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thepencilnerd · 1 month ago

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A Lesson In Fear Extinction | part I

pairing: professor!Jack Abbot x f!psych phd student reader summary: You’re a senior doctoral student in the clinical department, burned out and emotionally barricaded, just trying to finish your final few years when Jack Abbot—trauma researcher, new committee member, and unexpectedly perceptive—starts seeing through you in ways you didn’t anticipate wc: 11.9k content/warnings: academic!AU, slow burn (takes places over 3 years lbffr), frat boys being gross + depictions of unwanted male attention/verbal harassment, academic power dynamics, emotional repression, discussions of mental health, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, angst, so much yearning, canon divergence, no explicit smut (yet/tbd but still 18+ MDNI, i will fight u) a/n: this started as a slow-burn AU and spiraled into a study in mutual repression, avoidant-attachment, and me trying to resolve my personal baggage through writing ~yet again~ p.s. indubitably inspired by @hotelraleigh and their incredible mohan x abbot fic (and all of their fics that live in my head rent free, tyvm) i hope you stay tuned for part II (coming soon, pinky promise) ^-^

The first thing you learn about Dr. Jack Abbot is that he hates small talk. That, and that he has a death glare potent enough to silence even the most self-important faculty members in the psych department.

The second thing you learn is that he runs his office like a bunker—door usually half-shut, always a little too cold, shelves lined with books no one's touched in decades. You step inside for your first meeting, and it feels like entering a war room.

"You’re early," he says, without looking up from the annotated manuscript he’s scribbling on.

"It's the first day of the school year."

"Same difference."

You take a seat, balancing your laptop on your knees. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, unsure if you should even bother.

Dr. Abbot finally glances up. Hazel eyes, sharp behind silver-framed glasses. "Let’s make this easy. Tell me what you’re working on and what you want from me."

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know. You’ve been rehearsing this on the walk over. You just hadn’t planned on him cutting through the pleasantries quite so fast.

"I’m running a mixed methods study on affective forecasting errors in anxiety and depression. Lab-based mood induction, longitudinal survey follow-up, and semi-structured interviews. I'm trying to map discrepancies between predicted and experienced affect and how that mismatch contributes to maladaptive emotion regulation patterns over time."

A beat.

"So you're testing whether people with anxiety and depression are bad at predicting their own feelings."

You blink. "Yes."

"Good. Start with that next time."

You bite the tip of your tongue. Roll the flesh between your teeth to ground yourself. There is no next time, you want to say. You’re only meeting with him once, to get sign-off on your committee. He wasn’t your first choice. Wasn't even your second. But your advisor's on sabbatical, and the other quantitative faculty are already overbooked.

Dr. Abbot leans back in his chair, examining you. "You’re primary is Robby, right?"

"Technically, yes."

He hums, not bothering to hide the skepticism. "And you want me on your committee because...?"

"Because you published that meta-analysis on PTSD and chronic stress. Your work on cumulative trauma exposure and dysregulated affect dovetails with mine on stress-related trajectories for internalizing disorders and comorbidity. I thought you might actually get what I’m trying to do."

His brow lifts, just slightly. "You did your homework."

"Well, I’m asking you for feedback on a dissertation that will probably make me break down countless times before it's done. Figured I should know what I was getting into."

Dr. Abbot's mouth twitches. You wouldn’t call it a smile, exactly. But it’s something.

"Alright," he says, flipping open a calendar. "Let’s see if we can find a time next week to go over your proposal draft."

You arch a brow. "You’ll do it?"

"You came in prepared. And you didn’t waste my time—as much as the other fourth years. That gets you further than you’d think around here."

You nod, heart thudding. Not because you’re nervous.

Because you have the weirdest feeling that Jack Abbot just became your biggest academic problem—and your most unexpected ally.

You see him again the next day. Robby was enjoying his last remaining few weeks of paternity leave and graciously asked Jack to sub for his foundations of clinical psychology course. Jack preferred the word coerced but was silenced by a text message with a photo of a child attached. The baby was cute enough to warrant blackmail.

He barely got through the door intact: balancing a coffee cup between his teeth, cradling a half-closed laptop under one arm, and wrangling the straps of a clearly ancient backpack. His limp is more pronounced today. The small cohort watches him with a mix of curiosity and vague alarm.

You’re in the front row, laptop open before he even gets to the podium.

Jack drops everything onto the lectern with a heavy exhale, then glances around. His eyes catch on you and pause—not recognition yet, just flicker. Then he turns back to plug in his laptop.

You don’t expect to see him again two days later, striding into the 200-level general psych class you TA. The room’s already three-quarters of the way full when he walks in, and it takes him a moment before he does a brief double-take in your direction.

You return your attention to your notes. Jack stares.

"Small world."

"Nice to see you too, Dr. Abbot."

He sighs. "Why am I not surprised."

"Because the annual stipend increase doesn't adjust for inflation, I'm desperate, and there aren't enough grants given the current state of events?"

Jack mutters something under his breath about cosmic punishment and unfolds the syllabus from his coat pocket like it personally betrayed him.

When he finally settles at the front—coffee in one hand, laptop balancing precariously on the desk—you catch him bending and straightening his knee just under the edge of the table, jaw set tight. It’s subtle. Anyone else might miss it. But you’ve been watching.

You say nothing.

A few students linger with questions—mostly undergrads eager to impress, notebooks clutched to their chests, rattling off textbook jargon in shaky voices. Jack humors them, mostly. Nods here, clarification there. But his eyes flick to you more than once.

You take your time with the stack of late enrollment passes. He’s still watching when you sling your tote over one shoulder and head for the door.

Probably off to the lab. Or your cubicle in the main psych building. Wherever fourth years disappear to when they aren’t shadowing faculty or training underqualified and overzealous research assistants on data collection procedures.

Jack shifts his weight onto his good leg and half-listens to the sophomore with the over-highlighted textbook.

His eyes stay on you when you walk out.

You make it three steps past the stairwell before the sound of your name stops you. It’s not loud—more like a clipped murmur through the general noise of backpacks zipping and chairs scraping—but it cuts straight through.

You turn back.

Jack’s still at the front, the stragglers now filtering out behind him. He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t beckon. Just meets your gaze like he already knows you’ll wait. You do.

He makes his way toward you slowly, favoring one leg. The closer he gets, the more you notice—the way his hand tightens on the strap of his backpack, the exhausted pull at his brow. He’s not masking as well today.

"Thanks for not saying anything," he says when he stops beside you.

You shrug. "Didn’t seem like you needed an audience."

Jack huffs a laugh, dry and faintly surprised. "Most people mean well, but—"

"They hover," you finish. "Or overcompensate. Or say something weird and then try to walk it back."

"Exactly."

You both stand there for a beat too long, campus noise shifting around you like a slow tide.

"I was heading to the coffee shop," you say finally. "Did you want anything?"

Jack tilts his head. "Bribery?"

"Positive reinforcement." The words trail behind a small grin.

He shakes his head, mouth twitching. "Probably had enough caffeine for the day."

The corner of your lip curls higher. "As if there's such a thing."

That earns you a half-huff, half-scoff—just enough to let you believe you might have amused him.

"Well," you say, taking a step backward, "I’ve got three more RAs to train and one very stubborn loop to fix. See you around, Dr. Abbot."

"Good luck," he says, voice low but steady. "Don’t let the building eat you alive."

The next time he sees you, it’s after 10 p.m. on a Thursday.

You hadn’t planned on staying that late. But the dinosaur of a computer kept crashing, two of your participants no-showed, and by the time you’d salvaged the afternoon’s data to pull, it was easier to crash on the grad lounge couch than face the lone commute back to your apartment.

You must’ve fallen asleep halfway through reading feedback from your committee—curled up with your legs splayed over the edge of the couch and laptop perched on the cheap coffee table. The hall is mostly dark when Jack walks past. He’s heading toward the parking lot when he stops, mid-step.

For a moment, he just stands there, taking in the sight of you tucked awkwardly into yourself. You look comfortable in your oversized hoodie, if not for the highlighter cap still tucked between your fingers and mouth parted in a silent snore.

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you breathe for a few seconds longer than necessary.

Then, maybe with more curiosity than concern, he raps his knuckles gently against the doorframe. Once. Twice. Three times for good measure.

No response.

Jack steps inside and calls out, voice pitched low but insistent. "This is not a sustainable sleep schedule, you know."

You stir—just barely. A vague groan escapes your lips as you shift and swat clumsily in the direction of the noise. "Just five more minutes... need to run reliability analyses..."

Jack chuckles, genuine and surprised.

He leans against the wall, watching you with no urgency to leave. "Dreaming about data cleaning. Impressive."

You make a small, unintelligible noise and swat again, this time with a little more conviction. Jack snorts.

After a moment, he sighs. Then carefully crosses the room, picks up the crumpled throw blanket from the floor, and drapes it over you without ceremony.

He flicks off the overheads and closes the door behind him with a quiet click. The hallway hums with fluorescent buzz as he limps toward the parking lot, shoulders tucked in against the chill.

A few weeks into the semester, the rhythm settles—lecture, discussion, grading, rinse and repeat. But today, something shifts.

You’re stacking quizzes at the front of the general psych lecture hall when Jack catches movement out of the corner of his eye. Two male students—frat-adjacent, all oversized hoodies and entitled swagger—approach your desk.

Jack looks up from his laptop. His expression doesn’t shift, but something in his posture does—a subtle, perceptible freeze. He watches from where he’s still packing up—hand paused on his laptop case, jaw tight, eyes narrowing just slightly as he takes in the dynamic. There’s a flicker of tension behind his glasses, a pause that says: if you needed him, he’d step in.

They swagger up with the kind of smirks you’ve seen too many times before—overconfident, under-read, and powered by too many YouTube clips of alpha male podcasts.

"Yo, TA—what’s up?" one says, leaning far too close to your desk. "Was gonna ask something about the exam, but figured I’d shoot my shot first. You free later? Coffee on me."

His friend elbows him like he’s a comedic genius. "Yeah, like maybe we could pick your brain about, like, how to get into grad school. You probably have all the insider tricks, right?"

You don’t even blink.

"Sure," you say sweetly. "I’d love to review your application materials. Bring your CV, your transcript, three letters of rec, and proof that you’ve read the Title IX policy in full. Bonus points if you can make it through a meeting without quoting Andrew Tate—or I’ll assume you’re trying to get yourself suspended."

They stare. You smile.

One laughs uncertainly. The other mutters something about how "damn, okay," and both slink away.

Jack’s jaw works once. Then relaxes.

You glance up, like you knew he’d been watching.

"Well handled," he says, voice low as he steps beside you.

You offer a nonchalant shrug. "First years are getting bolder."

"Bold is one word for it."

You hand him a stack of leftover forms. "Relax, Dr. Abbot. I’ve survived undergrads before. I’ll survive again."

Jack gives a small, amused grunt. Then, after a beat: "You can call me Jack."

You glance up, brow raised.

"Feels a little formal to keep pretending we’re strangers.

You don’t say anything right away. Just nod once, almost imperceptibly, then go back to gathering your things.

He doesn’t push it.

It’s raining hard enough to rattle the windows.

You’re having what your cohort half-jokingly calls a "good brain day"—sentences coming easy, theory clicking into place, citations at your fingertips. You barely notice the weather.

Jack glances up from your chapter draft as you launch into a point about predictive error and affective flattening. He doesn't interrupt. His eyes follow how you pace—one hand gesturing, the other holding your annotated copy, words sharp and certain.

Eventually, you pause mid-thought and glance at him.

He's already looking at you.

Your hand flies up to cover your mouth. "Shit. I'm sorry—"

Jack shakes his head, lips twitching at the corners. "Don’t apologize. That was… brilliant."

You blink at him, the compliment stalling your momentum. The automatic response bubbles up fast—some joke to deflect, to downplay. You don't say it. Not this time.

Still, your fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the desk. "I don't know about brilliant..."

Jack doesn’t look away. "I do."

The silence stretches—not awkward, exactly, but thick. His gaze doesn’t waver, and it holds something steady and burning behind it.

You glance down at your annotated draft. The silence stays between you like a taut wire.

Jack doesn’t fill it. Just waits—gaze unwavering, as if giving you time to come to your own conclusion. No pressure, no indulgent smile. Just a quiet, grounded certainty that settles between you like weight.

Eventually, you exhale. The tension loosens—not completely, but enough to keep going.

"Okay," you murmur, almost to yourself.

Jack nods once, slowly. Then gestures at your printed draft. "Let’s talk about your integration of mindfulness in the discussion section. I’ve got a few thoughts."

Ethics is the last class of the week. The room's heating is inconsistent, the lights too bright, and Jack doesn’t know how the hell he ended up covering for Frank Langdon. Probably the same way he got stuck with Foundations and General Psych: Robby. The department’s too damn small and apparently everyone with a baby gets to vanish into thin air.

He steps into the room ten minutes early, coffee already lukewarm, and makes a half-hearted attempt to adjust the podium screen. The first few students trickle in, then more. He flips through the lecture slides, barely registering them.

And then he sees you.

You’re near the back, chatting with someone Jack doesn’t recognize. Another grad student by the look of him—slouched posture, soft jaw, navy sweater. The guy’s grinning like he thinks he’s charming. He leans in a little too close to your chair. Says something Jack can’t hear.

Jack tells himself he’s only looking because the guy seems familiar. Maybe someone from Walsh’s lab. Or Garcia’s.

You laugh at something—light, genuine.

Jack tries not to react.

Navy Sweater says something else, more animated now. He gestures to your laptop. Points to something. You nudge his hand away with a grin and say something back that makes him blush.

Jack flips the page on his lecture notes without reading a word.

You’re still smiling when you finally glance up toward the podium.

Your eyes meet.

Jack doesn’t look away. But he doesn’t smile either.

The guy beside you says something else. You nod politely.

But you’re not looking at him anymore.

The next time you're in Jack’s office, the air feels different—autumn sharp outside, but warm in here.

He notices things. Not all at once, but cumulatively.

Your hair’s longer now. It’s subtle, but the ends graze your jaw in a way they hadn’t before. You’ve started wearing darker shades—amber, forest green, burgundy—instead of the lighter neutrals from early fall. Small changes. Seasonal shifts.

He doesn’t say anything about any of that.

But then he sees it.

A faint smudge of something high on your neck, near the curve of your jaw.

"Rough night?" he asks, lightly. The tone’s casual, but his eyes stay there a second too long.

You look up, blinking. Then seem to realize. "Oh. No, it’s—nothing."

He raises an eyebrow, just once. Doesn’t press.

What you don’t say: you went on a date last night. Your first real date since your second year. Navy Sweater—Isaac—had been sweet. Patient. Social psych, so he talked about group dynamics and interdependence theory instead of clinical cases. A refreshing change from your usual context. He’d been pining for you since orientation. You finally gave him a chance.

You’re not sure yet if it was a mistake.

Jack doesn’t ask again. He just shifts his attention back to your printed draft, flipping a page without comment.

But you can feel it—that subtle change in the room. Like something under the surface has started to stir.

Jack doesn’t speak again for the rest of the meeting, at least not about anything that isn’t your manuscript. But the temperature between you has shifted, unmistakable even in silence.

His feedback is sharp, incisive, and you take it all in—but your focus tugs sideways more than once.

You start to notice little things. The way his hands move when he talks—precise, economical, almost always with a pen twirling between his fingers. The way he reads with his whole posture—leaned in slightly, brows furrowed, lips moving just barely like he’s tasting the cadence of each sentence. How he always wears button-downs, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, like he’s never quite comfortable in them.

You catch the faint scruff at his jawline, the flecks of gray you hadn’t seen before in the fluorescent classroom light. The quiet groan of his office chair as he shifts to get more comfortable—though he never quite does. The occasional tap of his fingers against the desk when he’s thinking. The way his eyes track you when you pace, like he’s cataloging your rhythm.

When he leans in to gesture at a line in your text, you’re aware of his proximity in a way you hadn’t been before. The warmth that radiates off him. The way his breath hitches just slightly before he speaks.

When you ask a clarifying question, he meets your eyes and holds the gaze a fraction too long.

It shouldn’t mean anything. It probably doesn’t.

Still, when you pack up to leave, you don’t rush. Neither does he.

He walks you to the door, stops just short of it.

"Good luck with the coding," he says.

You nod. "Thanks. See you next week."

He hesitates, then nods once more. "Yeah. Next week."

And when you leave his office, the echo of that pause follows you down the hall.

At home, Jack goes through the same routine he always does. He hangs up his coat. Places his keys in the ceramic dish by the door. Fills the kettle. Rinses a clean mug from the rack without thinking—habit, even if it’s just for himself.

Then he sits down on the edge of the couch and unbuckles the prosthetic from his leg with practiced efficiency. He leans forward, slow and deliberate, and cleans the area with a soft cloth, checking the skin for signs of irritation before applying a thin layer of ointment. Only then does he begin to massage the tender spot where his leg ends, pressing the heel of his palm just enough to release tension. The ache is dull tonight, but persistent. It always is when the weather shifts.

He doesn’t turn on the TV. When he buckles it back on and gets up again, he moves around his apartment quietly, the limp less noticeable this time around.

While the water heats, he scrolls through emails on his phone—most from admin, flagged with false urgency. A few unread messages from students, one from a journal editor asking for another reviewer on a manuscript that costs too much to publish open access. He deletes half, archives another third. Wonders when it became so easy to ignore what used to feel so important.

The kettle whistles. He pours the water over the tea bag and sets it down, not bothering with the stack of essays he meant to look at hours ago.

He doesn’t touch them.

Not yet.

Tonight, his rhythm is off.

Instead, he looks over your latest draft after dinner, meaning only to skim. He finds himself rereading the same paragraph three times, mind somewhere else entirely. Your words, your phrasing, your comments in the margins—he's memorizing them. Not intentionally. It just happens.

Later, brushing his teeth, Jack thinks of how you’d looked that afternoon: eyes sharp, expression animated, tucked into a wool sweater the color of cinnamon. Hair falling forward when you tilted your head to listen, then swept back with one distracted hand. A little ink smudged on your finger. The edge of a smile you didn’t know you were wearing.

He wonders if you know how often you pace when you’re deep in thought. How your whole posture changes when something clicks—like your bones remember before your voice does. How you gesture with the same hand you write with, sometimes forgetting you’re holding a pen at all.

He tells himself it’s just professional attentiveness. That he’s tuned into all his students this way. That noticing you in detail is part of his job.

But it’s a lie. And the truth has started to settle into his bones.

He closes his laptop, shuts off the light.

He dreams in fragments—lecture notes and old conference halls, the scent of rain-soaked leaves, the sound of your voice mid-sentence. The ghost of a laugh.

He doesn’t remember the shape of the dream when he wakes.

Only the warmth that lingers in its place.

Across town, you’re on another date with Isaac.

He’s funny tonight—quick with dry quips, gentler than you'd expected. He walks you to a small café far from campus, one you’ve driven by a dozen times but never tried. He orders chai with oat milk. You get the pumpkin spice out of spite.

"Pumpkin spice, really?" he teases. "Living the stereotype."

"It’s autumn," you shoot back. "Let me have one basic pleasure."

You talk about everything but your dissertation—TV shows, childhood pets, the worst advice you’ve ever received from an advisor. Inevitably, you steer the conversation into something about work. It's a habit you seem to remember having since your earliest academic days, and one you don't see yourself breaking free from anytime soon.

"My undergrad advisor once told me I’d never get into grad school unless I stopped sounding ‘so West Coast.’ Still not sure what that means."

Isaac laughs. "Mine told me to pick a research topic ‘I wouldn’t mind reading about for the rest of my life.’ As if anyone wants to read their own lit review twice."

You laugh—genuine, belly-deep. Isaac flushes with pride and takes a long sip of his chai, eyes bright.

It's easy with him, you think. Talking, breathing, being. You lean back in your chair, cup warm between your palms, and realize you should feel more present than you do.

He’s exactly what you thought you needed. Different. Outside your orbit. Not tangled up in diagnoses or a department that feels more like a pressure cooker every day.

But still, your mind drifts. Not far. Just enough.

Back to the way Jack had looked at you earlier that day. The pause before he spoke. The silence that wasn’t quite silence.

You can’t put your finger on it. You don’t want to.

Isaac reaches across the table to brush his fingers against yours. You let him.

And yet.

You catch yourself glancing toward the door as he brushes your fingers. Just once. Barely perceptible. A flicker of something unformed tugging at the edge of your attention.

Not for any reason you can name. Not because anything happened. But because something did—quiet and slow and not easily undone.

You remember the way his brow furrowed as he read your chapter, the steadiness in his voice when he called your argument brilliant, the way he looked at you like the room had narrowed down to a single point.

Isaac is sweet. Funny. Steady. You should be here.

But your mind keeps slipping sideways.

And Jack Abbot—stubborn, sharp, unreadable Jack—is suddenly everywhere. In the cadence of a sentence you revise, where you hear his voice in your head asking, 'Why this framework? Why now?' In the questions you don’t ask Isaac because you already know how Jack would answer them—precise, cutting, but never unkind. In the sudden, irritating way you want someone to challenge you just a little more. To push back, to poke holes, to see if your argument still stands.

You find yourself wondering what he’s doing tonight. If he’s at home, pacing through a quiet, single-family home too large for his own company. If he’s reading someone else’s manuscript with the same intensity. If he ever thinks about the way you looked that afternoon, how you paced his office with fire in your voice and a red pen tucked behind your ear.

You think about the hitch in his breath when you leaned in. The way he’d watched you leave, that pause at the door.

And then Isaac says something—soft, thoughtful—and it takes you a second too long to register it. You nod, distracted, and reach for your drink again.

But your mind is already elsewhere.

Still with someone else.

You take another sip of your drink. Smile at Isaac. Let the moment pass.

But even then, even here—Jack is in the room.

You don’t see Jack again until the following Thursday. It’s raining hard again—something about mid-semester always seems to come with the weather—and the psych building smells like wet paper and overworked radiators.

You’re in the hallway, hunched over a Tupperware of leftover lentils and trying to catch up on grading, when his door creaks open across the hall. You glance up reflexively.

He’s standing there, brow furrowed, papers in hand. He spots you. Freezes.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The hallway is quiet, just the hum of fluorescents and the distant murmur of a class in session. Then:

"Grading?" he asks, voice lower than usual—quiet, but unmistakably curious.

You lift your fork, deadpan. "Don’t sound so jealous."

Jack’s mouth twitches—almost a smile. A pause, then: "You’re in Langdon’s office hours slot, right?"

