. His hand hovered, threatening, over your chest.

You blinked once. “Oh wow, you’re so original. What’s next, a villain monologue? Maybe some unnecessary backstory about your mommy issues?”

The unsub froze.

Then scowled.

Then stepped back with a growl. “You don’t know anything.”

You smiled sweetly. “Honey, I know you have abandonment issues, a need for control, and a probable inferiority complex stemming from a middle-child dynamic. Also, you smell like Axe body spray and microwaveable regret.”

Another button popped off.

You gasped. “Sir, if you ruin this shirt, you’re paying for it. This is government issued polyester. You have no idea how itchy this is.”

The door upstairs creaked open.

You went silent.

Heavy boot steps followed.

And then—

“FBI!” Morgan’s voice rang out.

The unsub spun, panicked. You smirked.

“You’re in so much trouble,” you sing-songed.

The door burst open a second later, and suddenly the room was swarmed. Morgan tackled the unsub to the ground in one fluid motion. Hotch shouted for backup. Emily kicked the knife away. And then—then—Spencer.

He moved straight to you, eyes scanning your face, chest heaving like he’d just run a marathon. His hands shook as he began untying your wrists.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice tight with concern.

You gave him a tired smile. “Other than the fact that I’m missing three buttons and I’m pretty sure this chair gave me a splinter in a very personal place? Peachy.”

He let out a soft huff of laughter, his fingers brushing over your skin a little longer than necessary as he helped you stand.

You wobbled slightly. He caught you instantly.

“Easy,” he murmured, his hand steady on your waist.

“Oh, Doctor Reid,” you said, blinking up at him dramatically. “Are you trying to sweep me off my feet?”

The tips of his ears turned pink.

“Stop flirting,” Emily called as she cuffed the unsub.

“I’m barely flirting,” you replied, leaning a little more into Spencer just to be a menace. “Let the woman have her trauma bonding.”

Hotch sighed from somewhere near the doorway. “Let’s get her out of here before she drives us all insane.”

Spencer’s arm stayed around you even as he walked you out. The sunlight hit your face, and you winced, then immediately leaned into him again. Maybe you didn’t need the support, but you sure as hell weren’t going to waste the moment.

“So,” you said softly, “you missed me?”

He chuckled. “You were gone for three hours.”

You smiled. “Admit it. That was the worst three hours of your life.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just tightened his hold a little, letting it speak for him.

Yeah. You were definitely going to milk this for all it was worth. Especially when he insisted you stay with him that night.

Spencer’s apartment was… exactly what you expected. Books lined every wall. Some were stacked in leaning towers like paper skyscrapers. A chessboard sat mid-game near the window. The place was warm, in that “lives alone but makes tea for two” kind of way.

You flopped onto his couch with zero hesitation, legs kicking up as you groaned dramatically. “If I never see rope again, it’ll be too soon.”

Spencer hovered awkwardly by the door, keys still in hand, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with you now that he had you.

“Are you… okay?” he asked finally, stepping closer.

You looked over your shoulder at him, feigning offense. “Reid. I was kidnapped, threatened, manhandled—and you’re asking if I’m okay? After you made me sleep on this crime-against-furniture of a couch instead of your bed?”

His eyes went wide. “Wait—I didn’t make you sleep here. You didn’t even ask to—”

You burst into a laugh. “Relax, Doctor. I’m teasing. Unless you’re offering.”

His ears turned pink again. You were starting to consider it a competitive sport.

“You should eat something,” he said quickly, trying to change the subject. “I have, um… crackers?”

You raised a brow. “Crackers? Wow, what a luxurious meal. Do you woo all your guests like this?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I wasn’t expecting guests.”

You smiled and sat up. “I’ll allow it. But only because you have very charming bookshelves.”

He gestured toward the kitchen. “Seriously, though. Want tea?”

You nodded, stretching. “As long as I don’t have to brew it myself. I’ve been through enough.”