"Only if I bring snacks," you quip, referring to the way Frank Langdon always lets the TA with snacks cut the line—a running joke in the department.

Jack raises his coffee like a toast. "Then I’ll keep walking." A dry little truce. An unspoken I’ll stay out of your way—unless you want me to stay.

You watch him disappear down the hallway, his limp slightly more pronounced than usual. And you find yourself thinking—about how many times you’ve noticed that, and how many times he’s never once drawn attention to it.

Your spoon scrapes the bottom of the container. You try to return to grading.

You don’t get much done.

Later that afternoon, you’re back in the general psych lecture hall, perched on the side of the desk with your TA notes while Jack clicks through the day’s slides. It’s the second time he’s teaching this unit and he’s not even pretending to follow the script. You know him well enough now to catch the subtle shifts—when he goes off-book, lets the theory breathe.

He doesn’t look at you while he lectures, but you can tell when he’s aware of you. The slight change in cadence, the way his eyes flick toward the front row where you sometimes sit, sometimes stand.

Today’s lecture is on conditioning. Classical, operant, extinction.

At one point, Jack pauses at the podium. He’s talking about fear responses—conditioned reactions, the body’s anticipatory wiring, what it takes to unlearn a threat. You’ve heard this part a dozen times in college and a dozen more in grad school. You’ve written about it. You've published on it.

But when he says, "Fear isn’t erased. It’s overwritten," his eyes flick toward you—just for a second.

And your heart trips a little. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way—more like a misstep in rhythm, a skipped beat in a song you thought you knew by heart. Your breath catches for half a second, and you feel the heat rush to the tips of your ears.

It’s absurd, maybe. Definitely. But the tone of his voice when he said it—that measured, worn certainty—lands somewhere deep inside you. Not clinical. Not abstract. It feels like he’s speaking to something unspoken, to a part of you you've tried to keep quiet.

You shift your weight, pretending to re-stack a paper that doesn’t need re-stacking, pulse louder than it should be in your ears.

From your seat on the edge of the desk, you can see the way he gestures with his hand, slow and spare, like every movement costs something. The way he leans on his good leg. The way the muscles in his forearm flex as he flips to the next slide, still speaking, still teaching—none of this showing on his face.

Your eyes keep drifting back.

And he doesn’t look at you again. Not for the rest of the lecture.

But you feel the weight of that glance long after the class ends.

You stay after class, mostly to gather the quiz sheets and handouts. A few students linger, asking Jack questions about the exam. You hear him shift into that firm-but-generous tone he uses with undergrads, the kind that makes them think he’s colder than he is. Efficient. Clear.

When the last student finally packs up and leaves the room, Jack straightens. His eyes find you, soft but unreadable.

"Good lecture," you say.

He hums. "Not bad for a recycled deck."

You hand him the stack of forms. "You made it your own."

His thumb brushes over the edge of the papers. "So did you."

You don’t ask what he means. But the quiet between you feels different than it did at the start of the semester.

The room is mostly empty. Just the two of you. You're caught somewhere between impulse and caution. Approach and avoidance. There's a pull in your chest, low and slow, that makes you want to linger a second longer. To say something else. To ask about the lecture, or the line he looked at you during, or the kind of day he's had. But your voice sticks.

Instead, you shift again, adjust your grip on the papers in your hands, and let it all stay unsaid. But Jack’s already turned back toward the podium, gathering his things.

He doesn’t look up right away. Just slides his laptop into its case with more force than necessary, his jaw set tight. He’s annoyed with himself. The kind of annoyance that comes from knowing he missed something—not a moment, exactly, but the shadow of one. An opening. And he let it pass.

There was a question in your eyes. Or maybe not a question—maybe a dare. Maybe just the start of one. And he didn’t rise to meet it.

He tells himself that’s good. That’s safe. That’s professional.

But it doesn’t feel like a win.

His hand pauses on the zipper. He breathes out through his nose, not quite a sigh. Then glances toward the door.

You’re already gone.

You let the moment pass.

But you feel it. Like something just under the surface, waiting for another breach in the routine.

It happens late one evening, entirely by accident.

You’re in your office, door mostly closed, light still on. You meant to leave hours ago—meant to finish your email and call it—but the combination of caffeine and a dataset that refused to make sense kept you tethered to your desk.

Jack’s on his way out of the building when he hears it: a muffled sound from behind a half-open door just across the hallway from his own. He pauses, backtracks, and realizes for the first time exactly where your office is.

He hears it again—a quiet sniffle, then a low, barely-there laugh like you’re trying to brush it off.

He knocks.

You don’t answer.

"Hey," he says, voice just loud enough to carry but still gentle. "You alright?"

The sound of your chair creaking. A breath caught in your throat.

"Shit—Jack." You swipe at your face automatically, the name out before you think about it.

He steps just inside, not crossing the threshold. "Didn’t mean to scare you."

You shake your head, still blinking fast. "No, I just—burned out. Hit a wall. It’s fine. Nothing serious. Just… one of those days." You try for a joke.

Jack’s eyes sweep the room. The state of your desk. The way your sweater sleeves are pulled down over your hands. He shifts his weight.

There’s a long pause. Then he says, softer, "Can I—?"

You furrow your brows for a moment before nodding.

He steps in and leaves the door slightly cracked open behind him. He remains by the edge of your desk, a respectful distance between you. His presence is quiet but steady, and he doesn't pry with questions.

You exhale slowly, suddenly aware of the sting behind your eyes and how tight your shoulders have been all day. You look down, embarrassed, and when you reach for a tissue, your hand grazes his by accident.

You both freeze.

It’s nothing, really. A brush of skin. But it lands like something else. Not unwelcome. Not forgotten.

Jack doesn’t pull away. But he doesn’t linger, either.

Jack doesn’t move at first. He watches you for a moment longer, the quiet in the room settling unevenly.

"You sure you’re alright?" he asks, voice low, unreadable.

You nod, quick. "Yeah. I’m fine."

It comes too fast. Reflexive. But it lands the way you want it to—firm, closed.

Jack nods slowly. He doesn’t push. "Okay."

He steps back, finally. "Just—don’t stay too late, alright?"

You offer a smaller nod.

He hesitates again. Then turns and slips out without another word.

Your office feels warmer once he’s gone.

And your breath feels just a little easier.

Jack makes his way down the hallway toward the faculty lounge with the intention of grabbing a fresh coffee before his office hours. He passes a few students loitering in the corridor—chatter, laughter, the usual.

But then he hears your voice. Quiet, edged. Just outside the lecture hall.

"Isaac, I’m not having this conversation again. Not here."

Jack slows. Doesn’t stop, but slows and finds a small nook just shy of the corner.

"I just don’t get why you won’t answer a simple question," Isaac says. "Are you seeing someone else or not?"

There’s a pause. Jack glances down at the coffee in his hand and debates turning around.

But then he hears your exhale—sharp, frustrated. "No. I’m not."

Isaac huffs. "Then what is this? You’re always somewhere else—even when we’re out, even on weekends. It’s like your head’s in another fucking dimension."

Jack feels the hairs on his neck stand up. He sees you standing with your back half-turned to Isaac, arms crossed tightly over your chest. Isaac’s face is flushed, his voice a little too loud for the setting. Your posture is still—too still.

Jack doesn’t step in. Not yet. He stays just out of sight, near the hallway alcove. Close enough to hear. Close enough to watch.

You draw in a long breath. When you speak, your voice is level, cold. "I just don’t think I’m in the right place to be in a relationship right now."

Isaac’s expression shifts—confused, hurt.

Jack watches the edge of your profile. How your shoulders lock into place. How your eyes go distant, like you’re powering down every soft part of yourself.

He doesn’t breathe.

Then someone laughs down the hallway, and the moment breaks. Isaac looks over his shoulder, distracted for half a beat, then turns back to you with something sharp in his eyes.

"You’re not even trying," he says, voice low but biting. "I’m giving you everything I’ve got, and you’re... somewhere else. Always."

You stiffen. Jack stays hidden, tension rippling down his spine.

"I know..." you say, voice tight. "I'm sorry. I really am. But this isn’t working."

Isaac’s face contorts. "Seriously? That’s it?"

You shake your head. "You deserve someone who’s fully here. Who wants the same things you do. I’m not that person right now."

He opens his mouth to say something, but your eyes have already gone cold. Guarded. Clinical.

"I don't want to whip out the 'it's not you it's me bullshit'," you continue, each word deliberate. "But this isn’t about you doing something wrong. It’s me. I can’t give more than I’ve already given."

Jack watches the shift in your posture—how you shut it all down, protect the last open pieces of yourself. He recognizes it because he’s done the same.

"I'm sorry." The words are genuine. "You deserve better." Your eyes don't betray you. For a moment, though, your expression softens. You look at Isaac like a kicked dog, like you wish you could offer something kinder. But then it’s gone. Your eyes go cold again, your voice a blade dulled only by exhaustion.

Then someone laughs again down the hallway, closer this time, and the moment scatters. Jack moves past without a word. Doesn’t look at you directly.

But he sees you.

And he doesn’t forget what he saw.

As he passes, you glance up. Your eyes meet.

Only for a second.

Then he’s gone.

Isaac doesn’t notice.

Time passes. You're back in Jack's office for your regular one-on-one—but something is different.

You sit a little straighter. Speak a little quieter. The bright curiosity you usually carry in your voice has hardened, now precise ,restrained. Not icy, but guarded. Pulled taut.

You’re not trying to be unreadable, but you can feel yourself defaulting. Drawing the boundaries back up.

Jack notices.

He doesn’t say anything, but you catch the slight narrowing of his gaze as he listens.

You’d gone all in on this program, this career—your research, your ambitions, your carefully calculated goals. Isaac was the first time you'd tried letting something else in. A possibility. A softness.

And it crashed. Of course it did.

Because that’s what you do. That’s the pattern. You’re excellent at control, planning, systems, at hypothesis testing and case management. But when it comes to anything outside the academic orbit—connection, trust, letting someone see the jagged pieces under the polish—you flinch. You fail.

And you’ve learned not to let that show. Not anymore.

At one point, you trail off mid-sentence. Jack doesn’t fill the silence.

You clear your throat. Try again.

There’s something steadier in his quiet today. You finally finish your point and glance up. His expression is neutral, but his gaze is… undivided.

"Are you okay?"

It catches you off guard. You blink once, not expecting the question, not from him, not here.

You start to nod. Then pause. Your throat feels tight for a second.

"Yeah," you say. "I’m fine."

Jack doesn’t look away. He holds your gaze a moment longer. Not pressing. Not interrogating. Just there.

"You should know better than to lie to a psychologist."

It’s almost a joke. Almost. Just enough curve at the corner of your mouth to soften it. You let out a breath—half a laugh, half a sigh. "Guess I need to reassess my baseline."

Jack leans forward slightly. Then, without saying anything, reaches over and closes your laptop. Slides it just out of reach on the desk.

You open your mouth to protest.

Jack cuts in, quiet but firm. "You need to turn your brain off before it short circuits."

You blink. He continues, gentler this time. "Just for a few minutes. You don’t have to push through every wall. Sometimes it’s okay to sit still. Breathe. Be a human being."

You look down at your hands, fingers curled around a pen you hadn’t realized you were still holding. There’s a long pause before you speak.

"I don’t know how to do that," you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

Jack doesn’t say anything at first. He lets the silence settle. "Start small," he says. "We’re not built to stay in fight-or-flight forever."

The words land heavier than you expect. You stare down at your hands, your knuckles paling against the pressure of your grip. Your breath stutters on the way out.

Jack doesn’t move, but his presence feels closer somehow—like the room has contracted around the two of you, warm and steady.

You set the pen down slowly. Swallow. Your eyes burn, but nothing falls.

Your jaw shifts. Just a fraction.

You don’t say anything at first.

Jack doesn’t either. But he doesn’t look away.

After a beat, he says—careful, quiet—"You want to talk about it?"

You hesitate, eyes fixed on a crease in your jeans. "No."

He waits. "I think you do."

You laugh under your breath. It’s not funny. "This how you talk to all of your clients?"

He doesn't bite.

"You don’t let up, do you?" You're only half-serious.

"I do," he pauses. "When it matters. Just not when my mentee is sitting in front of me looking like the world’s pressing down on their ribcage."

That makes you flinch. Not visibly, not to most. But he sees it. Of course he does. He’s trained to.

You look at your hands. He's not going to let this go so you might as well bite the bullet. "I'm not great at the whole... letting people in thing."

Jack doesn’t respond. Just shifts his weight slightly in his chair—almost imperceptibly. A silent invitation.

Your voice stays quiet. Measured. "I usually just throw myself into work. It’s easier. It’s something I can control."

Still, he says nothing.

You pick at the seam of your sleeve. "Other stuff... it gets messy. Too unpredictable. People are unpredictable."

Jack’s gaze never wavers. He doesn’t push. But the absence of interruption is its own kind of presence—steady, open.

Your lips twitch in a faint, humorless smile. "I know that’s ironic coming from someone studying emotion regulation."

He finally says, softly, "Sometimes the people who study it hardest are the ones trying to figure it out for themselves."

That makes your eyes flick up. His expression is calm. Receptive. No judgment. No smile, either. Just… presence.

You look down again. Your voice even softer now. "I don’t know how to do it. Not really."

Jack doesn’t interrupt. Just shifts, barely, like bracing.

And somehow, that makes you keep going.

"Grad school’s easier. Career’s easier. I can plan. I can control. Everything else just…" You trail off. Shrug, a flicker of helplessness.

He’s still watching you. The way he does when he’s listening hard, like there’s a string between you and he’s waiting to see if you’ll keep tugging it.

"I thought maybe..." You press your lips together. "I thought I could do it. Let someone in. Be a person. A twenty-nine year old, for fuck's sake." Your hands come up to your face. "But it just reminded me why I don’t."

You draw a slow breath. Something in your chest cracks. Not a collapse—just a fault line giving way.

Jack just stares.

Then, slowly, he leans back—not away, but into the quiet. He folds his hands in his lap, thumb tracing a familiar line over his knuckle. A practitioner’s stillness. A kind of careful permission.

"You know," he says, voice low, "when I first started in trauma research, I thought if I understood it well enough, I could outsmart it. Like if I had the right frameworks, if I mapped the pathways right, it wouldn’t touch me."

You glance up.

He exhales through his nose—dry, but not bitter. "Turns out, knowing the symptoms doesn’t stop you from living them. Doesn’t stop the body from remembering."

He doesn’t specify. Doesn’t have to.

His eyes flick to yours. "But you don’t have to be fluent in trust to start learning it. You don’t have to be good at it yet. You just have to let someone sit with you in the silence."

You study him. The sharpness of his jaw, the quiet behind his glasses, the wear in his voice that doesn’t make it weaker.

Your throat tightens, but you don’t speak.

He doesn’t need you to.

He just stays there—anchored. Steady. Unmoving.

Like he's not waiting for you to come undone.

He's waiting for you to believe you don’t have to.

It's Friday night. You’re walking a participant through the start of a lab assessment—part of the longitudinal stress and memory protocol you’ve spent the last year fine-tuning. The task itself is simple enough: a series of conditioned images, paired with soft tones. But you watch the participant's pulse rise on the screen. Notice the minute shift in posture, the tension in their jaw.

You pause. Slow things down.

"Remember," you say gently, "we’re looking at how your body responds when it doesn’t need to anymore. The point isn’t to trick you—it’s to see what happens when the threat isn’t real. When it’s safe."

The participant nods, still uneasy.

You don’t blame them.

Later, the metaphor clings to you like static from laundry fresh out of the dryer. Fear extinction: the process of unlearning what once kept you alive. Or something close to it.

You think of what Jack said. What he didn’t say. The silence he offered like a landing strip.

It replays in your head more than you'd like to admit—the dim warmth of his office, the soft click of your laptop closing, the unexpected steadiness in his voice. No clinical jargon. No agenda. Just space. Permission.

You remember the way he folded his hands. The faint scuff on the corner of his desk. The way he didn’t fill the air with reassurances or advice. Just stayed quiet until the quiet felt less like drowning and more like floating.

And it had made something in your chest stutter—because you'd spent years studying fear responses, coding reactivity curves and salience windows, mapping out prediction error pathways and understanding affect labeling.

But none of your models accounted for the way someone simply sitting with you could ease the grip of it.

Maybe, you think now, as you log the participant's final response, this is what fear extinction looks like outside of a lab setting. Not just reducing reactivity to a blue square or a sharp tone.

But learning—relearning—how it feels to let another person in and survive it.

Maybe Jack wasn’t offering a solution.

Maybe he was offering proof.

Is this what it looked like in practice? Not just in a scanner or a skin conductance chart—but in the quiet, everyday choice of showing up? Staying?

Perhaps the data is secondary and this is the experiment.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re already in the middle of it.

The new semester begins in a blur of syllabi updates and shuffled office assignments. It's your final year before internship—a fact that looms and hums in the background like a lamp you can't turn off. You’re no longer the quiet, watchful second-year—you’ve published, you've taught, you've survived.

But you’re also exhausted. You’ve become adept at wearing competence like armor.

Jack is teaching an elective course this semester—Epigenetics of Trauma. You're enrolled in it—a course you didn’t technically need, but couldn’t resist for reasons you cared not to admit.

When you pass him in the hallway—coffee in one hand, a paper balanced on his clipboard—he stops.

"Did you hear the department finally updated the HVAC?" he asks, and it’s not really about the HVAC.

You nod, a wry smile tugging at your mouth. "Barely. Still feels like a sauna most days."

Jack gestures to your cardigan. "And yet you persist."

You grin. It’s a tiny thing. But it stays.

Later that week, he pokes his head into your office between student meetings.

"You’re on the panel for the trauma symposium, right?"

The one you were flying to at the end of October—thanks to Robby, who had playfully threatened to submit your name himself if you didn’t volunteer. He’d needed someone to piggyback off of, he’d said, and who better than his best grad student—who was also swamped with grant deadlines, dissertation chapters, and a growing list of internship applications. You’d rolled your eyes and said yes, of course, because that’s what you did. And maybe because a part of you liked the challenge, academic mascochism and validation and all.

You nod. "Talk and discussion."

He steps farther in. "If you’re open to it—I’d like to sit in."

You glance up. "You’ve already read the draft."

Jack smiles. "Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to hear it out loud."

You lean back slightly, watching him. "You going to grill me from the audience and be that one guy?"

Jack raises an eyebrow, amused. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

You hum. "Mmhm."

But you’re smiling now. Just a little.

It’s not quite vulnerability. Not yet. But it’s a beginning. A reset. The next slow iteration in a long series of exposures. New responses. New learning. Acceptance in the face of uncertainty.

The only way fear ever learns to quiet down.

Robby’s already three beers in and trying to argue that Good Will Hunting is actually a terrible representation of therapy while Mel King—your cohort-mate in the developmental area, always mindful and reserved—defends its emotional core like it’s a thesis chapter she’s still revising in her head.

Mentored by John Shen, Mel studies peer rejection and emotional socialization in early childhood, and she talks about toddlers with the same reverence some people reserve for philosophers. Her dissertation focuses on how early experiences of exclusion and inclusion shape later prosocial behavior, and she can recite every milestone in the Denver Developmental Screening Test like scripture.

She’s known for respectful debates, non-caffeinated bursts of energy, and an uncanny ability to babysit and code data at the same time. The kind of person who shows up with a snack bag labeled for every child at a study visit—and still finds time to coordinate the department's annual "bring your child to work" day. She even makes time to join you and Samira on your Sunday morning farmers market walks, reusable tote slung over one shoulder, ready to talk about plum varieties and which stand has the best sourdough.

Samira Mohan, meanwhile, sits with her signature whiskey sour and a stack of color-coded notecards she pretends not to be working on. She’s in the clinical area too—mentored by Collins—and her work focuses on how minority stress intersects with emotion regulation in underserved populations. Her analyses are razor sharp and sometimes terrifying. Samira rarely speaks unless she knows her words will land precisely—measured, deliberate, the kind of sharp that cuts clean.

Although still in her early prospectus phase, choosing to propose in her fifth year rather than fourth, her dissertation is shaping into a cross-sectional and mixed-methods exploration of how racial and gender minority stressors compound across contexts—academic, familial, and romantic—and the specific emotion regulation repertoires that emerge as survival strategies.

Samira doesn’t stir the pot for fun; she does it when she sees complacency and feels compelled to light a fire under it. That’s the Samira everyone knows and you love—the one who will quietly dismantle your entire line of argument with one clinical observation and a deadpan stare. She does exactly that now, throwing in a quote from bell hooks with the sly smile of someone who knows she’s lit a fuse just to watch it burn.

It’s a blur of overlapping conversations, familiar inside jokes, cheap spirits, and the particular cadence of a group that knows each other’s pressure points and proposal deadlines down to the day. For a moment you let yourself exist in it—in the din, in the messy affection of your academic family, in the safety you didn’t know you’d built, much less deserved. Samira’s halfway through a story about a disastrous clinical interview when she turns to you, parts her mouth to speak, and looks up behind you—

"So is this where all the cool kids hang out?"

You feel him before you see him—Jack’s presence like a low hum behind you, the soft waft of his cologne cutting through the ambient chatter. The light buzz of conversation has your senses dialed up, awareness prickling at the back of your neck. You don’t turn. You don’t have to.

Robby lets out a loud "whoohoo" as Jack joins the table, hauling him into a bro hug with the miraculously coordinated enthusiasm of someone riding high off departmental gossip. Jack rolls his eyes but doesn’t resist, letting Robby thump his back twice before extracting himself but instead of settling there, he leans down slightly, voice pitched just for you. “Is this seat taken?”

Robby at 12 o'clock, Heather to his left, then Samira, Mel, you, and John. The large circular table meant for twelve suddenly feels exponentially smaller. The tablecloth brushes your knees, heavy and starchy against your lap. You feel warmth creep up your cheeks—probably from the alcohol (definitely not from anything else)—and scoot over slightly closer to Mel, giving him room to squeeze in between you and John. You can feel the shift in the air, the proximity of his sleeve against yours, the silent knowledge that he's there now—anchored in your orbit.

He slides in beside you with a quiet murmur of thanks, the space between your arms barely more than a breath. The conversation continues, but the air feels a little different now.

He nods politely to Shen on his left, mutters something about being tricked into another committee, then glances your way—dry, amused, measured.

Always measured.

You feel Jack beside you—not just his sleeve brushing yours, but his presence, calm and dense as gravity. His knee bumps yours beneath the table once, lightly, maybe unintentional. Maybe not. The cologne still lingers faintly and you try to focus on what Samira is saying about peer-reviewed journals versus reviewer roulette, but it’s impossible to ignore the warmth radiating from his side, the way your skin registers it before your brain does. He's like a human crucible. You keep your gaze trained forward, sipping your drink a little too casually, pretending you don’t notice the way your heartbeat’s caught in your throat.

The charged air gives you a spike of bravery—fleeting, foolish, and just enough. Before you let the doubt creep into your veins, you nudge your knee toward Jack’s beneath the table, thankful for the tablecloth concealing the movement. You feel him exhale beside you—quiet, but unmistakable—and something inside you hums in response.

You feel Jack’s thigh tense against yours. The contact lingers, neither of you moving. Moments pass. Nothing happens.

So you cross your legs slowly, right over left, deliberately, letting the heel of your shoe graze his calf.

He stills.

The conversation around the table doesn’t pause, but you’re aware of every breath, every shift in weight beside you. The air between you tightens, stretched across the tension of everything unsaid.

Everyone else is occupied—Robby and Shen deep in conversation about conference logistics, Heather and Samira bickering over which of them was the worse TA, Mel nodding along and adding commentary between sips of cider. Jack sees the opening and seizes it.

He leans in, just slightly, until his shoulder brushes yours again—barely perceptible. "Subtle," he murmurs, voice pitched low, teasing.

You arch a brow, still facing forward. “I have no idea what you're talking.”

"Of course not," he says, dry. "Just sudden interest in the hem of the tablecloth, is it?"

You swirl your drink, letting the glass tilt in your fingers. "I’m a tactile learner. You know this."

He huffs a quiet breath—could almost be a laugh. "Must make data cleaning a thrilling experience."

"Only when R crashes mid-run." You angle your knee back toward his under the table, a soft bump like punctuation.

Jack tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking to yours. "Dangerous territory."

"Afraid of a little ambiguity, professor?"

His mouth twitches at the title.

You sip slowly, buying time, letting the quiet between you stretch like a drawn breath. His thigh is still pressed against yours. Still unmoving. Still deliberate.

"You always like to push your luck this much?" you murmur, keeping your eyes trained on your drink.

Jack hums low. "Only when the risk feels... calculated."

You glance at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. "Bit of a reward sensitivity bias tonight, Dr. Abbot?"

He shrugs. "You’ve been unintentionally reinforcing bad behavior."

You smirk, but say nothing, letting the conversation around you swell again. Robby starts ranting about departmental politics, Heather counters with a story about a grant mix-up that almost ended in flames. You sip your drink, Samira taps her notecards absently against her palm.

The rest of the evening hums on, warm and loose around the edges. When it finally winds down—people slowly gathering coats, hugging their goodbyes—you rise with the group, still a little buzzed, still aware of Jack’s presence beside you like heat that never quite left your side.

Under the soft yellow glow of the dim lobby chandelier, everyone says their goodnights—laughing, tipsy, hugging, good vibes all around. Jack is the last to leave the circle, and as you turn toward the elevator, you glance over your shoulder at him. "See you tomorrow," you say. "Last day of the conference—only the most boring panels left."

Jack lifts a brow. "You wound me."

You grin. "I’m just saying—if you show up in sweats and a baseball cap for your presentation, I’ll pretend not to know you."

The elevator dings. The doors slide open. You step inside, leaning against the railing. Jack stays behind.

"Goodnight," he says, eyes lingering. You nod, then turn, pressing the button for your floor. Just as the doors begin to glide shut, a hand slides into the narrow threshold—the border between hesitation and something else.

Palm flat against the seam. That sliver of metal and air.

He steps in slowly. Quiet. And presses the button for the same floor.

The doors slide shut behind him with a soft hiss.

Silence hums between you.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. But your awareness of each other sharpens—your breath shallow, his jaw tense. The elevator jolts into motion.

Jack shifts slightly, turning his body just enough to lean back against the railing—mirroring you. His arm grazes yours. Then the back of his hand brushes against your knuckles.

A spark—not metaphorical, not imagined—zips down your arm.

Neither of you pulls away.

You glance sideways.

He’s already looking at you.

Your eyes meet—held, quiet.

Not a word is exchanged. But something breaks—clean and sharp, like a snapped circuit. Long-simmering, unvoiced tension rising to the surface, clinging to the pause between heartbeats and motion-sensor lighting.

Jack leans in—not tentative, not teasing. Just close enough that his breath grazes your cheek. Your breath catches. His proximity feels like a fuse. He’s watching you—steady, unreadable. But you feel the pressure in the air shift, charged and thick.

"I don’t know what this is," you finally whisper. Your throat feels incredibly dry. A sharp juxtaposition to the state of your undergarments.

Jack’s voice dips low. "I think we’ve both been trying not to look too closely."

Your chest tightens. His hand twitches by his side. Flexing. Gripping. Restraint unraveling. His breath shallows, matching yours—fast, hungry, starved of oxygen and logic. And then, like a spark to dry kindling, you thread your fingers through his.

Heat erupts between your palms, a jolt that hits your spine. You don’t flinch. You don’t pull away. You tighten your grip.

He exhales—shaky, like it’s cost him everything not to close the distance between your mouths. The electricity is unbearable, like a dam on the edge of collapse.

And still, neither of you move. Not quite yet.

But the air is thick with the promise: the next breach will not be small.

The elevator dings.

You both flinch—just barely.

The doors slide open.

You release his hand slowly, fingers slipping apart like sand through mesh, reluctant and slow but inevitable. Jack's hands stay in a slightly open grip.

"I should..." you begin, breath catching. You clear your throat. "Goodnight, Jack."

Your voice is soft. Almost too soft.

Jack nods once. Doesn’t reach again. Doesn’t follow.

"Goodnight," he says. Low, warm. Weighted.

You step out. Don’t look back.

The doors begin to close.

You glance over your shoulder, once—just once.

Your eyes meet through the narrowing gap.

Then the doors seal shut, quiet as breath.

For now.

Contrary to Samira's reappraisal of you joining her for Friday night drinks, you begrudgingly allow her to drag you out of your cave. Just the two of you—girls’ night, no work talk allowed, and no saying "I need to work on my script" more than once. She makes you wear lip gloss and a top that could almost be considered reckless, and you down two tequila sodas before you even start to loosen your shoulders.

You’re halfway through your third drink when a pair of guys approaches—normal-looking, vaguely grad-school adjacent, maybe from public health or law school. Samira gives you a look that says seems safe enough, and you need this, and so you nod. You dance.

The one paired off with you is tall, not unpleasant. He asks before he touches you—his hand at your waist, then your hip, then lightly over your ribs. You nod, give consent. He smells like good cologne and something sugary, and he’s saying all the right things.

But something feels wrong.

You realize it halfway through the song, when his hand brushes the curve of your waist again, gentle and careful and... wrong. Too polite. Too other.

You think of the way Jack’s fingers had curled between yours. The heat of his palm against yours for a single minute in the elevator. The way he hadn’t touched you anywhere else—but it had felt like everything.

You close your eyes, trying to ground yourself. But you can’t stop comparing.

You’ve danced with this stranger for five whole minutes, and it hasn’t come close to the electricity of the sixty seconds you spent not speaking, not kissing, not touching anything else in the elevator with Jack.

It shouldn’t mean anything but it means everything.

You step back, thanking the guy politely, claiming a bathroom break. He nods, not pushy, already scanning the room.

Samira follows a song change later. "You okay?"

You nod. Then shake your head. Then say, "I think I might be fucked."

Samira just hands you a tissue, already knowing. She looks understanding. Like she sees it, too—and she's not going to mock you for it.

"Yep," she says gently while fixing a stray baby hair by your ear. "Saw it the second Jack joined us for drinks that night."

The night air feels cooler after the club, like the city is exhaling with you. You and Samira walk back toward the rideshare pickup, her arm looped loosely through yours.

You don’t say anything for a long moment. She doesn’t push.

"I don’t even know what it is," you murmur eventually. "I just know when that guy touched me, it felt like wearing someone else’s coat. Warm, sure, but not mine."

Samira hums in agreement. "Jack feels like your coat?"

"No," you sigh. Then, after a beat, quieter, "He feels like the one thing I forgot I was cold without."

She doesn’t say anything. Not right away. Just squeezes your hand. "So what’re you gonna do about it?"

"Scream. Cry. Have a pre-doctoral crisis," you say flatly.

Samira snorts. "So… Tuesday." You bite back a smile, shoving her shoulder lightly but appreciating the comedic diffusion nonetheless.

She exhales through her nose, gentler now. "If it’s any consolation, I see the way he looks at you."

Your eyes flick toward her. She continues, tone still soft, sincere. "Not just that night during drinks, but during your flash talk. I’ve never seen him that… emotive. It was like he was mesmerized. And even back during seminar last year, when he was filling in for Robby? Same thing. I remember thinking, damn, he listens to her like she’s rewriting gravity."

You should feel elated. Giddy. Instead, you bury your face in your hands and emit a sound that can only be described as a dying pterodactyl emitting its final screech. "I hate my fucking life."

"It's going to be okay!" Samira tries to hide her laughter but it comes through anyway, making you laugh through teary eyes. "You will be okay."

You shake your head back and forth, trying to make yourself dizzy in hopes that this was all a dream.

"Who was it that said 'boys are temporary, education is forever?'" Samira all-but-sang.

"Do not quote me right now, Mira," you groan, dragging the syllables like they physically pain you. "I am but a husk with a degree-in-progress."

The week that follows is both everything and nothing. You go to class. You show up to lab meetings. You present clean analyses and nod through questions from the new cohort of freshmen. You even draft two paragraphs of your discussion section. One of three discussion sections. It looks like functioning.

Since submitting the last batch of internship applications, your dissertation committee meetings have gone from once a week with each member to once every three. You'd already run all of your main studies, had all the data cleaned and collated, and even coded all of the analyses you intended on running. Now all that was left was the actual writing and compiling of it all for a neat, hundred-or-so-page manuscript that no one would read.

It’s your first meeting with Jack since flying back from the conference.

In all honesty, you hadn’t given it much thought. Compartmentalization had become a survival strategy, not a skill. It helped you meet deadlines, finish your talk, submit your final batch of internship applications—all while pretending nothing in that elevator happened. At least not in any way that mattered.

Now, seated outside his office with your laptop open and your third coffee in hand, you realize too late: you never really prepared for this part. The after.

You hear the door open behind you. A familiar cadence of steps—steady but slightly uneven. You know that gait.

"Hey," Jack says, as calm and neutral as ever. Like you didn’t almost combust into each other two weeks ago.

You glance up. Smile tight. "Hey."

"Come in?"

You nod. Stand. Follow him inside.

The office is the same as it’s always been—overcrowded with books, one stack threatening to collapse near the filing cabinet. You sit in your usual chair. He sits in his. The silence is comfortable. Professional.

It shouldn’t feel like a loss.

Jack taps a few keys on his laptop. "You sent your methods revisions?"

"Yesterday," you say. "Just a few small clarifications."

He hums. Nods. Clicks something open.

You sip your coffee. Pretend the sting behind your ribs is just caffeine.

The moment stretches.

He finally speaks. "You look… tired."

You smile, faint and crooked. “It’s November.”

Jack lets out a quiet laugh. Then scrolls through the document, silent again.

But the air between you feels thinner now. Like something’s missing. Or maybe like something’s waiting.

He reads.

You watch him.

Not just glance. Not just notice. Watch.

Your coffee cools in your hands, untouched.

He doesn't ask why you weren't at the symposium he moderated. Or if you were running on caffeine and nerves from recent deadlines. And definitely not why you booked an earlier flight home from the conference.

You search his face like it might hold an answer—though you’re not entirely sure what the question is. Something about the last two weeks. The way he hasn’t said anything. The way you haven’t either. The way both of you pretended, remarkably well, that everything was the same.

But Jack’s expression doesn’t change. Not noticeably. He just skims the screen, fingers occasionally tapping his trackpad. The glow from his monitor traces the line of his jaw.

Still, you keep looking. Like maybe if you study him hard enough, you’ll find a hint of something there.

A crack. A tell. A memory.

But he stays unreadable.

Professional.

And you hate that it hurts.

It eats at you.

Why does it hurt?

You knew better than to let this happen. To let it get this far. This was never supposed to be anything other than professional, clinical, tidy. But somewhere between all the late-night edits and long silences, the boundaries started to blur like ink in water.

You tell yourself to turn it off. That part in your brain responsible for—this—whatever it was. Romantic projection, limerence, foolishness. You’d diagnose it in a heartbeat if it weren’t your own.

You just need to get through this meeting. This last academic year. Then you'd be somewhere far away for internship, and then graduated. That’s all.

Then you could go back to pretending you’re fine. That everything was okay.

The entire time you’d been staring—not at Jack, not directly—but just past his shoulder, toward the bookshelves. Not really seeing them. Just trying to breathe.

Jack had already finished reading through your edits. He read them last night, actually—when your email came through far too late. He’d learned to stay up past his usual bedtime about two weeks into joining your committee.

But he wasn’t just reading. Not now.

He was watching. Noticing the subtle shifts in your brow, the tension at the corners of your mouth. You didn’t look at him, but he didn’t need you to.

Jack studied people for a living. He’d made a career out of it.

And right now, he was studying you.

You snap yourself out of it. A light head bobble. A few quick blinks. A swallow. "All done?" you ask, voice dry. Almost nonchalant, like you hadn’t been staring through him trying to excavate meaning.

Jack lifts an eyebrow, subtle, but nods. "Yeah. Looks solid."

You nod back. Like it’s just another meeting. Like that’s all it ever was.

Then you close your laptop a little too quickly. "I think I’m gonna head out early, I don’t feel great," you offer, keeping your tone breezy, eyes still somewhere over his shoulder.

Jack doesn’t call you on it. Not outright.

But he watches you too long. Like he’s flipping through every frame of this scene in real time, and none of it quite adds up.

"Alright," he says finally. Even. Quiet. "Feel better."

You nod again, already halfway to the door.

You don’t look back.

"Hey—" Jack’s voice catches, right as the door swings shut.

Your hand freezes on the handle.

You hesitate.

But you don’t turn around.

Just one breath.

Then you keep walking.

You make it halfway down the hall before you realize your hands are shaking.

Not much. Barely. Just enough that when you fish your phone out of your coat pocket to check the time, your thumb slips twice before you unlock the screen.

He’d called your name.

And maybe that wouldn’t mean anything—shouldn’t mean anything—except Jack Abbot isn’t the type to call out without a reason. You’ve worked with him long enough to know that. Observed him enough in clinical and classroom settings. Hell, you’ve studied men like him—hyper-controlled, slow to show their hand. You’d written an entire paper on the paradox of behavioral inhibition in high-functioning trauma survivors and then realized, two weeks into seminar, that the paragraph on defensive withdrawal could’ve been subtitled See: Jack Abbot, Case Study #1.

You’d meant to file that away and forget it.

You haven’t forgotten it.

And now you're walking fast, maybe too fast, through the undergrad psych wing like the answer might be waiting for you in your lab inbox or the fluorescence of your office.

You don’t stop until you’re behind a locked door with your laptop powered off and your hands braced on either side of your desk.

You breathe.

In through your nose. Out through your mouth.

Again.

Still—when you close your eyes, you see the look on his face.

That same unreadable stillness.

Like he wanted to say something else.

Like he knew something else. And maybe—maybe—you did too.

530 notes · View notes

plasticflowersinahistorycemetery · 2 months ago

Text

malevolence

part II

Pairing: Demon!Dean x Bobby's!Niece!Reader

Summary: After finding out Dean is possessed by a demon, Bobby has sent you away to one of his cabins. One you didn't even know existed. One that's supposed to be safe.

Warnings: 18+!, language, violence, manipulation, gaslighting, corruption, pining, smut (kissing, spitting, marking, fingering, oral/cunnilingus, p in v, implied breeding kink, rough sex, dirty talk, mildly dubious consent, cum-play), I may have missed some.

Word Count: 4,886

A/N: Ahhhhh. Need him in a way that's dangerous to my insides. God, I'm so gross. Anyways, I hope y'all like this as much as I liked imagining it ahaha. <3 Again... these gifs. Ugh. The is part two, so... part three will probably be up later (depending on how high my motivation levels stay) but failing that, definitely tomorrow. I'm gonna state now, for the record, that I have literally been typing so fast today (my best is 90wpm, but it's been like 97wpm today... don't know why, and I am not complaining) so I imagine I'm probably gonna post a few more things today/tonight. All the love.

You didn’t talk much on the drive.

Rufus had filled the silence just fine on his own—grumbling about Bobby, cursing the road, complaining about how “the old bastard always pulled shit like this,” like building a secret cabin deep in the woods was a personal betrayal. You’d nodded a few times, given the occasional hum, but your thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

Still back at the house. Still pressed to the counter. Still trembling under hands that hadn’t belonged to Dean, even if they’d felt like him.

That was the part that made you sick.

That it hadn’t felt wrong. Not then. Not until later. Not until the holy water. The hiss. The look in Bobby’s eyes when he said the words out loud.

That thing ain’t Dean.

You’d clutched your bottle of water tighter and nodded along as Rufus cursed at the trees.

This cabin wasn’t like the others. You’d been to all of Bobby’s usual places over the years—run-down hunter shacks tucked off forgotten dirt roads, where the walls smelled like smoke and the furniture creaked if you breathed wrong.

But this place… this place felt like it didn’t want to be found.

The drive to it had been nothing more than an overgrown trail, barely wide enough for the truck, weaving through the trees like it had no destination. It hadn’t even looked like a road. Just forest and shadows and the steady hum of wheels over roots.

And then, without warning, the woods had opened their mouth and spit it out.

The cabin was small, sun-bleached, older than it looked. Tucked into the edge of a lake like it had been forgotten there, hidden away from the rest of the world. The water stretched out endlessly behind it, framed by trees so dense they swallowed the horizon. The kind of place that didn’t exist on maps. That didn’t want to be remembered.

Rufus had carried the groceries inside. He hadn’t asked if you were okay.

He hadn’t needed to.

He left with a muttered warning—“Don’t open the door unless it’s me or Bobby”—and then he was gone.

Now it was just you.

You sat on the old couch, knees pulled to your chest, Bobby’s shirt still wrapped around your shoulders. It didn’t feel as safe as it used to. It smelled like the kitchen. Like last night.

Like him.

The silence was thick. Heavier than you expected. There were no hums of traffic. No creak of floorboards overhead. Just the faint groan of the old wood settling and the occasional hush of wind through the trees.

You hadn’t even known this place existed. Bobby had never brought you here. Not once. And that meant something. That meant he was scared.

You reached for your phone, screen glowing too bright in the dim cabin light. One bar. Maybe two.

It’d have to be enough. You hit call and held it to your ear. The dial tone echoed through the room like it didn’t belong there. Like nothing here did. Like you didn’t.

You didn’t know what you were going to say. Only that you needed to hear his voice. Only that you needed someone to tell you it was going to be okay—even if it wasn’t.

The first ring had barely finished before he answered.

“You okay?”

No hello. No soft landing. Just Bobby’s voice, all gravel and bark, tight around the edges like he hadn’t unclenched his jaw since you left.

You swallowed. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “I’m okay.”

From the other end of the line, you could hear another voice. Faint, indistinct, but familiar. That rhythm, that tone. You knew it.

“Rufus got me here fine,” you added, curling further into yourself on the couch. “Helped me carry the groceries in. Told me not to answer the door unless it’s him or you.”

Bobby didn’t answer right away. You heard the soft creak of wood, the shift of weight. He was moving—probably pacing, probably pinching the bridge of his nose, probably working through ten things he didn’t know how to say.

You hesitated. “Is that Sam I hear?”

“Yeah,” Bobby muttered, like he didn’t love confirming it. “Boy showed up a few hours ago. We’re tryin’ to figure out what the hell’s goin’ on with Dean.”

You pressed your thumb to the seam of the flannel wrapped around your shoulders and stayed quiet.

In the background, Sam’s voice floated through the phone, clearer this time. “Can I talk to her?”

A beat. Some rustling. Then Bobby’s voice again, closer.

“You up for that?”

You nodded before realising he couldn’t see it. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

There was the muffled scrape of the phone changing hands, and then Sam’s voice—softer, lower, with that same cautious care he’d always had when you were younger and crying in the backseat of Bobby’s car after a nightmare.

“Hey.”

Your chest ached. You hadn’t realised how much you needed to hear that voice.

“Hey,” you whispered back.

“What happened?” He asked gently. “With Dean.”

Your breath hitched. For a second, you almost didn’t answer.

“He… he was flirting with me. Like, really flirting. Touching me like he thought he had some kind of claim.” You paused. “It wasn’t like him. Not really.”

You didn’t say more. You didn’t have to.

Sam let out a long, rough sigh. You could almost picture him rubbing a hand down his face.

“Dammit. He—he made a deal,” he said. “After Dad died. I didn’t know at the time. He didn’t tell me. I guess we’re still trying to figure out the details, but… yeah. It tracks.”

You closed your eyes. Let your head tip back against the couch cushion. Something settled cold in your chest. More shuffling, more rustling, and then Bobby’s voice returned, cutting through the static like a knife.

“Alright, listen to me. You stay put, you hear? You don’t go outside. You don’t open that door unless it’s me or Rufus. I’ll come get you when it’s safe.”

You let the silence stretch a little too long.

“Why didn’t I know about this place?” You asked. “This cabin. I’ve been to all the others. Why keep this one secret?”

You could hear the scoff in his throat before he said it.

“You don’t need to know all my damn business, girl. But this?” He paused. “This is exactly why I got places like that. Tucked away, quiet. In case the world decides to go sideways.”

It already had.

Bobby exhaled into the receiver, and something about the sound made your throat go tight.

“Be safe,” he said, and it landed more like a plea than a command.

“I love you,” you said, barely above a breath.

There was a pause. Then:

“Yeah,” he said gruffly. “You too, kid.”

The line clicked dead. And just like that, you were alone again. The silence swelled. The wind moved through the trees like a warning. The lake held its breath. And you sat in the quiet, trying to remember which part of you had wanted him to kiss you back.

You must’ve dozed off somewhere around the second shootout.

The Western on Bobby’s old VHS copy had long since fuzzed into that flickering loop of gunfire and tumbleweeds, the dialogue dipping in and out like the tape was gasping for breath. The couch underneath you was stiff and uneven, the cushions worn thin from age, but you hadn’t meant to fall asleep there. You’d meant to just… rest your eyes.

The creak that woke you was sharp and sudden.