He disappeared into the kitchen, and for a moment, you let yourself actually relax. The adrenaline was gone. The aches were settling in. And beneath it all was that heavy, quiet awareness: you could’ve died today.

Spencer returned a few minutes later with two mismatched mugs. He handed you one and sat beside you—not too close, but not far, either. He smelled like books and peppermint and something just… safe.

You sipped. “Mint chamomile? What a romantic.”

He smiled softly, eyes flicking toward yours. “You’re handling this well.”

You looked at him over the rim of your mug. “You say that like you expected me to fall apart.”

“I didn’t,” he said quickly. “I just mean… most people would still be shaken up. But you’re still making jokes.”

You set the mug down and leaned in a little. “Wanna know a secret?”

He sighed and gave an expression that read, “hit me, what is it this time.”

You lowered your voice. “I make jokes when I’m terrified.”

His brow furrowed, just a little. “So… you were scared?”

You paused, then nodded. “Of course I was. But I knew you guys would come for me. Knew you would.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “Me?”

“You didn’t exactly hide your interest in the interrogation room, genius,” you teased. “And I might’ve been unconscious when you found me, but I remember your voice. First thing I heard when I came to. Sounded really… relieved.”

A flush crept up his neck. “I was.”

Something shifted then—just a little. The air between you slowed, softened. He looked at you like you were a riddle he was afraid to solve. You looked back like you wanted to be figured out.

“Spencer,” you said softly, “can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Are you always this gentle with people?” Your voice was quieter now. Less performative. “Or is it just me?”

His breath caught.

Then, just as quietly, he said, “It’s not just you.”

A beat.

“But it’s different with you.”

Your heart did a slow, dangerous turn.

Before either of you could say more, a roll of thunder cracked outside. Rain began tapping the windows like fingers on glass.

You sighed dramatically. “Well, now you have to let me stay the night. What kind of profiler kicks a traumatized woman out into a thunderstorm?”

He laughed under his breath. “You can stay as long as you want.”

You smiled. “Dangerous words, Reid. I might never leave.”

And for the first time since the kidnapping, something in your chest unclenched. Not just because you were safe, but because… maybe you were exactly where you needed to be.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #x reader #spencer reid x reader #fanfic #criminal minds fluff #cm #fluff #request

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twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 2 months ago

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IT’S TRUE I NEVER WRITE, BUT I WOULD GLADLY DIE WITH YOU. ; SUGURU GETO

synopsis; ”You think he wanted to remain a respectful underclassman, never treading too far beyond his bounds. You're pretty sure it was also something else.”

contents; suguru geto/gn!reader, cult leader era geto, (former) senpai!reader, literally just a long conversation, geto kidnaps you (kind of).

w/c; 4.0k

a/n; rip suguru geto u would’ve been sooooo cute pining for a cool upperclassman . alas the horrors must claim you . but it would’ve been so sweet

Your blood coats the asphalt in crimson dye.

There's a throbbing behind your ear, vicious and heavy. Like your skull split open. Cracked right down the middle. Maybe it did— you can't tell, can't move your hands to even check, lying on an abandoned street with a grating ringing in your ears, your limbs numb and unresponsive. Dead weight, you think— as thick, heady iron blooms on the roof inside your mouth. It's dripping out from the corners of your busted lip, trickling down your jaw in hot, sticky streams. When you try to move your fingers a sharp jab of pain shoots through them.

One, two. Inhale, exhale. Try to think, though your mind lies buried in the rubble all around you. You're bleeding out. Your skin is burning.

There is not a trace of cursed energy around you.

… You figure the blast must have taken out the curse, too.

(Will you die like this, you wonder? You can't text Shoko. You doubt she'd make it in time, anyway— once the faculty takes note of your absence, it'll be too late.)

When you try to sigh, more blood spills out, eager to exit your dying body. Wriggling, gurgling worms, made of plasma and platelets, scrambling from the underside of a rock to seek shelter in the sun. Hot flashes of pain wrack through you. Then a cold, cold feeling, when you're sure it'll melt you, shivers clattering down your neck to gnaw at your spinal cord; your body feels as if doused in sea water. Dizziness, weariness. Your body feels like a casket.