You blinked, sitting up fast, breath catching as you looked around the dim room. The air was cooler now, the lake wind whistling faint through the old cabin walls. The only light came from the television—flickers of orange and white against the far wall as some nameless cowboy fired off another round into the dust.

You exhaled slowly.

It was just the wind. Just the old wood groaning under its own weight.

You stretched, arms lifting above your head as you yawned. Your body ached. Your mouth was dry. You rubbed your eyes with the heel of your hand and glanced toward the dark hallway leading to the bedroom.

Time to sleep somewhere that didn’t smell like mildew and motor oil.

You pushed yourself up from the couch. And then—

Knock knock knock.

You froze. Your heart lurched in your chest, sharp and immediate.

What the hell—

Your head turned toward the front door, still half-shrouded in shadow, the porch light outside long dead. The knock hadn’t been frantic. It hadn’t been loud. It had been gentle.

You took a step back without meaning to, bare heel brushing the edge of the rug. Bobby hadn’t called. Rufus hadn’t either. No one should be here.

Knock knock.

Again. Softer. Closer. And then—

“Sweetheart.”

Your stomach dropped.

The voice was low. Familiar. Soothing in the way only his ever had been. That gentle hush he used when you were little and bleeding from a scraped knee, shaking too hard to hold still while he cleaned the cut. The same tone he’d used when he’d called you over to sit on the hood of the Impala while the sun set, a bottle of Coke in one hand, his flannel hanging open.

Like that voice still lived in your bones.

“C’mon, open up,” he said. “S’just me.”

Your breath caught.

You took a step forward. Tiny. Barely there. The kind of step you could pretend hadn’t happened if someone asked.

His voice came through the door like a ghost.

“I’ve been lookin’ everywhere for you.”

Another step. Your fingers curled at your sides.

“Didn’t mean to scare you, baby. You know that, right? I just… I needed to see you. Needed to talk.”

The TV flickered behind you—gunfire, dust, a man dying in the dirt. You barely noticed it.

Dean’s voice was all you could hear.

“You left so fast. Thought maybe you were scared of me or somethin’.” A pause. A low, breathy sound that might’ve been a laugh. “Ain’t nothing to be scared of. You know me.”

You shook your head—but it was slow, weak, like your body didn’t fully believe it.

You did know him. You knew the curve of that voice. The rhythm of those words. But something behind them was wrong. You took another step anyway.

“Open the door for me, sweetheart,” he murmured, soft as sin. “Let me see you.”

You were at the edge of the rug now. One more step and you’d be on the old wood floor. Another after that and your fingers would be at the lock. Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs. You knew it wasn’t him. You knew. But God, he sounded so much like home.

“C’mon, sweetheart… please.”

It wasn’t the word that undid you—it was how he said it.

Like he meant it. Like he was standing on the other side of that old wood with his shoulders slumped and his head low, like the world had been too cruel to him and you were the only thing that ever made it better. Like he was yours.

Your throat worked around a breath.

“Dean?”

It slipped out before you could stop it. A whisper. A prayer. And then—God—you heard it.

That smirk. Not loud. Not sharp. Just a bend in the syllables, a smile shaping the air between you. Like he knew you’d say it. Like he’d been waiting for it.

“Yeah,” he said, low and warm. “It’s me, sweetheart.”

Your hand lifted slightly. Your fingers brushed the edge of the doorknob.

“I need to see you. I’ve been lookin’ everywhere. You just… vanished.” His voice dropped, like it hurt to say it. “Thought I lost you.”

Your breath hitched. You stared at the door like it might open on its own.

“I... I can’t,” you said. It came out soft, shaking. “Bobby said not to let anyone in.”

“He was wrong,” Dean said immediately. “That wasn’t me, not really. The demon—it’s gone. It left.”

You froze.

“That’s not possible,” you whispered. “They don’t just leave. Not unless—”

“I’m hurt,” he said quickly. “Real bad. Demon can’t stay in a busted vessel. You know that. C’mon, sweetheart, think.”

Your mind was spinning. The words made sense, sort of—but they didn’t feel right. Still, he sounded like Dean. He sounded like the man who used to carry you on his shoulders, who used to patch up your scrapes and call you kid and ruffle your hair and smirk like nothing could ever touch him.

“I don’t—” You swallowed. “I don’t know if I can believe you.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you.” His voice dropped into something soft, velvet-slick and breaking. “You know me. You know me. I’ve known you since you were a little thing, running around Bobby’s yard with dirt on your cheeks and that oversized t-shirt draggin’ past your knees. You think I don’t remember that?”

Your breath caught. Your feet inched forward.

“You always climbed into my lap when you got scared during storms. You’d knock on my door at two in the morning just ‘cause you couldn’t sleep. Used to tuck your cold feet under me on the couch like I was your personal furnace.” He let out a small, breathy chuckle. “Used to drive me crazy.”

Your fingers curled around the lock.

“I never stopped thinkin’ about you, y’know that?” His voice was quieter now. Closer. Like his mouth was just against the wood. “When I was on the road. When things got hard. I kept seeing your face.”

You pressed your forehead to the door. Eyes closed.

“Please, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Open the door. Just let me see you.”

Your hand tightened on the lock.

“I missed you.”

The words landed like a punch to the ribs.

“I miss you,” he repeated, gentler now. Like confession. Like sin wrapped in satin.

Your thumb hovered over the latch. The lock clicked open with a sound that felt too loud in the silence. Your hand fell away like it didn’t belong to you anymore, your body moving without permission, chest tight and limbs heavy as the door creaked open to reveal him.

Dean.

Leaning against the doorframe, bruised and dusted with blood, eyes catching the moonlight in that soft, impossibly familiar way. Hair mussed. Jeans low on his hips. Flannel half-unbuttoned and clinging to a sweat-slick chest.

He looked like he’d crawled out of a nightmare just to find you.

And he smiled.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. And then—he was on you. Strong hands grabbed the backs of your thighs, palms squeezing hard enough to bruise as he lifted you like you weighed nothing, slammed the door shut with his boot, and pressed you back against it—hard.

Your breath punched out of you on impact.

He shoved his hips forward, grinding into you through his jeans, his chest flush against yours, mouth dragging along your throat before you could even make a sound.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he rasped against your skin, voice pure velvet and filth. “I knew you’d let me in. You've always been a good girl.”

His tongue licked up your neck, slow and hungry, like he could taste the guilt trembling beneath your skin.

“That’s it,” he whispered, hips grinding harder as you whimpered. “You missed me, didn’t you? All alone up here, touchin’ yourself thinking about me.”

You shuddered.

“You… you lied to me,” you breathed, fingers curling into his shirt like you couldn’t decide whether to pull him closer or shove him away.

He groaned low in your ear, like the accusation turned him on.

“Yeah,” he said, no apology in it. Just smug, satisfied heat. “Sure did.”

His mouth was on your throat again, teeth grazing, lips dragging open-mouthed kisses down the column of your neck as his fingers dug harder into your thighs.

“But you opened that door anyway,” he murmured. “Didn’t you?”

You gasped.

“You’re not—” Your voice broke. “You’re not Dean.”

He pulled back. Just an inch. Just far enough to look at you.

The expression on his face made your blood run cold—mock-hurt, mock-surprised, like he was wounded that you’d even suggest it. His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing, lips curling into that crooked, devastating smirk.

“Ouch, baby.” He said, soft as sin.

You stared at him, searching his face for the man you used to know—the man who used to call you kid and ruffle your hair and carry you on his shoulders.

But the man in front of you? He looked the same. He felt the same.

And still, he wasn’t.

He leaned in again, lips brushing yours.

“You think I'd let a demon wear me like a goddamn suit, sweetheart?” His voice dipped darker. “I made a deal.”

His grip on your thighs tightened, grinding his cock up into the heat of you through thin cotton as you gasped.

“I’m still me,” he whispered against your lips, breath warm and full of smoke. “Just... better.”

“Why the hell would you do that?” You whispered, breath catching in your throat as his hands gripped tighter, his hips still rolling slow and devastating between your thighs.

His mouth brushed your jaw, breath warm as sin.

“Why I did it doesn’t matter,” he said, like the answer wasn’t worth your time. “All you need to know is I don’t have that pesky guilt in the way anymore. Nothin’ holding me back.”

He thrust forward just right—hard enough to grind against that perfect spot between your legs, and a sharp little whine slipped out of you before you could stop it. God, you hated that sound. Because it was real. It was need. You hated yourself for it.

“You’re a goddamn fool,” you spat, but your voice was thin. Weak. Your body wasn’t moving away—it was pressing in, arching, wanting.

He laughed—low and delighted, like the sound had been waiting in his throat since you opened the door.

“Yeah?” He murmured, lips brushing your cheek as he nipped at your skin, gentle but stinging. “Well, maybe I’m a fool for you.”

His fingers dragged up the back of your thighs, under the flannel and over the hem of Bobby’s old shirt, bunching it at your hips.

“You think I didn’t see this coming?” He whispered, breath thick and warm in your ear. “You think I didn’t know what I was doing? Leavin’ little touches here and there, letting you catch me looking?” His hand slid between your legs, cupping you through your panties, palm heavy and hot. “You were always gonna be mine. All I had to do was wait.”

You gasped, hands curling into his shirt, your knees trembling where they locked around his hips. You wanted to push him away. You wanted to scream. But instead, your head tipped back as he ground into you again, your breath hitching on a moan.

“You wanted this too,” he rasped. “Didn’t you?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because your body already had.

“You know what the best part is?” He breathed, rocking his hips into you slow, dragging against the soaked cotton between your legs. “You don’t even know how fucked you are.”

You shivered.

“Bobby tried to keep you out of all this,” he said, tone thick with mock-affection. “Kept you tucked away in his little salvage yard like some precious thing. Thought he could keep the world off you. Thought he could keep me off you.”

His hand slipped beneath your panties. Two fingers dragging through your slick like he already knew what he’d find.

“Guess he was wrong.”

You whimpered. He groaned, forehead dropping to yours, mouth open against your lips.

“You’re soaked for me,” he whispered, his voice wrecked and reverent. “Fuck. You were made for this.”

His forehead pressed to yours, lips brushing close, breath warm and uneven as his fingers dragged slow and steady between your thighs, slick and unholy. Your pulse fluttered in your throat, shallow and fast, like something caged.

“Tell me,” he whispered, the words grazing your mouth. “You wanna finish what we started last night in the kitchen?”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

You should say no. You know you should. Bobby’s voice still echoed in your head. All his warnings. All his rules. But all you could do was stare into Dean’s eyes—those wild, dark eyes burning with something you couldn’t name. Something ancient and wrecked and his. And he was looking back at you like you were already his prize. Like he’d already won.

He slid his fingers deeper—still teasing, still slow. Your hips jumped against his hand.

He chuckled against your lips. “You always were too fuckin’ cute for your own good.”

You whimpered. God. You hated yourself for it.

His mouth curled, cruel and soft at once.

“I’m only gonna ask one more time,” he murmured, voice low and sweet and merciless. “And then I decide for you.”

You swallowed hard. Tried to form a word. Tried to say no, even if you didn’t mean it. But all that came out was a soft, desperate sound—broken and breathless.

Dean smiled like a wolf.

“Good enough,” he whispered, and then he bit your bottom lip—hard enough to sting, soft enough to make you moan—and slid his fingers deep, curling them just right.

Your head slammed back against the door with a gasp.

“Oh, that’s it, baby,” he murmured, mouth dragging along your jaw. “That’s my girl. Fuck, you’re tight. You were made for me.”

You whimpered again, breath hitching, thighs twitching around his wrist.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Comin’ apart already. You like this, huh? Like being pinned up like some sweet little trophy, legs spread, crying on my fingers while you pretend it ain’t what you wanted.”

You shook your head weakly, but it was already too late. Your hips were rocking down into his hand, chasing every thrust, every curl, every filthy word like they were gospel.

“You’re doin’ so good,” he crooned. “Taking me so good, sweetheart. Fucking perfect.”

Your body was shaking, breath coming in short, sharp bursts. The pleasure was white-hot, crawling up your spine like fire. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging in, eyes wide with helpless need.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Let go. Wanna feel you fall apart for me. C’mon, sweetheart. Gimme everything.”

And then you did.

You came with a choked cry, body spasming against the door, thighs clamping down around his wrist as he fucked you through it—low groans and breathy praise spilling hot against your throat.

“Just like that. Fuck, that’s it. That’s my good girl. So fuckin’ pretty when you come.”

You were still panting, still reeling, when he eased his fingers free and caught you as your knees buckled.

He sank to the floor with you—dragged you with him—and pulled you into his lap, your legs straddling his hips, the old flannel riding up high on your thighs.

His hands smoothed up your sides, slow and greedy, like he needed to memorise the shape of you. And then he pulled you down, mouth crashing into yours. Hot. Hungry. Possessive. You kissed him back like it might save you.

And maybe it already ruined you.

You kissed him like you were drowning. Hands gripping his shirt, thighs locked around his waist, breath hot and shaking as you let him drag you down against his lap like it meant something. Like this was still the boy who used to drive you to the gas station for slushies and let you win at poker even when you cheated. Like this was still Dean.

But then the heat started to fade. Then the weight of what you were doing settled sharp in your chest. You pulled back. Just an inch. Just enough to breathe.

“I can’t,” you whispered, voice raw. “Dean, I—I shouldn’t…”

His eyes snapped open, green and molten, his hands still gripping your hips. And then he smiled. Soft. Sweet. Deadly.

“Shhh,” he whispered, smoothing a hand up your back. “You don’t have to do anything, sweetheart. Just let me take care of you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

You froze.

He leaned in, mouth brushing your cheek.

“You know that, don’t you? I’ve always wanted to protect you. Always wanted to keep you safe.”

His hand slid between your legs, fingers curling around the edge of your panties, pulling them aside so slowly it felt like sin.

“You don’t need anyone else,” he murmured. “Just me. Only me.”

Your breath hitched.

His cock was hard against your thigh, already freed from his jeans, thick and heavy and hot where it pressed against you. You should’ve moved. Should’ve run. But his hands were on your hips again, guiding you, lining you up like he’d done it a hundred times in his head.

And maybe he had.

“I only need you,” he whispered, like a prayer. “Been needin’ you for years.”

You whimpered—low and helpless—as he dragged your hips down, just enough to let the head of his cock catch at your entrance, slick and throbbing.

“Dean—” Your voice cracked.

“I know,” he said, eyes on yours. “You’re scared. But you don’t have to be. You’re safe with me.”

And then he pressed up into you.

You gasped—choked—as he sank in slow and steady, stretching you wide, pulling you open inch by inch while his hands gripped your thighs, holding you there like you were something holy.

“F-fuck,” he groaned, head tipping back. “You feel… fuck, you feel like heaven.”

His eyes flickered. Just for a second. Black. Sharp and bottomless. And then green again—bright, burning, feral.

“Goddamn,” he breathed, hips thrusting up hard, dragging a broken sound from your lips. “You were made for this.”

You shook your head weakly, but your hips rocked into his anyway, body moving on instinct.

He grinned—mean and hungry.

“Yeah. That’s it. That’s my girl.”

His grip on your thighs tightened, pulling you down harder as he fucked up into you, thick and deep and filthy, his voice a constant hum against your skin.

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he said, panting, his brow furrowed in that same reverent way he used to look at you when you curled up next to him during old Westerns. “You’re mine now.”

You whimpered, hands clinging to his shoulders like they were the only thing holding you together.

“Might as well stop fighting it, sweetheart,” he growled, thrusts getting rougher, sloppier, meaner. “You don’t wanna fight it. You never did.”

He was right. God help you—he was right.

You didn’t even have time to scream. One second you were in his lap, his cock still buried deep, your body trembling from the stretch of him—

And the next? You were on your back, flat against the cabin floor. Hard. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs. You gasped—but nothing came. Your mouth opened wide, your chest convulsed, and still—no air.

You stared up at him in stunned panic, lips parted, eyes wide, lungs heaving like they’d forgotten how to work. And Dean—Dean—just grinned down at you, all wicked teeth and devilish delight, his chest rising and falling above you.

“Well shit,” he chuckled, his voice smug and low and wrong. “Knocked the wind right outta you, huh?”

Your fingers clawed at the floor, body twisting underneath him, but he only pressed in harder, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand, the other gripping your thigh and pulling it higher, opening you wide.

“Look at you,” he murmured, and then he thrust—deep and brutal, knocking what little breath you’d managed to drag in right back out.

“Clenching up on me so damn tight,” he growled, eyes flicking black, staying black. “Can’t even breathe, and you’re still squeezin’ me like you never wanna let go.”

You whimpered—half from fear, half from pleasure, all of it ruined.

He laughed again, meaner this time, low in his throat like it thrilled him.

“You scared?” He asked, panting as he fucked into you harder now, hips snapping into you with sharp, feral thrusts. “That little panic making you feel even tighter?”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely even think. Your whole body burned. Every nerve raw. Your vision blurred around the edges.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to yours as he pounded into you. “Like heaven. Like fuckin’ home.”

Tears prickled in your eyes. It was too much. All of it. And then—his voice dropped to a whisper, wrecked and reverent and evil.

“You gonna come for me, sweetheart? Gonna fall apart with my cock inside you?”

You shattered.

Your body arched off the floor, your mouth fell open in a silent cry, and your cunt clenched around him so hard he snarled, fingers bruising your hips as he held you down, fucked you through it, let you ride the edge until your vision went white.

“There she is,” he growled. “That’s my girl. Pretty little thing, takin’ my cock like it’s the only thing she’s ever needed.”

You couldn’t stop crying. Couldn’t stop shaking. And still—he didn’t stop.

“Cry all you want,” he breathed against your cheek. “I'm not done.”

He didn’t slow down. Even after your body stopped convulsing, even after your voice had gone hoarse from the sobs caught in your throat—he didn’t stop. He moved like a man starved, like a beast let loose, like he was trying to bury himself inside you so deep no one else would ever find you there.

And then—he bit you.

Right at the curve of your neck, where your pulse fluttered wild beneath the skin. His teeth sank in, deep and deliberate, until you cried out again—not from pleasure this time, but pain. Sharp. Real. Tearing.

You felt the sting of it, the warmth of blood welling up against your skin.

His tongue followed. Slow. Lapping.

“Told you,” he muttered, voice thick, forehead pressed to yours as his cock throbbed inside you. “You’re mine.”

Another thrust. Brutal. Final. And then he groaned, loud and guttural, as he came deep—hot and heavy, spilling into you like a curse.

You gasped, body twitching beneath him, mind blank with overstimulation and the weight of him still pressing down.

He didn’t pull out. Didn’t move. Just stayed there, buried to the hilt, his breath ragged against your throat.

“You’re never goin’ back,” he whispered, mouth still wet with blood. “Bobby ain’t getting you. Sammy can fuck off. The whole goddamn world can burn for all I care.”

His fingers stroked your cheek, too gentle for the wreckage he’d left behind.

“You’re mine.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just laid there—broken and full, neck slick with blood, thighs sticky and trembling—while the wind whispered against the cabin walls and the lake sighed in the distance like it already knew what you’d done.

And somewhere, deep down—past the ache and the guilt and the shame—you didn’t feel scared anymore.

You felt claimed.

@mostlymarvelgirl @losers-clvb @lunaleah @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @lyarr24 @podiumackles @spxideyver @tinas111 @cevansbaby-dove @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l @jesstherebel <3

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darlingsblackbook · 2 days ago

Text

Zayne x Crush-Ridden Nurse!Reader | Part Two

Just who is this woman who seems to be so close to ( your ) Dr. Zayne. It's time to investigate!

Love and Deepspace Masterlist

I | You casually asked MC what she does for work. She looked you dead in the eye and said, “I hunt nightmares.”

You blinked. She blinked.

Zayne walked by and said, “She’s not exaggerating.”

You went on break and googled “how to sedate yourself, respectfully.”

II | You tried to joke with MC: “So, you and Dr. Zayne… old friends?”

She raised a brow. “Define ‘old.’ Define ‘friends.’”

You laughed.

She didn’t.

So now you don’t either.

III | You brought MC a cup of tea once when she was in Zayne's office just to be nice - not to spy on what they were doing or anything

She sniffed it and said, “This isn’t poisoned, right?”

You panicked and immediately said, “I’d never!”

Zayne, without looking up: “Don’t be dramatic.”

You: “Who, me or her?”

Both ignored you.

IV | You asked, “So… how’d you two meet?”

MC shrugged. “Blood, mostly.”

You nodded like that made sense.

You immediately went home and journaled about it under “???”

V | You complimented MC’s coat.

She said, “Thanks. Got it off a guy who didn’t need it anymore.”

You nodded with a smile, "Ah, thrifted!”

She just winked.

You didn’t sleep that night.

VI | You awkwardly lingered near Zayne and MC during a conversation.

MC said, “Do you need something?”

You said, “No, no! Just… standing. Nurse stuff.”

Zayne: “You’re holding a stapler.”

You looked down. You were.

VII | You asked MC if she’d ever needed stitches.

She said, “Not from Zayne.”

You: Oh?

Zayne: “She does her own.”

You: Oh!

VIII | You tried to be relatable: “Being patched up must suck, right?”

MC: “Pain is temporary.”

You: “Haha yeah, like crushing heartbreak!”

MC stared.

You stared.

Zayne walked by.

IX | You tried to bond with MC over music.

You asked what she listens to.

She said, “The kind that makes you question your mortality.”

You said, “Cool! I like Lana Del Rey!”

XI | You said, “Doctor Zayne doesn’t talk much, huh?”

MC said, “He talks to me.”

You just said “Right” and stared out a window for forty-five minutes.

XII | You tried to joke, “Bet he’s fun at parties.”

MC: “He is. Surprisingly.”

You: “…Oh.”

Zayne walked by and said, “She once made me dance.”

You dropped your pen. Your soul. Your sense of hope.

XIII | You offered MC a hospital map.

She said, “I’ve been here more than you.”

"Okay!"

XIV | You said, “It must be nice, having someone like Zayne look after you.”

MC said, “He doesn’t look after me.”

Zayne (walking in): “She looks after herself.”

You: 😐

XV | You asked MC if she and Zayne were a thing.

She said, “What kind of thing?”

You panicked and said, “Like, objects!”

She said, “Then yes.”

You walked into a wall.

XVI | You complimented MC’s boots.

She said, “Thanks. They’ve stepped on several monsters.”

You said, “Mine are orthopedic.”

She nodded. “Powerful.”

XVII | You asked if she’s always this mysterious.

She said, “Only when I’m being watched.”