You wish you had somebody to say goodbye to.

(Just as your consciousness begins to fade — a shadow flickers overhead.)

Then, nothing.

When you come to, you face an unfamiliar ceiling.

A square-shaped lamp shines down upon you. For a moment, you wonder if you're at the morgue; the grating light an all-too familiar sensation, a shooting star burning through the roof above her operating table. But that light is colder, more sterile.

This one is warm. Yellow ripples of light.

It lulls you awake. Pinpricks behind your eyes, absent twitches of your fingertips — you can feel them, move them, puppet strings intact — you didn't die. Unless this is heaven, but you doubt your heaven would smell of anything but summertime.

Not jasmine oil. Not soft notes of laundry detergent. Velveteen blankets cover your body, thick and fluffy, freshly washed — and all you can smell is just that.

(Homey, you think. What home would feel like.)

Warmth envelops you, and not a single one of your bones ache or splinter. There's a soreness in your limbs, and the room twists when you lift yourself upright, a wave of nausea rippling through your throat — but that's all. Inhale, exhale, and you're fine.

You squeeze your eyes shut, and open them again.

All you see is black and white; the clothes you're wearing, the blankets pooled atop your thighs. Fabric against fabric, a silky friction that almost distracts you from the fact you're wearing someone else's jinbei — it's light, loose around your shoulders, a smidge too big. Someone undressed you, helped you out of your blood-soaked uniform. Someone slipped you into this and tucked you in.

Someone is just behind the door, their fingers reaching for the handle.

(Your senses must be dulled, to only notice them now.)

It opens without so much as a creak. And in comes a woman, unfamiliar, her lips dyed cherry red — you think of asphalt, of iron — her hair reaching past her shoulders in soft strawberry waves. A tight, purple dress hugs her curves, and you're fairly sure she saw you glancing at her boobs just now. There's a hint of distaste in her eyes.

Sharp cuts of jade.

"You're awake," she acknowledges, her voice carefully neutral. Staying by the door, and watching you from a distance. "How are you feeling?"

"… Not too bad." You cringe at the sound of your own voice, worn at the edges. "Did you rescue me?"

"No." A beat, her eyes scanning the expression on your face, as if weighing your intentions. It goes on, for a moment, this silent vivisection — a look of distrust you can't help but be amused by. "… Geto-sama is waiting for you. I'll escort you to him."

— The world comes to a standstill.

"… Huh?"

"He'll explain everything," she assures you, but you can't quite hear her through the ringing of your ears. Geto. Ge-to. It's not a coincidence, it can't be—

(That's right. His room always smelled of jasmine buds, didn't it?

You snuck in there more than once. How could you have forgotten?)

"… Geto," you echo, your voice a foreign thing, the name a buried heirloom. Vacantly, you think you can still taste the iron from before. "Geto Suguru?"

"That's right," she sighs. A resounding clap breaks you out of your reverie, her hands coming together. "Come on," she beckons. "I'd rather not keep him waiting."

She turns on her heel, and exits the room. You're given no time to regain your bearings; forced to scramble out of bed, bare soles against the tatami mat on the floor, following closely behind her. No time to linger, though a pit of foreboding carves a cavern in your stomach, your innards tied in knots.

Inhale, exhale.

Geto Suguru.

(He's waiting for you. What does that mean, exactly?)

You don't know. You didn't think Suguru — Geto — whatever you should call him — was still alive, let alone still in Japan. You're forced to bear the weight of those implications, as you wade through a narrow hallway. The air smells of dust, faraway clusters of sweet-scented incense. Everything is quiet.

You can almost hear your own heart, beating slowly. Pumping hot blood to your brain.

"What's your name?" you ask, finally matching your steps to the stranger. Slipping your hands into your pockets. "That's the least you could tell me, I think."

"… Manami Suda," she clicks her tongue. "As I've already informed you, Geto-sama will tell you of the rest."

"… sama?"

"Yes."

You eye her, another question on your lips; but you swallow it down. She doesn't seem all too keen in keeping this conversation alive.

It doesn't matter, either.

(Geto-sama. That's what he goes by, these days?

It doesn't suit the cute, polite kouhai you remember. Then again, blood never suited him, either. Neither did the taste of cheap Seven Stars tobacco.

… You're pretty sure he only ever tried it to impress you.)

"We're here."

Manami stops just in front of a sealed-shut sliding door, sheets of paper catching the light from within. They shimmer, in the dim corridor, beckoning you forward. A feeling of dull dread creeps into your cells.

An all-too familiar bundle of cursed energy.

"I'll leave you to it," she continues, that same concealed edge to her voice. "But just so you're aware — Geto-sama is risking a lot by bringing you here. More than you could imagine."

She turns her head, to look at you properly.

(Jade aglow with angered love.)

"… So don't be cruel to him."

And then she's leaving.

You're left behind, left alone; staring into her eyes until she turns away. A deep, steadying breath. Inhale, and exhale. Your fingers twitch for a cigarette.

They reach, instead, for the door.

— Inside, a silhouette sits under dimming moonlight.

His back is all you can see. Silky locks of black hair, pooling on the floor, spilled ink on the tatami mat beneath him; sets of robes framing his figure, cloaking him in silk. The shoji screens are agape, leaving space for him to sit by the edge and look outside — for moonlight to flood his chambers.

It makes him look illusive.

"… You're here," comes a familiar voice, tailored with silk, and all you can think is why didn't you call me? He rises to his feet before you can get any words out. When he turns around, a smile on his lips, your breath halts at the base of your throat.

"It's been a while."

Monolids. Sharp facial lines. Eyes that gleam with fondness.

(He's beautiful. Like a lioness.)

"… It has," you echo, watching his bangs sway with the breeze. "Geto-sama."

A cat's blink. His smile falls, lashes fluttering; the backdrop for a rumbling laugh.

"Ah, don't tease me." His grin blinds your world, cuts and cuts and cuts into your tender flesh. "Though I suppose I should have expected as much."

"I suppose so," you murmur, vacantly, casting a glance around you. Nothing much to see, only scrolls across the walls, mantras of some kind. A mellow scent floats about the room, chestnuts and torn up fruit flesh — it's green tea, you realize, a teapot exhaling sweet-smelling steam from a small table in the middle of the room. It drifts between the shoji screens, and up into the midnight sky. Mist-like.

Then there's the incense, of course.

It's starting to fade, but you can still pick up on the main notes. Burning jasmine buds and smoke.

"Was Manami good to you?"

The question drags your gaze up to meet his own. Suguru tilts his head, bangs framing eyes that spark and fizzle with something joyous — fireworks, a summer festival, crammed into his eye socket just for you to see. Golden, even in the dark.

"… She was a little mouthy, to be honest." You give a shrug. "Don't fire her, though."

A chuckle leaves his lips, sharpened by midnight fatigue. "Of course not," he flicks his wrist, as if to wave you off. "She isn't an employee. She's family."

A questioning gaze. You're tempted to pry, but decide against it — it's really not your business if this robe-clad emperor has a concubine or two.

… Though that look in her eye was something far deeper.

(Something like trust.)

"Ah, but where are my manners?" Suguru smiles, blindingly, turning to gesture towards the opened shoji. "Please, have a seat. I hope you still like tea?"

You only hum. Watching him crouch in front of the table, readying two oval cups. They're pure white, flecked with painted branches, golden ginkgo leaves. There's a reverence to the way he pours — both his hands cradling the teapot, as hot water spills, trickles against ceramic, gathers at the base of the cups and begins to fill them up. Slowly, slowly, as if each drop is precious enough to warrant a moment of silence.

You're hypnotized.

A memory comes to you; winter mornings, early missions, a kouhai in the kitchen even on days he could have slept in. Him, with a thermos in hand, warm to the touch, childish patterns of cherry blossoms etched into the plastic coverage. You'd carry it with you, tucked between your arm and ribs. Like a second heartbeat.