You tried to laugh but accidentally choked on your own spit.

Zayne handed you water without looking.

You dropped it.

XVIII | You saw MC sleeping in Zayne’s office once.

You stared for a full minute.

Zayne noticed.

He said, “Do you need something?”

You said, “Nope. Just admiring the… furniture.”

XIX | You asked MC if she ever gets scared doing her “job.”

She said, “Only of one thing.”

You leaned in. “What?”

Zayne walked in. She said, “Never mind.”

You’ve never known peace.

XX | You once asked her, “Are you two… serious?”.

She said, “Why, are you interested?”

You blacked out for six seconds.

XXI | MC called Zayne “Doc.”You usually just call him “Doctor Zayne." You tried “Doc” once. He blinked.

You panicked and said, “Dock-ter. Like… port dock. Boats.”

Silence.

He said, “Are you okay?”

XXII | You caught Zayne stitching up MC without gloves. Your training screamed internally. You opened your mouth to say something. MC said, “We’ve shared worse.” You shut your mouth.

Forever.

XXIII | You once tripped over your own foot trying to spy on them mid-conversation- again. MC said, “Graceful.” Zayne just kept talking. You played dead.

XXIV | MC leaned against Zayne’s desk like she owned it. You once asked to borrow his pen. He stared at you until you apologized and gave it back.

XXV | You found a random jacket in Zayne’s office.

You said, “Is this yours?”

He said, “No.”

MC walked in five seconds later and grabbed it.

You watched her walk out and said, “Cool! Love that for me!"

Taglist : @sylusgirlie7 @jeonjenny @notsurewhattocallthisblog888 @draftbeerbibi @weebinator01

#love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace #lads x reader #zayne x y/n #zayne x you #lads zayne #zayne love and deepspace #zayne x reader #zayne x non mc #love and deepspace imagines #love and deepspace angst #zayne angst

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wileys-russo · 11 months ago

Text

forget me not (2) II l.williamson

part one forget me not (2) II l.williamson

"mum i need to go."

"leah no-" but her mums words were cut off as the blonde clicked end call, fingers flying against her screen until she found your contact, call after call declined until it stopped ringing all together.

she then moved to texting, sending message after message until the 'do not disturb' notification popped up and her stomach heaved, you never put your phone on do not disturb.

her guilt peaked even higher noticing all of the messages above those she'd sent to you in a panic, clearly prior to your graduation and worrying about her whereabouts.

(8) iMessages from; lover girl 💐 hey baby i just arrived, you were dead to the world when i left (shock x) i'm kind of nervous! they just handed out our caps and gowns, its feeling really real now. what if i fall over when i'm walking up?? someone just put that thought in my head and now it won't go away 🥲🥲 i can't wait to just look out and see your pretty face, you can always ground me even without trying💘💘💘 *three missed calls* less just called me, she's leaving soon so i hope you're up and showering! i know you're not the best texter in the morning anyway grumpy 🫶🏻 we have to switch our phones off and leave them in our bags now babe but i'll see you in a little while. still so nervous ah! your support means everything, i love you leah 🩵

even though leah knew you were upset, the fact you hadn't made any attempts to call or message her after her no show only solidified it further for her, the blonde selfishly sort of wishing you had to ease her guilt even just a little.

"fuck!" the girl swore as she threw her phone on the passenger seat, burying her face in her hands with a deep and prolonged exhale. "okay think leah, think." she mumbled to herself, fists balling and rubbing against her eyes until she saw stars, head thumping back against the headrest.

grabbing her phone again she winced seeing the multitude of other missed calls, from alessia, your mum, your aunt, your best friend, all worrying that something had happened to her for her not to show up, the sweet messages from your mum checking in if she was okay hitting her in the stomach in a different sort of way.

"alessia!" she realized, quickly hitting call on the girls contact, feeling like an idiot for not even noticing her friends absence and putting two and two together, this was a brand new low.

"come on!" leah grunted, calling the younger girl easily six times and each one going right to voicemail, finger hovering over your mums contact before abandoning that idea with a shake of her head.

"shit." leah swore again checking your location and noticing you'd stopped sharing with her, biting down on her bottom lip as her knee bounced and her fingers drummed against the wheel wracking her brain for anything.

"fuck me leah where did she say the celebration was afterwards?" the footballer mumbled to herself, eyes squeezing close as she tried to think back, unable to even remember you mentioning your graduation in the last few days, another nail in the coffin of realizing she had been an awful girlfriend to put it lightly.

a sudden spark of hope she grabbed her phone again, clicking into instagram and huffing when both you and alessia hadn't posted anything, searching up several of your friends and families accounts finding the same wall of silence in her way.

growing even more desperate leah clicked into an app she checked maybe once a year, only keeping her facebook active for the sake of her childhood friends.

"thank you aunty gillian, thank you!" leah whispered as a quick scroll of her feed showed your godmother had posted some pictures from the graduation and the post ceremony celebrations, a quick zoom confirming the restaurants name on a menu on the table.

without another seconds hesitation she was putting the address into maps, car roaring to life as she peeled out of the colney carpark at top speed, flying across town and swearing loudly as she seemed to hit every red light in all of london.

"williamson." she barked to the valet as she screamed to a halt in front of the hotel where the restaurant was, throwing the keys at the young boy who didn't even have time to say a word before she was pushing through the double doors and bursting inside.

"m'am im really sorry you can't-" the hostess tried to stop leah as she barreled past, ignoring her completely and hurrying into the restaurant. it didn't take her long to find your closest friends and family on a big table in the corner, alessia spotting her before anyone else did and eyes widening.

though as leah came to a screaming halt in front of them, the table falling quiet as they took her in, still clad in an arsenal tracksuit with wet hair and frantic eyes looking as you would have said had you been present, a hot mess.

"no auntie ava its alright, i'll handle it." alessia murmured to your mum as leah shrank under the scrutiny and harsh glares from your friends and family, nobody impressed with her no show even if they didn't know the full story.

"you need to leave, right now." alessia warned, grabbing the blonde by her bicep and pulling her away from the table, around the corner and out of view. "less please i can-" leah started as the younger girl held up a hand.

"i don't care leah. i've just gotten her to calm down after she's just spent twenty minutes crying in the bathroom after her big day!" alessia warned, leah taken aback by the venom in her teammates tone, the girl normally so sweet butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.

but there was one thing your cousin didn't mess about with, and that was family.

"she cried?" leah deflated, voice barely above as whisper as the taller girl nodded. "yes leah she cried several times, she's heartbroken that her girlfriend didn't show up for her graduation. but rather chose to go to the same training we have four or five times a week, she saw on instagram." alessia growled, poking accusingly at leahs shoulder.

"nope." alessia held up a hand again as leah opened her mouth to pour out another excuse or hurried apology.

"i told you leah, i don't care. she deserves to enjoy the rest of her day, you've ruined enough and done more damage than you can apologize for in the two minutes you've got to leave before i let my brothers escort you outside." alessia warned seriously, jaw clenched and still gripping harshly onto leahs arm.

"but less-" "leah, go."

but right as your girlfriend was ready to get on her knees and beg alessia to get her even one minute of your attention, you came stumbling around the corner in search of your cousin.

"baby-" leah started, falling quiet with a hiss as alessia sharply pinched her and moved to put her body in between the two of you like your own personal security guard.

"you have some nerve!" you laughed, leah frowning at the slur in your voice and the way alessia hurried to catch your swaying body, shooting the older blonde a filthy glare over her shoulder as she steadied you and mumbled something in your ear.

"no i know. i'm done crying over her!" you responded, leah swallowing hard as her knees buckled with how much anger was ablaze in your eyes as your gaze moved back toward her.

"you're a little late." you mocked with a pout, voice dripping with sarcasm as your eyes burned holes in your girlfriends head, trained on her like lasers.

"bubba please if you just-" "don't leah, don't call me that." all the anger seemed to deflate out of your voice at that, the obvious hurt and betrayal in it wrapping around leahs heart and squeezing tight like a fist.

"i don't want to hear the excuses, or the apologies, i don't even want to look at you leah. i have never been so let down or dissapointed, hurt, angry, sad." you listed off every emotion which was wracking your body, pausing for a moment and swaying a little leaning into alessia more.

"i have been there for you, for everything leah. i was there by your side every day when you did your acl, through the rehab and recovery good times and bad. i didn't leave when you yelled, when you snapped, when you hurled insults just for helping because i knew you were hurting and you weren't lashing out at me." you shook your head as leah felt sick to her stomach.

"i was there for you during the world cup. i stayed in england to be there for you, watching my own cousin playing the tournament and living out her dream through a phone screen, not daring to mention the games because i knew you were devastated to miss it." you paused to swallow the tears which brimmed at your eyes.

"i have put up with a lot of shit leah, dismissed a lot of things because i love you. but this...this isn't something i can sweep under the rug and excuse because you're hurting and i want to support you. today i needed you, i needed you to support me and you couldn't even do that." you whispered, wishing you had another drink in hand for a spike of liquid courage which was bleeding rapidly out of the open wounds your girlfriends actions slashed you with.

clearing your throat you continued, tilting your chin up a little higher. "less already took me past our place and i grabbed a bag of stuff, i'm moving in with her for awhile. i don't want to see you, hear from you, nothing, until i am ready leah. i never thought you of all people were capable of hurting me like this, now please go." with that you turned around, stumbling slightly but catching yourself with a sharp inhale and marching back off to the table.

"no. leah you heard her, you need to leave." alessia's hands pressed against her chest as she tried to follow after you.

"like i said, you can go on your own terms leah, or i'll get my brothers." your cousin warned seriously, leahs mouth opening and closing before she gave in with a nod, turning and walking away.

"its another one for you!" you looked away from the football match your cousin was currently forcing you to watch, alessia appearing seconds after the bell had rung with another bunch of flowers as you got up with a sigh.

"she's consistent, you've gotta give her that." alessia shook her head as you took the flowers from her, perching herself on the arm of the lounge as your eyes scanned over the card.

"we look like we own a florist shop." your cousin commented, eyes roaming over the countless bunches of flowers littering the living and dining rooms.

"i've texted her telling her to stop!" you shook your head placing down the bunch with a deep seeded sigh, dragging your hands down your face. "what are you thinking?" your cousin asked knowingly as you wandered back toward the lounge, collapsing into it as she spun around on the arm to face you.

"i don't know." you exhaled honestly, face buried in your hands as alessia kicked you gently, looking down with a raised eyebrow. "its been two weeks and i miss her." you admitted honestly, sitting up with a slight grunt.

"but i'm also still really hurt and upset and there isn't an excuse under the sun she could make that would help that go away." you added on, grabbing a throw cushion and pushing your face into it with a scream.

"would you consider hearing her out anyway?" alessia asked, playing devils advocate as you looked back up with another sigh. "yes? no? maybe?" you groaned, laying back down on the lounge in a world of indecision.

"sounds like you want to. but you're a little scared of what that might mean? just hear her out, it doesn't mean you have to go running right back into her arms but it'll mean you're not sitting here wondering what it is she has to say." your cousin read you like a book with a small smile. "i hate that you're always right." you shook your head as alessia chuckled.

"just looking out for my little piccoli ravioli!" your cousin cooed, a grunt leaving your body as she dove on top of you, pinching your cheeks and shaking your head side to side before rolling off of you.

"you know i can very easily smother you in your sleep russo."

none the less you took her advice, reaching out to your girlfriend? ex girlfriend? you weren't even sure what the two of you were at this point given you'd had practically no contact for the last fortnight.

which is how you found yourself a few days later taking a deep breath, hand on the door to the coffee shop you'd agreed to meet up with her at, steadying yourself with a nod before you pushed it open.

you spotted her right away, her eyes trained on the door and hand raising to wave you over the very moment you stepped inside. "i got your usual, sorry the ice melted a little...i was early." leah started with a slight blush as you sat down, pushing the iced latte across the table.

"thanks." you gave her a small smile, taking a sip as an awkward silence settled between you two. "should i start? is that okay?" leah blurted out suddenly, knee bouncing nervously as you nodded and she exhaled shakily.

"i'm not going to waste your time making excuses or apologizing over and over or grovelling." leah started as you quirked an eyebrow and sipped at your drink, curious where she was going with this.

"i'm just going to be honest instead, get right to the point. baby i was a selfish blind asshole, to say the least. i took you for granted. i did not support you even a tenth as much as you did for me. i don't deserve you, i don't deserve a second chance." leah paused, meeting your eyes for a moment as you nodded for her to continue.

"i forgot about your graduation, i didn't care enough to remember despite all the little hints you left me that you shouldn't have even needed to. theres no nice way to say it, theres no excuses for it, no lies. i didn't prioritize you, i didn't respect you or your achievements or put your needs above my own when thats all you've ever done for me." leah sighed, fiddling nervously with her hands in her lap.

"i was so blinded by the joy of being back on the pitch, kicking a ball, being with the girls again. all i was focused on was making the roster for camp, returning back to glory and my captaincy and playing full games for arsenal again." leah admitted, neck and ears flushing hot with embarrassment.

"but nothing, not football not arsenal, not anything, should ever take priority over me being a good supportive life partner and girlfriend. you were right you have put up with so much from me, done so much for me, pushed aside your feelings and your problems to put mine first, and i couldn't even do that for a day when you've done it since the moment we got together." leah continued, shaking her head disappointed with herself.

"love there isn't enough apologies in the world that i can ever say to make up for it. obviously i am incredibly sorry, but you deserve better than words you deserve evidence and action and commitment." you were taken by surprise as leah suddenly stood.

"if you will please please please just come with me for a quick drive i have something for you." she hesitated for a moment before offering you her hand, a confused and skeptical frown on your face as you sized her up.

"its not more flowers, is it?" that caused a small smile to make its way onto the blondes face as she shook her head.

"no, no more flowers."

"seriously? leah this is all very weird." you shook your head as she pulled up outside your shared home, a place you'd not stepped foot in for just as long as you hadn't seen your girlfriend for, holding out a blindfold.

"i know i know i know. and i'm sure you don't right now which is completely valid, but i need you to just trust me and put this on." leah bit her bottom lip sheepishly as you sighed, giving her a hard look before snatching it out of her hand.

"no! i've got it." you smacked away her hand which tried to help, tying it up yourself as your heart rate sped up the moment your world was plunged into darkness.

"can i grab your hands? please?" you heard the car door open and flinched a little, nodding slowly as you felt leahs warm hands interlock with your own, pulling you up to your feet as the car door closed behind you.

"step, step, rock, puddle, another step, three more steps, gate." leah announced each reason for moving you, your frown deepening as you realised she was leading you around the side and toward the backyard, ears straining and senses heightened trying to work out what was going on.

"leah!" you huffed as you tripped and almost fell, strong hands steadying you as the blonde winced. "sorry...one more step."

"okay, i'm taking the blindfold off now." leah sighed shakily, and you felt her hands trembling slightly as they fumbled around clumsily with the knot on the back of the blindfold.

but persisting she finally got it, wincing as it slipped away and the sunlight struck you in the face. but that was nothing compared to how high you jumped at the large yell which sounded next, your hand coming to cover your mouth.

"happy graduation!"

"what? this is..." you trailed off, all of your friends and family and colleagues gathered around the backyard, fairy lights strung up in trees and a long table splitting the yard in half decked out with flowers and food and candles.

you tensed as leah grabbed your hands again, moving to stand in front of you with a smile. "i know i ruined your special day by not showing up for you. but you deserve to have your achievements celebrated in a way even half as big and special as you are, and everyone who knows you and loves you agrees, and they're here to show that to you." leah explained softly, another cheer ringing out from the crowd in your backyard as you both looked across with a laugh.

"you organised this?" you asked as leah nodded, letting go of your hands. "i'm not asking you to move back in tonight and forgive me right away. but i hope this is a step in the right direction to me showing you that you mean more to me than anything in the world, and i was such a fucking idiot to take that for granted." leah promised sincerely as your features softened.

"thank you." you caught her off guard by pulling her into a hug, admittedly melting into her taller form as you held one another tightly, your guests all turning back into their own conversations as music started up and chatter floated through the air.

"you're very very welcome. now go and be celebrated!" the blonde pulled away and gently pushed you toward the crowd, smile on her face as you nodded, turning and stepping toward your parents first who cheered and handed you a flute of champagne.

"did you know about all of this?" you tugged your cousin aside around an hour later once you'd made your rounds greeting and chatting with everyone, the sun setting as leah was busy setting up the catering she'd organised for dinner, lia by her side helping out as a fair few of the arsenal girls hung about, good friends with you through both leah and alessia.

"who do you think helped her grovel for forgiveness with the whole family?" alessia smiled knowingly, sipping at her drink. "the whole family?" you asked, eyebrows shooting up in surprise as your cousin nodded.

"mhm, had me gather everyone at your mums place and she stood in front of them all delivering a speech about how much of an idiot she is and how much you mean to her, and how first and foremost she wanted to make up for ruining your day, even if it didn't mean you'd take her back." alessia explained as you glanced at leah over her shoulder, a small smile curling into your lips at the way she helped your nephew dish up his food, chattering away to him and pulling silly faces making him giggle.

"was it brutal?" you asked with a chuckle, alessia wincing. "horribly horribly awkward. nonna ripped into her, then your mum, then my mum, then your brother, then my brothers, then-" alessia recounted as you cut her off with a laugh.

"okay okay i get it, we have a very tight knit family who clearly have my back." you smiled with a shake of your head. "we do. but they all agreed to come, and that when she's not being an insensitive stupid idiot leah is crazy about you." alessia spoke a little more softly.

"go talk to her." your cousin kissed your cheek, slipping her drink into your hand and taking your empty one, pushing at your back encouragingly as you sighed and let your feet lead you over to her.

"hey, can we talk?" you asked, leah practically dropping the plate of food in her hand with a nod, hurrying after you as you made your way up the back steps and inside, wanting a little more privacy than your backyard full of friends and family provided.

"is this all okay? is it too much? did i do too much? less warned me not to go overboard and i know i said no more flowers but obviously theres flowers here and i got catering from your favorite restaurant and it took me days and days to get everyone to agree to come and then-" tired of her rambling you leaned in, pressing your lips against her own and effectively silencing her.

"i-okay." leah blinked in shock as you pulled away, a small smile of amusement on your face. "first of all, this is very very sweet leah, its perfect." you assured with a firm nod, leah visibly sagging in relief.

"second of all...i want to come home, tonight." you held up a hand as the blonde perked up and opened her mouth, snapping it right closed. "this doesn't fix everything leah, i'm still hurt and its going to take time for me to trust you properly again" you warned as the defender nodded eagerly.

"but we can't work on things unless we're together, and i have missed you." you admitted quietly, the words scary to confess but knowing you needed to be honest. "i've missed you so much, like...so so much." leah breathed out shakily making you smile.

"but promise me one thing?" your hands came to cup her face as she nodded.

"no more apology flowers leah for like...a long time." you grinned as leah let out a laugh of surprise, hands falling to your hips and drawing your body into hers, eyes searching you face as you nodded knowing what they were looking for, her lips sweetly pressing a few times against yours.

"i promise."

#woso community #woso #leah williamson imagine #leah williamson x reader #leah williamson #woso x reader #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso blurbs

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ambswoso · 1 year ago

Text

could’ve been ii - leah williamson

the weddings over. you have to return to barcelona but you didn’t think you’d be seeing leah again so soon and she’s determined to get her girl back, in any capacity.

5.9k words. somehow it's longer than the first part.

leah williamson x mead!reader

“right beth, pack it in. i’m gonna miss my flight.” you laughed as you pushed out of her tight hug.

“you sure you’re gonna be ok?” beth stroked your hair, tucking the hair that had fell from your ponytail behind your ear. “it’s a two-hour flight bethy, i’m sure i’ll be fine.”

“yeah, a two hour flight by yourself to a foreign country!” beth emphasised, ever the protective big sister. “i do live there beth.”

“i know and i hate it. i miss you already.”

“i miss you too, but i really do have to go.” you once again released yourself from beth’s grasp, leaning over to give you new sister-in-law an equally big hug.

you headed over to security and waved at beth and viv one last time. “call me when you land, or i’ll send lucy to your apartment.” you heard beth call as you went, giggling to yourself.

now you just had two hours to kill, by yourself, until you were due at your gate. you may as well get back up to date with paperwork having been away for just over a week. airpods in you started powering through your work, or at least you were until a song you’d long deleted from your playlist started playing in your ears.

your song. both of yours.

leah had a habit of calling everyone ‘my girl’, particularly you when you were together because once upon a time you actually were her girl. the first time she called you it was on your first date. she picked you up, took you for a picnic on an unusually warm february day and dropped you home like the charming woman she always was. as you left leah’s car she called after you, “see you soon for the next one, my girl.” and if you weren’t already smitten from the date then that certainly sealed the deal. the next time she picked you up, ‘my girl’ was playing through her car radio and you decided there and then that it was your song. you only let leah know about it after you’d made things official, but she was fine with it.

the same song that used to fill you with love and remind you of the love of your life, now just made your heart sink. you weren’t her girl anymore and she wasn’t yours.

you gave yourself only 30 seconds to enjoy the song before you skipped to the next. your shoulders had been rid of a particularly heavy weight since yours and leahs blowout at the wedding and you didn’t really feel like having it back just yet. besides you had work to do and a flight to barcelona to catch.

other than that one slip up at the airport, you barely had time to think about leah, being thrown straight back into your work had helped distract you.

“hola chica.” you heard a voice call from outside your office, “¿cómo estás?” (how are you?)

“simplemente perfecta” (simply perfect). you told the tattooed woman who’d since made herself comfortable on your other chair.

“i think that was sarcasm” mapi observed. “tell me all about the wedding.” she leant forward resting her chin in the palms of her hands, smiling at you so innocently.

you’d become very friendly with a lot of the girls that played for barca since starting there, having lucy and kiera introduce you to them had helped. they liked finally having a physio who was similar to them, that enjoyed football, that was around their ages. as of recent and thanks to a knee injury, you had a new number one fan by the name of maría pilar león. she was in your office most days for rehab so naturally you learned a lot about each other.

“nothing to tell, maps. my sister got married, i wore a nice outfit, got drunk, had an argument with my ex-girlfriend, drank some more and flew back.” you quickly explained whilst pulling her file up on your computer, only turning to glance at her once you’d finished talking.

“perdone, repita eso.” (excuse me, repeat that.) mapi gasped. you talked in her physio sessions, a lot, but you’d never discussed you and leah deeming it not fair on her to spread her relationship history around barca femenis football team.

“wore a nice outfit, got drunk.” you smiled.