His hands are larger, now. Calloused.

Gentle, even still.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, once you've plopped down on the floor. His robes flutter right next to you, carried by a pleasant nighttime breeze.

It glides across the apples of your cheeks. "Just fine," you answer, and you mostly aren't lying. He doesn't need to know about the quivers of your soul— that's the burden of an upperclassman. A burden you’d gladly have carried alone.

(It was always meant to be the other way around. You don't think he ever realized.)

It's difficult to free yourself from the straying of your thoughts. You aren't at Jujutsu High, anymore. You lull the monsters in your head to sleep. It's been ten years, and the blood that needed to spill has long been scrubbed off the walls. You were too late.

There's no use in thinking about inevitable partings.

"I'll assume you're the one who rescued me," you inhale, then exhale, leaning back with your palms on the tatami to gaze at the garden ahead. Beyond his chambers: bushes blooming with camellia, a pond gleaming moon-blue under the veil of night. Ripples upon the water. The night sky looks bottomless.

It's a painting, you think. A mess of oil and watercolour. The black is smudged with silver stains, no longer untouchable.

"I brought you here, yes," his voice buzzes to your right. ”After you passed out."

"Mm. I think I saw you."

"Oh? Did you, now?"

He's looking at you. You can feel it. When you turn your head, amber eyes coil into slits; a matching smile flecked on his lips, before he raises his cup to cover it.

A long, silent sip.

"I was worried, you know." He turns to face the garden, and the moon dyes his skin cornflower blue. "I was sure I'd be too late. Fortunately, I got there just in time."

He's beautiful, you think, but he looks more like a statue than a human being. As if to make sure that he's really there, you give his flowing sleeves a tug. His gaze responds, flits up to meet your own — a success, a flicker, a dog jumping for a bone.

You give him a raise of your brow.

"So… you kidnapped me," you deadpan.

"Kidnapped?" he gives out a breathless chuckle. "That's a little much."

A beat.

"But you did almost die." His smile evens out, an expression of calculated calm reigning his face back into something unreadable. Tap, tap, the pads of his fingers tapping rhythmically against his bended knee. "If I hadn’t been there, you would have bled out… so, at the very least, I'd like you to reconsider your choice."

Your choice. It's spoken with an underlying note of disapproval; something that sparks a twitch at your brow, because you know exactly what he means. ”Why were you there?" you ask, a sharpness to your tongue. "Just in time… that's awfully convenient."

Suguru's fingers come to a halt. A perfect smile, eyes closed into crescents, his voice velvet smooth. ”If I told you fate brought me to you, would that be so bad…?"

You give him a fixed stare.

Silence.

"… You're no fun," he sighs. Smile slipping right off. "I may have sent a curse or two to supervise you… on occasion. For safety reasons, mind you.”

"Of course," you exhale, weary with exasperation. You really should have known. ”You know what I hate about you, Suguru?”

He blinks. Twice, like a cat — he doesn't seem upset. You wonder if the call of his name quells him from your abrasive tone. "Let's hear it," he smiles.

Outside, in his garden, bushes flutter with the breeze. Rounded, blurry leaves, golden green ripples — from where you're sitting they look like shimmering bells, flickering about, ruthlessly torn from their branches to join the pile of crimson red petals on the ground. It's not cold outside, only pleasantly chilly. A familiar summer evening kind of feeling. You think of his child-like, high school, yet-to-be-ruined face. You think of all your talks on the roof of Jujutsu High.

You turn to look at him, sparing no apologies.

"You're a hypocrite."

Suguru looks back at you, silently.

"You made the choice to leave — and, well, there was nothing I could do about it. Nothing we could do." You chew at the tender inside of your cheek. "But I can’t choose to stay a sorcerer, because… it’s dangerous? Well, that's just stupid."

What's even more stupid is being a curse user in a world with Satoru in it.

The words are left unsaid.

"… You have no right to lecture me about danger."