“you argued with leah? leah williamson?” mapi exclaimed.

“woah, how’d you know it was leah?”

“lucia loves to talk, everyone knows. it’s sweet you didn’t want to tell anyone though.” she smirked at you. “so why the argument?”

“well we never discussed the breakup properly so, i guess it all just came out that night instead.” you told her, glad to have someone impartial to vent to. “hop up on the bed please, mapi. i need to check your still okay to get back on the grass today.”

“and how do you feel?” she probes as she lays back. you’d both gotten very used to talking about your personal lives during mapi’s appointments. the pair of you had spent so much time together that there was no way you could end up not being friends.

“i don’t really know. there’s like a weight lifted off my shoulder because i said everything i’d been dying to say for a while, but it hasn’t like helped. i still miss it, even after getting that bit of closure.”

“was she unkind?” mapi asked.

“not at all.” you responded quickly. “i don’t think she really knew why it had ended to be honest. she seemed a bit shocked. we were both sat there crying for a while.”

“the leah williamson crying?” mapi’s head shot up from where it lay, leaning back on her elbows. “god you must have really done a number on her.”

“trust me she’s not as tough as she makes out, or she didn’t used to be anyway.” mapi took notice of how you fondly you still spoke about leah, of how you still held the memories of you and her close to your heart.

“i don’t think she’s tough at all anymore based on what keira says.” you heard mapi mumble under her breath. “what do you mean? what did keira say?” your questions came at rapid speed in mapi’s direction, the concern and worry you held for leah would probably never go away.

“i’m staying silent.” mapi held her hands up in defence as you gestured for her to sit up from the bed. “but i do think you should talk to keira for once, i can tell it’s been a little awkward between you two.”

“i mean she’s leahs best friend i don’t want to get in the middle so i just stay out of it completely.” you brushed mapi’s comment off. it wasn’t only keira you’d distanced yourself from after yours leahs split and you knew you’d lost a lot of friends in the process, probably through your own fault rather than anyone else’s. “right, you’re all clear. get your ass back out on the grass maria. i’ll come check in in a little bit.” sending her one final smile to send her off.

you thought mapi had left, thoughts of the team knowing about your previous relationship and what keira may have possibly said ran through your head as you began to wipe down the treatment table where mapi once lay.

“lo siento if i’m overstepping but i feel as if we’re good enough friends that i can say this to you.” mapi’s voice scared you from the doorway that she evidently hadn’t moved from yet. “i can see you still love her, i mean you’ve been here for over a year and you’ve not been with anyone else or even tried.”

“well i-“

“don’t even try because i already know you haven’t, mi amiga.” she sent you a knowing look as you rolled your eyes. “you should fight for it, for her, if it’s something you really want because from what you’ve said and what i’ve heard it sounds like she wants to fight for you. i don’t know what happened at home between the two of you, but it must have hurt, but you said yourself you miss the relationship and i think you miss her as well. everything you get is meant for you, y/n/n, and i know you believe that too. just ask yourself if in 5 years, you’re still going to be wishing you’d never left because i think you will.” this time maria actually left the room and with it left you with a lot to mull over.

“stupid footballers, always giving their stupid advice. idiota.” you scoffed.

“i heard that.”

you filled out the rest of mapi’s paperwork before you went out to see how she was doing back on the grass. it’s quite hard to fill in someone’s medical forms whilst simultaneously having thoughts of your ex-girlfriend spinning around your head but nevertheless you got it done and made your way outside. you were happy with what you saw from mapi, shooting her a quick thumbs up as she waved before trying to disappear back to your office as to not disturb the other girls.

“hola guapa.” (hi beautiful). alexia shouted to you from the pitch as she saw where mapi’s attention was momentarily diverted.

“te hemos echado de menos.” (we’ve missed you). salma called out as she ran to where you were and pulled you in the hug, others following along in her footsteps.

“hola chicas, i’ve missed you too.” you smiled with salmas arm still wrapped around your shoulders. “vuelve y entrena por favor.” (go back and train, please.)

“tu español es tan bueno ahora, hermosa.” (your spanish is so good now, beautiful). alexia smiled at you as she was the next to pull you into a hug. most people who you met were surprised to hear how welcoming and friendly alexia had been to you.

when you first moved to barcelona, it’s safe to say it wasn’t under the best circumstances. just coming off the back of a painful end to your relationship, you’d retreated inside yourself and in hindsight moving away from both your family and friends probably didn’t help but you knew you couldn’t stay where you were. keira and lucy were there who you of course knew through leah and beth, but the last thing you wanted to do was cause any friction for them and their national captain, so you kept to yourself and just got to work.

alexia was near the end of her acl recovery when you started your new position, immediately being put in charge of alexia’s rehab and care as you’d had more than enough acl experience working for arsenal. she was a lot sweeter than you’d imagined, her injury putting her in a vulnerable position and you were right there alongside her. you were both healing in your own ways, alexia physically and you emotionally, and your bond quickly formed through that. you didn’t just become alexia’s go to for her physical needs but also her emotional, supporting her through many ups and downs that came with her recovery, and she could never thank you enough for that. when the both of you had spare time, she’d take you around barcelona and had introduced you to her friends and family. you were right there on the side lines watching proudly as she made her comeback in the la liga match against sporting huelva and the friendship continued to blossom even after her recovery.

“training is nearly finished. no te preocupes.” (don’t worry.) the famously hardworking and driven captain brushed off the end of training, knowing how excited the girls would be to see you again even if it had only been just over a week. “cenamos esta noche?” (dinner tonight?)

“sí, suena bien.” (yeah, sounds good.). alexia had also been a big help in you learning spanish, something you’d been determined to do since arriving in barcelona and you’d come a lot further than keira put it that way.

“y/n, can i talk to you for a second?” speak of the devil, keira came over to grab you as the rest of the girls headed into the changing rooms.

“yeah, of course. everything okay?” you asked her, secretly hoping she’d be coming to talk to you about an injury rather than leah, but you had no such luck.

“i heard about the wedding.” keira starts and you let out a sigh. “i know this probably doesn’t help but she’s really torn up y/n.”

“yeah, me and her both.” you scoffed defensively. you weren’t really angry at leah anymore, so you weren’t sure why you were acting like this, especially towards keira, but after being pretty torn up yourself for nearing a year and a half you didn’t feel like hearing how it was only now affecting leah. “i’m sorry, it was just a lot that’s all.”

“she keeps asking about you. told me to keep an eye on you, check if you were doing okay.” kiera revealed, “even before this.”

“really?” eyebrows raised, you questioned keira, thinking that leah pretty much continued having the time of her life after you moved away.

“all the time. she still cares about you and you were really good together. you were good for her.”

“she was good for me too, until she wasn’t.” you recalled, a sad smile gracing your face which didn’t go unnoticed.

“and i’m sorry you lost the rest of us too. she’s not the only one that’s been missing you. i feel like we haven’t had a proper conversation in ages.” she laughed.

“yeah, probably not.” you laughed a long with her. “but that’s probably more so my fault, just didn’t want to cause any tension, you know? so i’m sorry.”

“you really don’t have anything to apologise for, y/n.” she wrapped an arm around your shoulder and lead you inside so she could get showered and changed before the hot water was no more.

“i’ve done enough crying this week, don’t make me start again.” you joked as you parted ways, you heading back to your office to get back to work for the afternoon and keira to the changing room. “oh and heads up, she’s coming to the game on saturday, bye!”

brilliant. great. fuck.

you’d expected to have a little bit more time before having to see leah again, let alone speak to her. you and her hadn’t had to come face to face for a year and a half and now you were seeing her twice inside of a month. you’d hoped you could get over your meeting by doing the same thing as last time, avoiding her, but turns out the universe had different plans this time. stupid universe.

you tried to distract yourself from the imminent encounter with leah and went to dinner with alexia, ingrid and maria, knowing that was a safe place where leah wouldn’t be bought up for a couple of hours. you always had a good time with those girls and were grateful that they’d took you under their wing even though they really didn’t have to, you weren’t even on the team.

another story post of you and alexia looking particularly friendly at dinner. leah had seen enough of these over the last year and a half but this one for some reason stung her just a bit more than the rest. she used her secret instagram account enough to realise how close you were with certain members of the barca team. she was happy that you’d settled in over there and yet she felt a pang in her heart at the fact that used to be you and her and her teammates. it still should be.

leah wasn’t sure whether you knew about her coming to the game. she wasn’t sure whether she should go at all really but she hadn’t seen keira in a while, having missed out on the last national camp due to her knee. you came first though, more so now than ever. after your intense conversation, if you can call it that, at beth’s wedding, leah realised how much she’d dropped the ball towards the end of your relationship. you weren’t coming first to her; you weren’t being prioritised and yet you still did that for her. perhaps she was a bit naïve to think that you’d simply fallen out of love with her and that you’d grown apart naturally. everyday she regretted the fact she just let you walk out the door without fighting for you. she truly didn’t realise what she had until it was gone. she used to come back to a warm home with candles lit, dinner prepared and a stupid cheesy film ready to watch. realising that the warm home she felt she had, that you made, felt the exact opposite to you elicited gut wrenching feelings for her.

had she ever stopped loving you? absolutely not. had she stopped appreciating you? yes, which she now realises had been her fatal flaw. stuck in her own head coming off the back of the euros success, dealing with fame and recognition that she didn’t realise she’d ever have. everybody wanted a piece of the england captain but she forgot to save a vital part of herself for you. this realisation had triggered something in leah, she needed you more than you’d ever know and she knew you needed her too. she’d give you everything you ever wanted, she’d pull the sun out of the sky for you if you asked and she wanted to show you, in one way or another. if you shot her down, or if she was too late then so be it but leah would be damned if she didn’t try her very hardest.

getting lost in her own thoughts she hadn’t realised she’d liked the instagram story you’d posted of yourself at dinner. thanking god, she was on her second account, until she realised she wasn’t religious and she was most definitely on her actual public verified account. you’d definitely seen it. you were out to dinner with your new friends, potentially a new girlfriend, and she’d just liked your story. your ex-girlfriend had just liked your story. maybe it would make it less weird if she followed you again and then liked your story, so she did, and it was still weird. leah felt a little like a stalker and maybe she was doing a bit of stalking, but she thought it was safe. now she was definitely nervous about seeing you on saturday.

you’d long been home from dinner, only posting about it once you’d all left the restaurant. fans could be a little bit crazy sometimes and you knew both barca and arsenal fans followed you on social media with you being both beth’s little sister and heavily featured on the girl’s accounts at one point or another. the notification came through to your phone as you were mindlessly scrolling through tiktok having tried to fall asleep and failed, your mind running rampant with thoughts of seeing leah again. as if someone had read your mind a notification came through from that exact woman. oh god, she’d liked your story. why would she like your story? why would she like your story and then follow you? maybe she was trying to make it less weird before the weekend. well, if that was her aim she hadn’t succeeded.

“pick up, pick up, pick up.” you mumbled under your breath, pacing back and forth across your bedroom. “hello?” a voice came from the other side of the line.

“hello? oh, thank god you answered.” a sigh of relief left your mouth as your best friend picked up the phone, albeit she didn’t sound very happy to be answering but, nonetheless.

“what do you want? it’s like midnight, i’m trying to sleep.”

“well if i can’t sleep neither can you. leah just refollowed me on instagram.” you practically shouted at her down the phone.

“okay, and?”

“and liked my story.” you paused and she didn’t answer, only hearing a huff down the phone so you continued, “of me and the girls out to dinner, specifically a picture of me and alexia.”

“no, i meant and as in like ‘and what’s your point?’. she followed you, you also used to sit on her face until like a year ago.” she pointed out, crudely.

“oh my god!” you grimaced, “she also stopped following me as soon as i stopped doing that so this is a big deal.”

“y/n/n, i’m not being funny but it’s really not. i mean you saw her like last weekend. she’s probably just trying to make amends.” she points out, just wanting to go back to sleep at this point and trying to make you feel better before she goes.

“but this just makes this weekend so much more awkward now. like-“

“wait hold on, the weekend? what about the weekend?” she cuts you off. you realise you may have failed to mention that you had an inevitable encounter with leah approaching, having been distracted since keira told you earlier in the day.

you sighed, “she’s coming to the quarter final. to see keira.”

“well why didn’t you lead with that?” she was definitely awake now. “you’re gonna see her. she’s gonna talk to you.”

“do you not think i know that? that’s why i’m freaking out even more.”

“no don’t freak out. it’s a good sign.” she reassured you. “she’ll probably try and speak to you and you didn’t leave things on a very good note, so the follow and the like is a good sign.”

“do you think?” you asked, biting down on your freshly manicured nails. another €40 down the drain now you’d have to get them done again.

recalling the wedding your best friend tells you, “i know it’s a good sign. you didn’t see her after you argued at the wedding. you might’ve been crying in the bathroom, but she was in bits too. when i saw her, she was practicall shaking y/n, like really upset. i mean she made sure i knew where you were and went to you so it’s obvious, she still cares about you.”

“keira said the same thing.” you smiled to yourself.

“so, stop panicking. try and get some sleep, okay?” she tells you and you nod, forgetting she can’t actually see you, so you hum in response instead. “right, i have to go because i have a normal job that starts at 8am. not all of us can be a doctor to the stars.”

“i’m a physiotherapist.” you corrected her.

“you say tomato, i say tomato. goodnight, love you.”

“love you too.”

trying not to think about it, the next few days passed like a blur, filled with twinges of knees and possible injuries to which thankfully none were serious. with little anticipation, gameday rolled around. were you for sure going to see leah? no. was it a strong possibility? yes, especially with keira’s meddling.

having a lovely view, thanks to alexia’s assurance, you watched from crowd as barca beat brann with a comfortable 3-1, earning themselves a place in the champions league semi-final. you applauded and cheered for the girls from your seat. frido soon noticed you though beckoning you to come join their celebrations on the pitch. as soon as the other girls noticed, it was clear that no one was taking no for an answer so you climbed over the barriers and with security reassured you weren’t a very dedicated fan, alexia helped you down to the pitch.

you hadn’t seen leah yet today, beginning to think that maybe you’d come away unscathed, but she’d spotted you within the first 5 minutes of her arrival. maybe it was because she was actively looking for you but there was no proof of that so. she watched on from the pitch where keira had summoned her as the barca girls made you come down from the stands to celebrate with them. you never missed an opportunity to do that at arsenal either as leah’s girlfriend, beth’s sister or their physio. you were always there for the matches come rain or shine, win or lose and it was becoming increasingly more obvious that you weren’t there anymore. the conti cup final was happening in a couple of days and leah wished nothing more than for you to be in the stands where you belonged cheering her on, but instead you’d be here.

“oi!” keira shoves leah out of her thoughts, “did you listen to a word i just said?” and looks around to see what had garnered leahs attention to which she found you in her sights. “stupid question, obviously not.”

“sorry.” leah mumbled, still yet to actually look away from you.

“you’re not sorry. you should go talk to her.” keira began her meddling.

“yeah maybe in a bit.” leah smiled sadly at keira, the falseness of it not fooling her best friend for a second.

you finally caught eyes with leah as alexia turned you in the direction of a funny sign that had her attention, but you found the blonde stood 15 metres from you a lot more interesting, especially the fact that she was already looking at you. so interesting that you hadn’t noticed alexia leaving until you felt her squeeze your arm and heard her tell you she’d be back in a minute. well now you were alone, the girls making their walk around the pitch to celebrate with the fans on the other side. you distracted yourself with a conversation with one of the medical staff that had been on the staff for today’s match, they informed you of the little niggles and twinges some of the girls had complained of during the game and half time.

“muchas gracias. que pase buena noche.” (thank you so much, have a nice evening.) you thanked the woman with a smile as the rest of the medical team packed up to leave.

“de nada. buenas noches.” (you’re welcome. goodnight.)

pulling your phone out you made a note of what she’d told you. “hi.”

there she was. you wondered how long it would take between you seeing her and her approaching. 10 minutes apparently. “hi.”

“hello.” she said again, you giggling at the awkwardness she never seemed to grow out of. “wait i already said that.”

“yep, you did.”

leah was relieved that you were laughing, better yet that she was the one making you laugh, or even speaking to her after the way things had been left at beth and viv’s wedding. “can we talk?”

“ye-“ you were interrupted by a hold on your arm from a certain spanish midfielder.

“estás bien?” (are you okay?) alexia asked, directing her attention to you not yet looking at leah. alexia knew all about your past relationship, you’d told her in one of your numerous physio sessions as she had told you about hers. well you hadn’t ever told her who it was only that said ex-girlfriend played alongside your sister but she’d figured it out with the small help of mapi telling her exactly who she was.

“si, soy buena.”(yeah, i’m good.) you smiled at her, not sure why she looked so worried for you. leah noticed your smile reached your eyes, a real genuine smile you were sending alexia. one she hadn’t coaxed out of you in some time, and she felt her heart sting once more. it was one thing seeing yours and alexia’s friendship or whatever it was through her phone screen but seeing it stand directly in front of her was worse than she thought.

“hola, leah.” once she saw that you were okay and seemingly unaffected (you were affected, just keeping it under wraps) by leahs approach, alexia turned her attention to her fellow blonde national captain.

“hi. good game.” leah pulled alexia in for a handshake, trying not to let the jealousy that was bubbling inside her show on the outside.

“oh, thank you. nice to see you.” alexia gave her a tight smile as she squeezed your hand and headed to follow the rest of the girls back inside. alexia was worried for her new friend, not wanting to see her return to the headspace she was in when she first arrived in barcelona.

you and leah headed back towards the stands where coincidentally you’d only been sat a few rows apart. “how are you?” she asked as she gave you a hand to help you back over the barrier.

“yeah, i’m good. how are you?”

“been better.” she sent you a sad smile. “i know you probably haven’t got much time but i just wanted to see if you’re up for getting a coffee or something before i go home on monday?”

you were both surprised and not surprised at leah’s question. you’d expected to have a conversation with her but thought it might’ve happened today. mapi’s words of advice rang through your head. you did miss her a lot, you thought about her all the time. maybe having that closure without the arguing would help you process this. clearly, you’d been doing a pretty shitty job by yourself for the past year and a half if every time you saw her all the feeling came rushing back.

“yeah actually, i’d like that. i’m free tomorrow morning?” you proposed.

“wait really? are you joking?” the smile appeared on her face. shed asked the question half expecting you to say no.

“obviously i’m not joking you idiot.” you laughed at her expression.

“tomorrows good. tomorrows so good.” she told you, still smiling widely. in reality, tomorrow wasn’t good. she had plans to go for breakfast with keira and her girlfriend tomorrow, but keira could wait. they’ll get lunch instead.

should someone be this stressed to see their ex-girlfriend again? probably not. should they also be this stressed over what they look like to see their ex-girlfriend again? also, probably not.

you’d been up 2 hours before you were supposed to be after not sleeping much at all in the first place. you’d gotten your outfit ready last night, declining your invitation to the club with the team to celebrate to ensure that you had a fresh head in the morning. deciding that the outfit you’d chosen last night wasn’t good enough and you hated your entire wardrobe ended with about 4 outfit changes before you finally got in your car, 20 minutes after you were supposed to leave.

“i’m so sorry i’m late leah.” you rushed out as you sat across from her at the table shed been perched at for 25 45 minutes.

“don’t worry, just had me thinking you weren’t going to show up.” she chuckled nervously, sliding the drink shed bough you over to you. “one iced latte with oat milk and one shot of vanilla and a shot of hazelnut.”

“you remembered.” you smiled at her. your coffee order had never changed in the years leah had known you and it hadn’t since. if you needed to be in work earlier than leah, there would be an iced latte on your desk promptly when she walked through the doors of the training centre.

“hard not to remember when you probably consist of 90% iced latte.”

“so has keira shown you the barcelona sights?”

“a few. found my favourite one yesterday at the game though.” she flirted. old habits die hard, i guess.

“i see you haven’t lost your charm miss williamson.” you laughed lightly. both of you dancing around the real reason leah asked you to meet.

“you seem really happy here, y/n/n.” leah pointed out. a bittersweet feeling to know that you were thriving somewhere else when she believed you should be in london, with her, but at least you were happy.

“yeah its been rough, i wont lie to you.” leah winced at your words, realising she’d been the reason for your move in the first place so she had no right to wish you were back in london. this was your home now. “you were a big part of my time in london so we said goodbye and then i had to say goodbye.”

“i know we left beth and viv’s on a sour note, but i really am genuinely sorry. for everything. the breakup, the neglect, the argument at the wedding. all of it.” she reaches across the small coffee table to grab your hand, something she always did to stop you biting at your painted nails.

“you still have it?” you borderline gasped at the sparkle you noticed on leahs hand. as soon as you noticed she retracted her hand, as if moving it would somehow take back what you’d seen, but you held tightly.

“erm-“ she cleared her throat, not expecting you or anyone else to see that the ring you bought her still holds pride of place on her hand some days, today being one of them. “yeah, i just like to have it on sometimes. reminds me of a better time.” in reality, she was wearing it at the wedding and hadn’t taken it off since. how could she take the ring off if she hadn’t stopped thinking about the girl who gave it to her?

“i didn’t mean to be so harsh towards you the other week, le.” you told her as you let go of her hand, falling back into your seat. “i think i just got overwhelmed. the whole day was a lot, you just got the brunt of it.”

“trust me i deserved it. if all i get of you these days is to be your punching bag, i’ll take it. it’s the least i can do.”

you chuckled sadly, knowing exactly what lead you and leah to this point but still wondering how you got here at the same time. “i miss you, y/n/n. i know i said it at the wedding, but it’s been a year and a half and some days i think i might be over it, that i might be ready to move on but i’m not and i’m really scared that i never will be.”

“i don’t want you to think that i don’t miss you because i do. all the time.” you confessed to her. “but that doesn’t change the fact that what happened and what you did really hurt me, leah. towards the end i was so afraid of you going to an event or a trip and leaving me that i didn’t realise i’d left myself behind already.”

leah hung her head. never in her life had she been so ashamed of how she’d treated someone, especially someone who loved and cared about her so deeply. you would have done anything for leah and a lot of the times you did. she always came first with you, and you did to her, until all of a sudden you didn’t. deep down you knew that it was partly to do with leah dealing with the sides of fame she never had to deal with before, becoming a household name within the space of a few weeks during the euros, but you also knew that you just weren’t her priority anymore whether she meant to do it or not.

“but i’m really tired of being angry leah.” you continued, the word ‘but’ sending a slither of hope through leah as she looked back towards you. “and i do miss you, so id really like it if we could be friends again.”