There's an exhale on his cupid's brow. It spills out when he speaks, lips raised in cordiality. "If that's how you feel, so be it."

His nonchalance makes you twitch. Bone fatigue fuelling your bitter spiel — your sharp gaze burning holes into his body, as your lips part. ”I mean, what were you expecting? Bring me here, keep me here… and then what? Just hope I agree to join you?" you let out a breathy scoff, fighting off a bout of laughter. "After all these years. Zero phone calls, mind you."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't care." A white lie, a fiend for a fiend. "I just don't understand you, right now."

…

The lamp flickers, overhead. A housefly buzzes against the paperthin shoji sheets, like a mimicry of the cicadas singing on the tree-trunks outside. It fills the silence. Keeps you from thinking too much.

When he speaks, it's in honeyed vowels.

"… I didn’t mean to upset you," he nearly whispers, so gentle it could disappear in the space between you. He sounds sincere, if nothing else. "I’m not taking your choice away from you. I just couldn’t bear to see you lose your life in such a meaningless way…"

Sour bile settles at the base of your throat.

("If you'd like to, you can kill me, Senpai."

You're standing at a crossroads, at the very edge of the cauldron to hell. He turns to look at you, before he leaves for good; golden eyes aglow with purpose.

”If it's you, there's meaning to it. I won't try to resist.")

"… Meaning," you sigh, smiling ruefully. The word tastes like ash. "I'm not you, Suguru. I don't need it."

A flicker in his eyes. A disapproving sputter, in the pitch-black, silver-blue sea of his soul, like a reprimand he's opted to swallow. He was always good at that — with you, at least. He'd gobble up lectures, replace them with kind nagging. You think he wanted to remain a respectful underclassman, never treading too far beyond his bounds.

You're pretty sure it was also something else.

His expression shifts, just then— you feel it in the air. Keeping silent, his eyes flutter shut.

"… So that's your answer?"

There's no use responding. This midnight rendezvous is drawing to a close, you can feel it in your bones, in the weight of your heartbeat when you silently rise to your feet. The air tastes crispy, a mouthful of non-existent smoke. You savour it, one last time — before casting a glance towards the man at your feet.

"Thank you for the tea."

Your cup is exactly where he left it; in the too-small, too-large space between your bodies. Untouched. Suguru gazes at it, for a moment, without making a sound.

…

Right as you turn towards the door, he speaks.

"I could just keep you here, you know."

An airy scoff — you almost laugh. ”Uh huh."

"I could force you," he continues, seamlessly, as if you aren't even there. His voice takes on a chilly quality, his expression obscured. "I could keep you here, with me. Until you learn to see things from my point of view… make it so you can’t reach anyone at Jujutsu High. Make it so they'll never find you."

…

He rises to his feet. Robes swaying, like a pair of heavy bells — closing the distance between you, until you can spot every spark of gold in his eyes. His hair becomes a veil, all-encompassing, shielding you from the light of the lamp and the glow of the moon —

and his hand, ever so gently, reaches for your cheek.

("I feel like I could tell you anything. I wonder why that is?")

"But I won't."

The pads of his fingers never meet your skin.

Suguru sighs, a touch longingly. Staring at your face, as if admiring something he will never get to keep. Cautiously, he tucks a lock of hair behind your ear — something in his gaze softens when you let him. For a moment, he is quiet, like a child lulled to sleep.

The phantom of his body heat sears his name into your neck.

"… I value you too much for that," he whispers.

Blurry stars shiver in the night sky above. Try as you may not to follow their example, your voice still shakes when it pries apart your lips.

"Great. Thanks.” You snort, craning your neck away from his greedy fingers. ”What a model kouhai."

”I learned from the best." His voice is caramel, teasing you, his hand falling to his side — albeit reluctantly. A moment passes, and his lips follow, crumbling under the weight of his thoughts. Falling into a thin line. ”Just… be careful. If I find you like that again, I'm not sure I’ll be able to contain myself."