“i’d really like that too. having you back in any capacity is more than i deserve and more than good enough for me.” leah smiled wider than you’d seen in a while. even on your stalks through instagram you knew that half those smiles were fake.

“friends?”

“friends.”

the long awaited part 2! decided there will be at least 1-2 more parts of this just bare with me. enjoy🤍

#awfc #awfc x reader #woso imagine #woso x reader #leah williamson #leah williamson fanfic #leah williamson imagine #leah williamson x reader #lionesses #woso one shot

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fbpanimations · 5 months ago

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youtube

apparently i never posted abt this but erm !! map call

#ii #inanimate insanity #ii fanart #map call #ii map call #multi animator project #maproject #Youtube

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incognit0slut · 1 year ago

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Much Ado About Nothing (Act I, Scene II: The Crude Suggestion)

A provocative joke leads Spencer to contemplate, yet ultimately avoid, a crucial conversation with you.

Part warning: a little suggestive comment and two idiots being stubborn Words: 2.1k A/n: I want to remind you that each part doesn’t necessarily follow one another, the story focuses on their relationship and not on the cases being told. This is just a collection of shenanigans and nothing too serious!

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

There was something about being in the middle of nowhere for a case. Maybe not exactly nowhere—you knew where you were, you could pinpoint this city on a map, but there wasn’t the same bustle and constant noise you were used to in Quantico. The relative quiet was unsettling, yet oddly comforting.

Although nothing was comforting about checking the crime scene deep in a forest in broad daylight. It was a small, unnaturally circular clearing where the grass was trampled down in places, and in the center was the remains of what you were there to investigate.

“So,” you started, your eyes scanning the place. “Do you think the Unsub uses these remote areas to avoid detection, or is he just a fan of the great—albeit bland—outdoors?”

Spencer glanced at you from the other side of the clearing.

“Statistically speaking, the isolation could serve to minimize the risk of witnesses. However, it’s also plausible that the Unsub finds comfort in solitude. Or maybe he just dislikes traffic.”

“Dislikes traffic,” you repeated, deadpan. “Yes, because serial killers are really just misunderstood commuters.”

Just as Spencer was about to retort with what you assumed would be a wildly thrilling statistic about traffic patterns and criminal behavior, Emily’s voice cut through the tension. “Can’t you two ever not bicker for more than five minutes?”

You turned to her. “I’m just trying to get a straightforward answer. But apparently, that’s too much to ask for.”

“I’m giving you a range of possibilities, which is what profiling is about. Sorry if that’s too complicated for you to understand.”

“Oh, I understand completely,” you replied, matching his tone. “I just find that half of your theories are unnecessary.”

Spencer’s eyes narrowed. “The depth of analysis ensures we don’t overlook anything. It’s thorough, not unnecessary.”

“You call it thorough. I call it overthinking.”

Emily stepped between you, raising a hand. “Alright, enough. Can we focus on the case now?”

“He started it,” you couldn’t resist muttering under your breath as you moved to another part of the clearing.

“Me? You were the one who—”

Emily cut him off with a loud, exasperated sigh, tilting her head back as if seeking divine intervention, before turning her gaze sharply back to both of you.

“Most people go to therapy to deal with this much-unresolved tension,” she remarked dryly. Then, fixing you with a pointed look, she added, “You know what else might help?”

You frowned, glancing towards her. “What?”

Emily paused dramatically, her gaze shifting from you to Spencer and back again at you, lingering a little too long. She didn’t say anything, but the way she raised her brows and the smirk playing on her lips, you knew what she was implying. It was as if there was an unspoken code that only years of friendship between women could understand.

You looked away, a slight burn along our cheeks.

Spencer, still oblivious, looked from Emily to you, confusion written all over his face. "What? What are you talking about?”

“Well—”

“No!” You stopped her. “Don’t listen to her.”

Spencer’s confusion deepened, his gaze shifting from you to Emily, trying to decipher the underlying message. Emily’s smirk only widened, clearly enjoying the discomfort she’d stirred up.

“You should ask Y/N,” she said, her tone teasing. “I’m sure she knows some great ideas for... tension relief.”

You felt your face heat up even more, and you shot Emily a warning look, partly annoyed and partly embarrassed by her insinuation. But she simply just laughed, and when a sudden car pulled up near them, Emily found a way to escape.

“Oh, look, the sheriff is here,” she said, swiftly changing the subject. “You guys check the area while I talk to him.”

Emily walked off to meet the sheriff, leaving you and Spencer alone in awkward silence. You turned away, eager to divert your attention back to work when you felt him hang back slightly to walk with you.

He seemed to hesitate before speaking. “What was she referring to?”

You glanced at him, trying to gauge his reaction, wondering if he was genuinely confused or just looking for a way to keep the conversation light.

"Nothing," you replied with a dismissive shrug, keeping your eyes on the ground ahead. “She was joking.”

“I could tell, but what about?”

You paused, realizing that the vague explanations weren't going to satisfy him this time. His analytical mind was both a blessing and a curse in moments like these.

"She was suggesting—jokingly—that we might relieve our constant bickering... through more unconventional methods."

"Unconventional methods?"

“Sex, Reid. She was implying sex.”

His face instantly turned a shade of red, perhaps deeper than you had ever seen before. He blinked a few times, clearly taken aback by the bluntness of your clarification.

"Oh," he managed to stutter out, the usual fluency of his speech faltering under the weight of the topic. He bit his bottom lip, a nervous habit that you had come to recognize as his attempt to buy time while he gathered his thoughts.

“That’s…”

“Crazy, right?” You pressed on. “I mean, nothing good will come out if we start blurring pleasure and professional lines like that.”

There, you said it, an underlining of your words that carried more weight than the immediate conversation. You wondered if he understood your double meaning, and maybe he did, because his gaze met yours sharply.

He exhaled, his demeanor shifting as he processed not just Emily's joke but also the deeper reference to that night—the one neither of you spoke about but still lingered between you.

“Right,” he finally responded, his voice firm, yet there was a hint of something else you couldn’t quite decipher. “Nothing good at all.”

“It would only complicate things.”

“Exactly.”

“It’s a bad idea.”

“The worst.”

For a moment, you both stood there, the forest around you fading into the background. You broke the silence first, turning away from him. "We should finish up here. There's still a lot of ground to cover."

With those words, you moved ahead, feeling his gaze on your back. The crunch of leaves under his steps echoed as he followed in silence.

It would only complicate things… as if it wasn’t already complicated in the first place.

Spencer looked over to where you stood; it was clear you were trying to avoid him for the past hour. He watched as you meticulously examined every leaf and twig, your focus seeming more like an escape than an investigation.

He knew he should say something, perhaps bridge the gap with an apology or an olive branch of some sort, but every potential word seemed to catch in his throat. It seemed like a constant cycle of hesitation and missed opportunities. Every time he thought to speak, doubt would claw its way back, holding him silent.

He wondered if perhaps it was the same for you.

“Hey,” Emily’s voice filled the silence as she joined back. “Did you find anything?”

Spencer’s train of thought was abruptly interrupted by Emily’s arrival. He straightened up, quickly shifting his focus back to the present. He gestured towards the markings on the ground that you both had been examining.

“We might have found something.”

Emily crouched beside you, eyes scanning the evidence with practiced ease. “You think this is from our Unsub?”

You nodded, offering the specifics, “The pattern and depth suggest it’s not natural. And the spacing might give us an idea about the size and weight of the Unsub.”

“I’ll get the forensics team to take a closer look.” She stood up, looking between you and Spencer. “You two okay here?”

“Yes, we’re fine,” Spencer answered quickly, a bit too eagerly. You simply nodded without saying a word.

“Alright, maybe I like it better when you both bicker.”

He saw you shrug nonchalantly. “I’m gonna check the other side,” you announced before walking away.

"She's avoiding me," he stated, a note of helplessness threading through his voice.

“Can you blame her?”

“What?” He asked, his voice tinged with defensiveness. “So it's my fault?”

“Well… did you do anything wrong?”

There was a pause before he glanced away, his mind racing through that night. “Maybe,” he admitted, his voice low, almost reluctant.

"There you go, you have your answer.”

He shifted from one foot to the other, visibly uncomfortable, as his fingers twitched at his sides. “Do you think we’re overreacting?”

She sighed. “Look, I don't know the details of what happened, and as much as I want to help, it’s between you two. The way I see it, you have two options: either resolve the problem or continue bickering.”

He frowned, mulling over her words. He glanced toward you and faltered for a moment, noticing the glare you were throwing him even from the other side of the clearing. It was clear you didn’t want to engage in any type of conversation with him.

“Yeah, I think I’m going to stick with bickering.”

Emily laughed. “Really? You don’t want to consider my suggestion earlier?” When she caught the blush creeping on his cheeks, her grin widened. “Finally caught on what I meant?”

His blush deepened, and he cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Oh, yeah, well, that's definitely not an appropriate solution," he stammered, trying to regain his composure. Collecting himself, he latched onto a more comfortable territory—facts.

"Actually, according to a study, about 20% of workplace relationships lead to marriage, but they can also significantly complicate professional dynamics, increasing the potential for conflicts of interest.”

Emily simply smiled, clearly amused at how flustered he was. Her silence only urged him to continue.

"And, well, that doesn't even begin to cover the fallout if things don't work out. The workplace can become, um, a challenging environment for both parties involved. It's just... it's tricky."

Spencer winced to himself, because ironically, the fallout was already happening. The situation he was theorizing about in vague terms was unfolding right in front of him.

"It sounds like you're speaking from experience.”

“I’m not!” He responded almost too fast. “I’m not.”

She studied him, her eyes narrowing slightly as she assessed his reaction. He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to the ground. The quick denial had been too sharp, too reflexive, and now he felt cornered by his own reactions.

“I’m not,” he insisted again. “I just... I mean, I've read a lot about it. You know, studies, research papers, it's nothing personal."

Emily nodded slowly, not entirely convinced but choosing not to push further. "If you say so.”

Her eyes lingered on him for a while, and when she realized the conversation wasn’t going anywhere, she turned around and left him.

“Where are you going?”

“Comforting her,” she called out, walking backward. “Something you should’ve done.”

He watched Emily walk away, her words stinging more than he wanted to admit. Then his eyes traveled to you, and it was as if you could sense his lingering stare, you looked up and met his gaze.

Anger. Annoyance. It was what he caught in your eyes before you quickly masked it with a neutral expression. The intensity of that brief exchange was enough to make him realize just how deep the rift between you had gone.

Spencer knew talking about it was the mature thing to do, but he also feared that bringing up that conversation might only open another can of worms. He felt stuck, unsure if addressing the issue would heal or harm. So he went back to being a coward and turned in the opposite direction.

It was for the better. You didn’t want to talk to him anyway.

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nathanbatemanfucker · 1 month ago

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Let Me Go (No Puedo) Pt. II

summary: sam makes the mistake of thinking you two have everything under control.

pairing: joaquin torres x f!wilson!reader

contents: 18+/NSFW/MINORS DNI, eventual smut, forbidden romance, brother’s best friend, canon typical mention of violence and weapons

wc: 2,918

an: eeeep, i love this series so im glad it won the poll. things get a little more…yearny here, lots of pining and what could be! hope u guys like it 🫶🏾

let me go (no puedo) masterlist

Sam makes the mistake of thinking you two have everything under control. That nothing could ever possibly happen between you– or perhaps he was just feeling desperate enough to need you to pitch in for the first time in years.

When he’d first started in this superhero business, he leaned on you a lot. There was so much pressure, being the wingman of Captain America. Being Falcon. Sam relied on you to help him gather intel and keep him company during stakeouts. Eventually, with Sam’s guidance and the hypervigilance ingrained in you from your chaotic household, you got pretty good at recon.

Sam’s arms are crossed against his chest, his expression grave. “Can you handle it? Be professional, man. She’s my sister.”

Joaquin remembers the day your hands brushed, the hours-long phone call the two of you had over a month ago– then he lets those things go for the moment. For just this moment he could forget the feelings for you budding in his heart.

“Sam, I said I’m good. You can trust me with this, c’mon man we need the recon.”

“Fine but if you so much as breathe on her, Joaquin.”

Joaquin opens his mouth to reassure Sam again but their conversation is interrupted by your knocking on the door. Even if he wanted to, Sam couldn’t back out after flying you to Virginia from Louisiana.

“Best behavior.”

Joaquin dramatically draws a cross over his heart. “Cruz, Cruz, que se vaya el diablo y que venga Jesús.”

Sam’s smile is genuine when he opens the door to greet you. “Hey, youngin’, you ready?”

“Don’t youngin’ me like you didn’t beg me to come here,” You grumble playfully stepping inside.

“Hey, chica,” Joaquin murmurs with feigned disinterest as he makes his way back to his desk.

You notice that change right away. You aren’t sure if it's for Sam’s sake or if Joaquin has decided to put more space between the two of you. To move on. Either way, there's a twinge of disappointment that pulls at your heart. You ignore it.

“Joaquin.” You give him a small nod, trying your best to smile like everything is normal before turning to Sam. “So give me more details.”

Sam is quiet as he takes in your interaction. It's harmless enough– no flirting on Joaquin’s end, no lingering glances or strange inflections in tone. Maybe he really had snuffed out whatever connection was brewing between you two. For a split second, he feels guilty taking away the possibility of happiness. Though he’d never admit it to him, he loved Joaquin. But Sam loved you more and the last thing he wanted to see was one of you get hurt by the hand of the other.

“Earth to Sammy,” You sing, waving a hand in front of his face.

That snaps him out of it and he glares at you over his shoulders as he makes his way to the table. “I hate it when you call me that.”

“That’s why I do it,” You remind him with a grin. Joining him at the table you look down at maps and blueprints strewn about. “Now, what’s this?”

“This is where I need you both. You,” Sam points at Joaquin and beckons him over. “There’s an art crawl tonight. Lotta people, good cover. I got a tip somebody’s been making illegal firearm deals in broad daylight under the guise of art. I need someone who can blend in.” His eyes flick between you and Joaquin. “Think you two can handle that without making my life harder?”

“Think you can handle not backseat driving the whole thing?” You retort, offended.

Sam just rolls his eyes at you before he starts to scan the papers in front of him, mapping a trail for the two of you to follow.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, if I talked to you like that, you’d have me on the ground.”

“You don’t have little sister privileges, Joaquin.”

“I feel like I should get little Falcon privileges or something.”

“Yeah right. Can you two knuckleheads focus, I’m trying to show you paths in and out. I want you to have options in case things go sideways.”

“You assured me that they wouldn’t.”

“Redwing says there’s only a 14% chance that things go to shit. But even if they do, you’ll have access to backup,” Sam reassures you but it’s just not enough.

You go quiet, crossing your arms protectively against your chest. 14% isn’t bad but it isn’t the number you wanted to hear. You loved your job, loved working with the kids, and helping them connect with their semblance of control through building something. The idea of not seeing them again over some routine illegal firearms makes your blood hot.

Joaquin notices the shift in your body language immediately. He can’t help it, and he draws closer, lowly asking, “Que es, querida?”

You plan to just glance over at him, but his gaze is too intense when your eyes meet. You get stuck there like a bee in honey. “Solo quiero volver con mis niños.”

His eyes soften. He wants to reach out for you, flexing his fingers before he shoves his hands in his pockets to curb the desire. “You will. I won’t let anything happen to you, lo prometo.”

“No he won’t, because there will be no distractions,” Sam says firmly— both of you know exactly what he means, and Joaquin takes a step away from you in response. “Let’s get y’all strapped up.”

The tension fizzles between the three of you as Sam gets you prepared. It’s been a couple of years since you held a gun other than a hunting rifle but it’s like riding a bike, especially when there are civilians to protect.

You frown a little, not liking how quickly you’ve slid back into that thought pattern. You and your life deserve protection too. Sam chose this life, Joaquin, too, but you? You didn’t want to have to fight for anything anymore. You wanted quiet and simple.

“I got something for you. Lil’ surprise.”

You narrow your eyes at Sam. “Trying to butter me up?”

“Do I get a surprise?” Joaquin chimes.

Sam rolls his eyes. “No blockhead, this is your job.”

“Hey, people get raises all the time,” Joaquin mumbles, pouting.

“This is all you,” Sam says to you, removing a case from the arsenal, and setting it on a nearby table.

You open the case eagerly, mouth dropping open as your fingers trace the contrasting metal and custom leather accents. There’s something engraved into the side.

“Holy shit, you got me a custom P238 Legion and that…my adoption date? Sam,” You pull him into a hug, one he readily returns.

“You always talked about it when we were younger, l l figured I owe it to you now.”

Joaquin knew that you were adopted but looking at the date it wasn’t until you were a teenager. He wants to know more about your story, even as he sees how close you and Sam are. He doesn’t want to fuck up a family…but he doesn’t think he can let you go either.

—

“So how’ve you been? Any more bad days?” Joaquin asks as you amble down the tent-lined path.

Sam was right, it's crowded, bodies packed like sardines. A great cover— not only for you and Joaquin but for the target too.

You glance at him a little dodgily, gripping the lemonade in your hand a little tighter. You both have encrypted earpieces in case you get separated and they’re connected to the same network as Redwing.

Joaquin clocks your hesitancy immediately. “Sam’s halfway across the country by now and he’s got things to focus on. It’s just you and me, hermosa.”

You and Joaquin and the droves of people in this park. It feels easier to be more open with him when there’s so much to pay attention to.

Keeping your gaze forward to focus on the task at hand you say, “A few, but none as bad as the day we talked. It's been fine enough. What about you– get enough time to grab a drink or watch a movie?”

“Glad to hear you’re seeing better days. Nothing on the social front for me yet, unless you include Sam.”

“He’s too grumpy to be included. Did you tell him about–”

“No. I wouldn’t do that to you. Look, querida, there’s something here. I think we both know that and–”

He’s cut off by a heavily tattooed woman with blunt blonde hair. “Interested in looking over our inventory? I imagine a man like you would appreciate the delicate silhouettes my pieces offer.”

“No, I’m–”

You interject, “Sure, we’d love to take a look.”

The woman’s eyes are sharp even as she smiles at you and welcomes the both of you in. You don’t care what she thinks, as long as you can blend in. It would be suspicious if the two of you didn’t peruse the art and goods at all, especially to anyone who’s here undercover too.

“What was that?” Joaquin whispers, the warmth of his breath ghosting your ear.

“It would be weird if all we did was walk around and look at people. Don’t wanna draw attention.”

He hums in agreement before turning to look at a canvas, his eyes going a little wide. Now that you’ve stepped further into the tent you realize exactly why the woman singled out Joaquin.

The silhouettes she mentioned are nude portraits…of herself. She was flirting with him and at the end of the day, you couldn’t blame her.

She materializes out of nowhere, standing distinctly between you and Joaquin as she addresses him. “See anything you like?”

“It's all one of a kind. A dedicated practice I imagine,” He answers noncommittally before snaking around her to stand beside you. To your surprise, he takes your hand pulling you flush against him. “Que piensas, mi amor?”

You clear your throat, not fully trusting your voice with the way your mouth has gone dry. “Couldn’t agree more.”

The woman is immediately disinterested once it’s clear that you and Joaquin are together. She’s cordial, thanking you for your time and telling you where you can find her if either of you is interested in a piece.

“Let’s keep moving,” Joaquin urges once she’s gone.

He doesn’t let go of your hand as he leads you out of the tent to the main path again. You don’t let go either— you don’t want to. It should be a reflex to pull away, a reminder to keep that space between you both. But his grip is warm and steady, and for once, you let yourself take comfort in it.

“That was a sweet little piece Sam got you. What’s the story?”

“I used to help him on recon when he first started. I was his woman in the chair and I always wanted a P238 Legion. I mean it’s gorgeous, sleek, compact. Not much more I could want especially since he customized it for me,” You don’t mean to ramble but you do.

Joaquin smiles as he listens to your answer, enjoying the sight of you so excited. It makes him reluctant to ask his next question, but he just wants to know more about you. “You said the numbers were your adoption date?”

“The official one anyway, yeah,” You train your eyes on a display of delicately decorated ceramic bowls, your tone light. He doesn’t need the whole story—nobody does.

The paperwork was just a formality by then, the Wilsons had already felt like home. But the time before that? There was no reason to dig into the years that built your nightmares.

“You would’ve been a teenager by then.”

“Adoption takes time,” You say, unsure why he’s restating things the both of you already know.

“Mmm. No fue fácil, I bet.”

“Oh— well, no it wasn’t. Not at first, but eventually my parents stopped noticing I was gone. I lived with the Wilsons full time since I was 12, the legal process is just a bitch.”

“I’m sorry, hermosa.”

“It was a long time ago. And it came with perks.”

“Perks?”

“Growing up in an environment like the one I did…some people in your line of work have to develop and hone their attention skills. Those skills were how I survived. How else would I know the wind is blowing south or how distinct your footsteps are from everyone else’s?”

“You’ve been keeping track of that even as we talk?” He asks in disbelief.

“I have to…had to. I also know you weren’t, because you totally would’ve made a corny joke about the penis vases we passed.”

Joaquin glances over his shoulder, scanning. “There were penis vases?”

“No, but I love how excited you got,” You tease.

“You got jokes, querida. You’re definitely a Wilson,” He squeezes your hand playfully where it’s still interlocked with his.

Joaquin doesn’t know how much his words mean to you. You’d always wanted a place to belong and when you found the Wilson’s you wanted nothing more than to belong to them.

“Was that the only perk?”

“Sort of. Like I said, being good at this sort of thing had Sam dragging me along and he paid me for it. It’s how I got my first set of power tools so I could finally woodwork on our family property.”

“What’s that about? The woodworking passion?”

Just like that fateful night when you answered the phone, you and Joaquin fall into a comfortable rhythm of conversation. It’s easy with him, even when it shouldn’t be. The more time you spend together, the more dangerous this ease feels—like you could forget why this can’t happen.

The two of you look cozy, hand and hand, browsing the tents, stopping for cheese fries, and re-upping on lemonade. Eventually, you make it to the picnic tables sitting down to get a better angle to watch the crowds.

Before you know it, the sun has dipped low, and the amount of people meandering around drops significantly. It’s clear that whatever target Sam was hoping for didn’t show.

“Sam’s gonna be disappointed,” You say worriedly on the walk back to the car.

“I’m not,” Joaquin murmurs, pausing briefly to grab your hand again.

Your heart flutters at his words, at his strong hand around yours and you try to joke all the meaning away. “Yeah me either, I mean free flight, free gun, free food—“

Joaquin gives you a look of feigned offense. “And I’m just here, huh?”