"I'm not like you," you remind him. "I don't want to die. Not yet, anyhow…"

Suguru doesn’t respond. You catch the haunting of ghosts, at the corners of his eyes, shadows framing his face just right. Still, a smile on his lips, just a second later.

Nothing but dead weight.

"… I suppose that'll do."

The air between you grows stale. You're vaguely aware that you should turn towards the door, but something in the back of your mind won’t let you.

"... Right," you exhale, shaking your head to get your thoughts back in order. Meeting his eyes, brushing a palm down the fabric hugging at your chest, the clothes that aren’t yours. "Want this back?"

"Hm?" he stares at your hand, before realization hits. "Ah, that's alright. Keep them."

He surveys you, for a moment. Drinking you in. His gaze spans the fabric, from where the sleeves end to the neckline, exposing the knots of your collarbone. It makes you feel like he's trying to peel off your skin, cut you open like a fruit — deft fingers finding every dip in your flesh before splitting you into halves.

(… That is to say, he's practically undressing you with his eyes.)

"They suit you," he smiles. Awfully pleased.

You decide to ignore him.

”… And my uniform?"

For a beat, the air goes silent.

Suguru glances away.

"… It was ruined," he clears his throat. "You're better off asking for another."

"So you're keeping it."

A sheepish smile creeps onto his lips. You scoff, and a chuckle stumbles through his chest, half-recklessly. It's as much of an apology as you're going to get.

"Weirdo," you shake your head, taking a step back. "Well, it was good seeing you."

You watch a flicker of joy dance through his eyes — his lashes aflutter, in an effort to hide it. Suguru hums, and you think of high school, because there's nothing else to do when he looks at you like you just fed him hand to mouth. When his eyes crinkle paper-thin, the hole in your heart tears at the corners.

"Likewise," he breathes, honeysuckle on his tongue, impossibly sweet. "You haven’t changed."

"Neither have you," you answer, honestly. "Not really."

Before you can see his expression, you turn on your heel. The midnight breeze takes the chance to slip beneath the flimsy fabric of your jinbei, ghosting at your naked chest. A cold hand, gliding right between your ribs, right where you’re most vulnerable. You can still smell the jasmine, the burning chestnut, the almond oil he brushes his hair with after showering.

A piece of paper tears to shreds, somewhere inside of you. A farewell letter, a death sentence.

Right as your fingers curl around the sliding door, you find your voice. Words better shared in a whisper, under a breath — better shared in the past, with heat beneath your cheeks, but you were never that kind of person. It was never going to come out naturally, and it was never going to lead anywhere.

Not anywhere at all.

"Back in high school,” you start, willing your heart not to beat— ”I loved you, too. Did you know that?"

…

"All three years," you exhale, still staring straight ahead. "I loved you more than anybody else, Suguru."

For a moment, you wonder if his silence is rejection. If he's pretending not to hear. If your words, miraculously, got lost somewhere in the space between you; swept into the cluster of blurry leaves outside, or buried in restless cicada cries.

Then, a rough chuckle spills into the air.

"… And you call me cruel," he draws a breath, sharp and purposeful. "Do you realize the kind of faith you're putting in my restraint?”

"Hm.” You cast a glance behind your shoulder, a smile splitting itself across your lips. ”Do I?”

He clicks his tongue, half-threatening. ”Tease.” Then, in a lower voice: "I really will keep you, at this rate."

There's a heat in his gaze that wasn't there before. Pupils dilated, like a wolf ready to pounce. Laughter, breathless, bubbles up your throat and out your lips. "No thank you," you flick your wrist in a lazy wave. The door slides open with a fwoosh.

Then, in a voice more silent— more suited for partings—

"See you."

Behind you, his fingers give out a restless twitch. But he nods, right as you step over the threshold and into the corridor, cicadas crying out from the gardens below.

The moon dyes your back a cobalt hue. He follows it, with his eyes, until it's no longer visible.

"… See you."

#getou suguru x reader #getou suguru x y/n #geto x reader #geto x you #suguru geto x reader #jjk x reader #geto angst

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