You laugh, leaning into him playfully, “Oh, right you. You’re pretty cool I guess.”

He opens your door for you, and though he joins you in laughter his voice is wistful when he responds. “Yeah, you too.”

The simmer of longing in his voice isn’t lost on you, and you hesitate, looking at him with some sort of apology on your tongue. What would an apology really do? Give him (and yourself) false hope? Soothe an ache that can never be remedied? So you press your lips together, sliding into the seat with a soft thank you.

The armory is quiet when you and Joaquin step inside, the fluorescent lights buzzing low overhead. The mission wasn’t a failure, but it wasn’t a success either. No target, no major leads—just a long day spent chasing a ghost through a crowded venue. A practically perfect day spent together that leaves you swirling and pining for things you cannot have.

You set your empty lemonade cup down on Sam’s desk, fingers lingering on the rim before finally letting go. Joaquin stands beside you, hands on his hips, watching you like he’s debating something.

“You should stay,” he says.

You glance at him. “We both know that’s not a good idea.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t want you to.” His voice is low and steady—heated in a way that makes your belly flip.

You exhale, shaking your head. “Joaquin…”

But before you can say more, he reaches for you. Not in a desperate way or a way that forces anything. You can tell by his gentle grip that he gives you a choice to stop him but how could you— his sincerity makes it impossible not to let him. His arms come around you, warm and solid, anchoring you to the moment, to him.

You let yourself sink into him, just for a second. Let yourself pretend it’s normal because it truly feels that way. That this—whatever this is festering between you and Joaquin—is something you can hold onto. His cologne is spiced, his chest firm beneath your cheek.

Before it can go too far— become something more, not only in your mind but in your heart, you press a hand against his chest and whisper, “Joaquin… debes soltarme.”

Figuratively. Literally.

He doesn’t for several moments, but eventually, his hands loosen at your back, fingers trailing down your arms reverently before he breaks contact.

“No sé si puedo,” he murmurs.

And it’s not just a smooth-talking line, not one of his flirty quips. You can feel in the charged air between you that it’s the truth. You can hear it in the way his voice dips, in the way he looks at you like he’s trying to memorize something.

Your throat tightens. You can’t afford to let that truth settle.

So you take one step back. And then another. Another and another, and when you finally turn, heading for the door, you can’t look back. You know he’s still watching.

> pt. iii

lmk if you want to be on nsfw joaquin torres taglist (must be 18+/have age displayed)

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kasagia · 5 months ago

Text

I love you... I am sorry II

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova/The Darkling x fem!witch! reader

Summary: You and Aleksander talk, scratching open old wounds from the past, you come to the conclusion that some things are simply a lost cause.

Aleksander Morozova's Masterlist ~•♤♤♤•~Main Masterlist

~•♤♤♤•~ Part 1 ~•♤♤♤•~ Part 3 ~•♤♤♤•~

"Do you think I'll tell you what to do by moving soldier figures around on the map without any logic?"

"I know you, Aleksander. Eventually you'll crack and arrange those wooden soldiers the way they need to be on this map to win this battle. Give me two hours, and I'll make you so annoyed that you will do whatever it takes to get rid of me." You respond teasingly, playing with the pawns on the Ravka map in front of his cell door.

A few days had passed since your first meeting after years. During that time, you had managed to discover exactly what changes had taken place in Aleksander.

He was apathetic, not paying attention to those around him. You had been watching from hiding as Alina and Baghra tried to talk to him, but he clearly showed no interest in Ravka's fate. And worst—Grisha. Or at least he pretended not to care. You had to find out why.

Luckily, you and Ulla were able to stir up… a lot more emotion in him than those two hags. Even if it was just irritation, it was still a greater success than Alina or Baghra could achieve. Or at least that's what Baghra told you.

"Since when have you been friends with my mother?" He asks, pulling you out of your thoughts.

You lazily move the figurine representing Grisha's troop to the pass between Ravka and Fjerda. With your ability to read the Shadow Summoner, you immediately notice the slight twitch at the corners of his eyes. A shitty place then. You move the figurine to a different spot and, seeing no disapproving little reaction from him, you leave it there.

"Since when did you become a pain in the ass?" You reply with a cute little smirk, grinning when you see his annoyed expression.

You pull away from your poor reenactment of battle and lean back in your chair, crossing your arms. You watch him carefully, keeping your poker face on as he analyses you too. Talking to him was like playing chess. You had to know when you could afford to lose your pawns.

"You never really said why you are here." He starts, stepping a little closer to you. Like a vulture slowly circling its prey. You liked him in his analytical hunter mode. He was so absurdly sexy…

"I don't have to explain myself to you. You are not my man or something." You scoff, glancing out of the corner of your eye at his reaction. The clench of his jaw might have gone unnoticed if you didn't know him any better, but the way he clenched his fist and hid it behind his back didn't. You pissed him off. Good.

"I am not." He only agrees coolly, this time being the one to stick the needle in your side. Bloody bastard.

"Alina wants to take me north. You know... to help calm down a situation with Fjerda by using my powers." You tell him, leaning back in your chair. You reach for the pendant around your neck and play with the glass heart, looking at him as intently as he does you.

"Have you become her errand dog?"

"Please... do you truly think so little of me?" You snort in amusement, but your mockery dies when he says nothing in response to your words. Bad move. Of course he thinks so little of you since your stormy breakup. "You don't have to answer. No. I am not going to help your little saint or queen or whatever you wish to call her with the war you wanted to prevent. No matter how dramatic the measures you resorted to, at least Ravka would not now have to deal with the united forces of Shu-Han and Fjerda. And as you could notice in the centuries we spent together, I do not support idiots and ignorants like your dear Alina."

"So you are here to say that you see my point of view, and actually you want to take my side? Perhaps you are even jealous of my 'relationship' with the Sun Summoner?" He mocks you as he approaches the bars.

You stand up furiously from your seat and approach him too, seeing only the red fire of your rage as he dares to throw your jealousy in your face.

"No. I came here to see you writhing in this cage, irritated and eager to take some action, maybe even plotting some king's slaughter. I didn't expect to be left with a boring shell of who you used to be."

"I am terribly sorry if I disappointed your expectations. Do you see now how it feels on the other side of your own treatment?"

You stare at each other for a long moment, both of you seething with anger, resentment, and bitterness built up over years of you ignoring him and running away from him and his distrust and anger towards you.

"We broke up."

"Indeed we did."

"Then why did you come back to it?"

"And why did you come back now?" You shiver at his words and pull away from him. You try desperately to maintain your neutral posture, but it becomes an increasingly difficult task as he hits all the right spots.

"Your girl ruined my peace with the war that shouldn't have happened and wouldn't have if you were in power. I couldn't stay any longer in my hiding place. Even if I wished so. I had to come and clean up your mess."

"Alina is more than you care to think about her. Much more." His words hurt you, but you know they were the best answer to your lie. After all, nothing connected you anymore. It was logical that he would defend his Sun Summoner. His little damn Sankta.

"I don't care what she is. But order your little minions once more to put me to sleep, or do anything against my will, and I promise you, Aleksander, you will remember why it's not worth teasing me."

"I remember the times you loved my teasing." He replies with a small cocky grin. And you don't know what you want to do more, punch him in the face or kiss him for being so frustratingly, irritatingly absurdly handsome.

"Don't recall them if you despise them so much."

"Why? Because you regret what you have done? Because you realise how terrible a mistake you made. Because you want back what you lost ages ago? Because you know that we could have so much more if it weren't for your selfish actions?"

"How dare you, you demon from the woods..." You growl at him furiously and step closer to the bars, tightening your hands on them in an attempt to vent your anger on him.

"I am. You shall never forget this, witch without a coven."

"And who is the reason I don't have one?" Your words ignite a fury so hot and great that he presses his body against the bars as well. You stare furiously into each other's eyes, and you know that if his power were not in bondage, the room would be filled with his shadows right now.

"I never asked you for anything or for sacrificing anything for me. What you did for me then... it didn't matter when you did this only because you felt guilty. Not after what you did TO me."

"But you asked me once to stay with you. No matter what. Remember?" You raise a questioning eyebrow at him, summoning old, distant memories. And even though centuries had passed since those events… It didn't mean it hurt any less with the passage of time.

"How convenient for you to keep only those promises that suit you. Now I'd appreciate it even more if you'd disappear for good. Or rotted in some nameless grave." You slam your hand against the bars, making him shiver in surprise at your sudden outburst.

You feel your power tingling under your skin, begging to be released and unloaded on him, but unfortunately, the last thing your stupid heart wants to do is hurt that big, stubborn idiot. So while your heart is busy calming your wild power, your wounded pride takes over and controls your mouth, providing a perhaps more painful weapon than your magic.

"Fuck off, Aleksander. You can get rid of every little reminder of your past, but you'll never get rid of me. We're too deeply connected with each other, and you damn well know it. You'll see me forever, everywhere, in every fucking breeze, the scent of flowers, and the glow of crystals. And you know how I know that? Because despite all these centuries of you being far away, I still see you in every fucking corner. In every dream, in every place, in every little memory of the past I recall. I feel you with every breath, every blink, every little touch—exactly in the places you used to cherish my skin. You've tainted everything I know and love. We are a scourge to each other and always will be. And until Ravka becomes a relatively safe place to live again, we are both condemned to each other's company."

"There is a very simple solution to all of this." He says and looks at the heart-shaped pendant hanging around your neck. You swallow hard and catch it tightly in your hand, protecting it from his gaze. "Haven't you ever thought about that? To cut yourself off from this for good? From me? You can finally be free. Maybe you'll even find your peace?"

"There is no peace for me. And neither for you." You see that your words have caused some internal stirring in his conscience.

He hesitantly places his hand on yours and takes your chin in his hand—the one on which he has a black scar from the amplifier with which he connected with Alina. You hold your breath as he strokes the line of your jaw with the pad of his thumb, staring at you intently, too mesmerised by his sudden closeness and tenderness from him after centuries apart to listen to your better judgement and pull away. You cling to him blindly. You fall into the trap of his dark eyes as you drown in his touch.

"I'm tired of fighting, Y/N. I will find peace. Even if it means losing the lives of thousands of others."

"Even my life?"

"We both know that your death would be my salvation." You smile bitterly and snort as if he's just told a funny joke. But in reality, you're doing everything in your power to keep the tears from falling from your eyes.

"Same here." You mumble, focusing your gaze on the black scar on his hand instead of his eyes, afraid his dark depths will somehow see through your lies.

You hold your breath as he grabs your chin tightly and forces you to look into his eyes. His fingers dig into your skin unpleasantly, but you don't care. You're drowning in his angry, hurtful, resentful gaze, unable to move an inch.

"Ex-lovers quarreling? Should I just go out and wait until Mom and Dad make up?" Ulla's sudden intrusion makes us both recoil from each other as if burned. You clear your throat and glare at the black-haired one madly.

"Don't call me that. I am not old like that hag who gave birth to you."

"You are talking about my mother."

"Mother, you hate, as I would like to point out. Actually, I start to wonder if there is anyone who didn't deserve your wrath, my dark general." You scoff at his remark, knowing full well that his relationship with Baghra has only worsened since you left. With a little unwanted help from you…

"In case you haven't noticed, all those dear to my heart that I came to dislike have a tendency to betray me."

"In case you haven't noticed, they may not be cheating on you, but doing what's best for you, you stubborn, damn, proud fool who can't see beyond the tip of his own dick!"

In your anger at him, you step too close to the bars, giving him the perfect opportunity to grab you by the neck. And he does. You gasp in surprise and instinctively reach for the pendant around your neck, holding the glass heart in his secure grip. Aleksander wraps his other hand around yours, trying to squeeze it hard enough to break the glass heart you try so hard to protect.

You gasp, struggling to take even one short breath, and look him straight in the eye as you mumble the words of the spell with the last of your strength. Aleksander hisses in pain and releases his grip on your necklace, but he still holds you tightly by the neck to the point where you know he'll leave bruises in the shape of his hand and fingers... which doesn't bother you as much as it should...

"Okay, stop! Both of you!" Ulla walks over to the two of you. Aleksander shifts his gaze from you to her for a moment. You feel his hand on your throat tremble as he considers letting you go. "Sasha, let her go. Before you do something entirely stupid that you will regret."

Aleksander hesitates for a few moments, then lets you go. You don't give him the satisfaction of moving away from him. You take a few deep breaths, staring at him with a hateful, cold gaze that he stubbornly avoids by looking at his sister.

"Torment me again, and I promise Ivan will put you to sleep for a thousand years." He mutters his empty threat without even looking at you, which gives you reason enough to decide you'd rather fucking die than give him the last word in this little argument between the two of you.

"If you wanted me to be your sleeping beauty and you to be my prince, all you had to do was ask, Aleksander." You mock him, and he moves to grab you painfully by the throat again. But before you can respond with one of your curses, Ulla steps between the two of you and gives you both a disappointed, irritated look.

"Y/N! That's enough for today."

"I didn't start…"

"Y/N!"

"Fine! Got it. I am on my way." You raise your hands and walk out of the barred room, but not before sticking your tongue out at Aleksander—something that escapes Ulla's watchful eye because her back is turned to you.

And as you leave, you wonder how the hell you're supposed to get this dense, stubborn asshole to cooperate when he clearly still despises your insides as much as he did all those centuries ago.

"Is that what you call taming him?"

You sigh and stop in your tracks on your way to your rooms. You close your eyes and tilt your head back, cursing the name of every saint you know under your breath before turning to the person you hate most in the world with a fake smile.

"Baghra. I wish I had the mood and time to talk to you. Unfortunately, I don't have the former, and I'd rather spend the latter on something else. Have a nice night." You turn on your heel, intending to make a quick escape, but the woman summons her shadows, blocking your path. You sigh, tired of dealing with another Morozova, and face Baghra again.

"Your methods don't work." You almost growl at the pretentious tone in her voice. She expected you to work a miracle, knowing full well what her son was like… and knowing full well why he was as hostile towards you as he was.

"Did you really think he'd just follow me and hang on every word I say? He's not some fucking puppet you can order around. He needs to trust me again. At least when it comes to saving Ravka and Grisha."

"Well, it seems like he won't come to it so soon. I thought you had a little more influence on him. Maybe you actually broke his naive little heart?"

The silence that follows her words is like a slap in the face to your pride. You can barely push back the unbidden tears, and it takes a huge amount of effort to control yourself when Baghra is giving you her infamous mocking smile. The old woman had the irritating ability to scratch open wounds that you thought had long since healed. Besides, she knew perfectly well what, or rather who, your only sweet spot was.

"Then I did exactly what you wanted, right?" You ask; he winces a little when he hears the slight tremor in your voice. Damn witch.

"I told him to stay away from you. But the stupid boy didn't listen; he loved you so much. Witches like you, wielding such power... you're all the same. You have no feelings. Self-absorbed, wanting to live forever. Tell me, Y/N, what did you need your eternity for? Was it worth it to fight for? Has it paid off for you to deceive my stupid son for so many centuries?"

"Without Aleksander by my side? No. But at least I can keep an eye on him. At least I can make sure that he will survive long enough to get his happy ending. And torment you forever. Until the end of time, my dear mother-in-law. Or your death. I personally prefer this one." You give her a contemptuous look and turn away from her, walking into the darkness of her shadows to reach your rooms and escape, just for a while, from feelings of guilt, helplessness, and wrath that the damned Morozovas have aroused in you.

"What do you mean by mother-in-law?" Baghra asks, confounded, but fortunately she doesn't follow you. She's everything but dumb. She won't expose herself to possible harm as a result of you unleashing your wild power.

"Ask your son!" You shout over your shoulder, not stopping for a moment.

You know perfectly well that a minute longer in Baghr's company would make you cry. And you promised yourself that this old witch would never be the reason for your despair again… her son was another matter.

So when you get to your room, you wave your hand over the windows to close the curtain with your magic, turn off all the lights, and let yourself curl up on your bed. You sob quietly, lying on your side, legs drawn up as you grip the necklace tightly in your hand and let yourself have a much-needed crying session. Your head spins as your power slides through you, causing storms outside. And you can only hope that Ulla is keeping Aleksander busy enough that he doesn't see the rain your crying has caused. The last thing you need is to show him how much you still care.

"Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?" You shiver as Aleksander wraps his arms around you and rests his chin on your bare shoulder. His light stubble pricks your skin, but you don’t care, too fascinated by the rings on your joined hands.

"About 10 times, but who's counting?" You mumble and turn around in his arms. A smile creeps onto your face as you gently cup his cheek in your hand. "Husband. That's weird."

"Weird? Why?" He asks, frowning at you in confusion. Yet his grip on you doesn't loosen at all; if anything, he tightens it, protectively wrapping himself around you, as if his touch alone would be enough of an anchor for your raging thoughts.

"I can't believe that such a handsome and powerful man is mine. Only mine." You whisper and press your lips to his cheek.

You smile, feeling his breathing quicken slightly, and you start to feel his familiar, comforting scent surrounding you. And warmth. Which was pretty important, considering you were in a cold, damp, abandoned cabin in the woods. All alone, out of nowhere. You wouldn't trade that honeymoon for anything.

"I was yours long before we exchanged those rings. And I will be yours long after today. For as long as my heart beats and beyond. You are a part of my soul, connected to me by a force I cannot fathom. And I am grateful for anything or anyone that bound us together, that brought you on my path."

"You can't promise me things like that. You don't know what the future will bring." You mumble, panting as he begins to press kisses into your neck. You sigh and tug on his hair as he bites into you. You decide that the beard is a rather… nice new accessory. Especially when it teases your skin so nicely.

"But I can promise you today. And then tomorrow. And the day after that. And so on and so forth, until all eternity."

“Assuming we have forever.” You moan, intoxicated by both his words and the caresses of his lips and hands as he slowly removes your dress.

"I will fight with everything I have to always have you by my side." He promises fervently, cupping both of your cheeks and placing a hot kiss on your lips that instantly warms your insides. You smile as he pushes you onto the bed.

"Even with your mother?" You tease him and raise a questioning eyebrow at him. You almost break and snort at his hurt expression.

"I'm offended that my mother even crosses your mind in this situation, let alone that you're brave enough to talk about her." He mutters menacingly and reaches for your sides.

Before you can react, he's tickling you, attacking all your weak points. You laugh and squirm beneath him, screaming at him and cursing him to stop, but he just laughs and redoubles his efforts. And as much as you can't breathe anymore and are almost crying from his teasing, you enjoy his wicked, carefree laughter.

“Mercy! Mercy!” You cry out with laughter, and he finally takes pity on you. You laugh some more, recovering as he simply hovers over you and looks at you, drinking in your dishevelled appearance beneath him. “What?” You gasp, breathing deeply and wiping tears from the corners of your eyes.

“Nothing. I love you,” he says and shrugs. Your heart clenches and warms at his words, and another wave of tears nearly fills your eyes as he reaches for your hand with the silver claw ring he placed there just an hour ago.

“I love you too. More than anything.” You mumble, grabbing the glass heart that dangles from his necklace—your wedding gift to him—and pulling him to you, connecting your lips in a needy, heated kiss.

You would give away all the treasures in the world to have back that ring on your finger instead of the heavy pendant on your neck that felt like a muzzle for you. The muzzle of your eternal sin against Aleksander and you both.

"You again?" You allow yourself to roll your eyes when you enter his cell a few days later, which he greets with his mocking smile and cold gaze. He frowns, however, when this time, instead of sitting in the chair like you always did, you walk over to the bars separating him from you.

"Do not worry. I won't bother you much longer. Actually, I came to say goodbye."

You say and hand him a small box through the bars. You wait patiently for him to come over and take it from you, but his wounded pride apparently won't let him do even that. You roll your eyes as he turns his back to you and shifts his gaze to the book in his hands.

"Goodbye? That's not really in your style. Since when do you say goodbye instead of disappearing into obscurity?" He mocks you without even bothering to look at you. You swallow and nod, only now realising just how deep his resentment of you runs. But you don't have the strength to fight him any longer.

"Well, I learnt that from you, but since we're not together anymore, I guess I'm ditching your habits for some new ones."

Over the centuries, you and Aleksander have gotten back together and broken up a million times. You let him come back into your life as if he had never ripped your heart out and taken it with him countless times. Each time he was leaving, he put his plan into action to ensure that Grisha was safe from whatever enemy they currently had. He was choosing the good of his people over yours.

Every grand plan that was supposed to end with the restoration of freedom for Grisha usually ended in failure. And every time, he came back to you. To your arms. To hide there from the world, lick his wounds, and hide his shadows in the safety of your home.

But just as suddenly as he came, he left you. All for Grisha. His whole life was dedicated to ensuring a better fate for his people than he had as a child. And so he ended up in a cell. Alone. Maybe not completely. You knew he had many supporters in the 'underground.' But what good were supporters when he had no one to stand by his side? Supported through thick and thin?

On the other hand… you never joined him in his plans. You always stuck to your own woods and paths… it was pure fate that for a time you both followed the same one.

"Well, I'm actually glad about that. I should have noticed sooner that you're just like everyone else. The greatest liar among liars. A witch without a coven that no one ever trusted or wanted to be near."

You give him a small smile, perfectly keeping your true emotions from surfacing. You drop the box and let your magic transport it to the table he's sitting at. With a quick wave of your hand, you make the box clatter loudly against the wooden table.

Luckily, that catches his attention enough for him to finally look at you.

"You want to talk about liars and cheaters? Go ahead. There's a big war coming. You know it. I know it. Everyone knows it. Alina and Nikolai won't let the Fjerda get away with invading their lands and killing Grisha like they used to do and still do. So why do you pretend it doesn't bother you? That it doesn't concern you? Why do you sit here obediently and do nothing when we both know you have the means to escape? Who are you trying to convince that you don't care anymore about your people, us, or yourself?"

This time, you are the one to look away from him. You don't wait for his response and just move away from him. You walk over to the part of his bookcase that wasn't behind bars, running your finger over the titles on them.

"And who is us?" A shiver runs through your body, and you thank yourself for keeping your back to him. You don't know what he would read on your face as you say your next words.

"Ulla. Me. People that really care about you."

"You left me." He points out stubbornly again, as if you didn't know what you had done against him.

But the truth was that you had both hurt each other equally. It was just easier for him to blame you than for you. Or maybe your guilt against him was actually greater than whatever he did behind your back...

"You didn't mourn my leaving much."

"Maybe I mourned too many in my life to add you to this list?"

When you finally find the book you were looking for, you take it and turn to face him. He steps towards the bars, his hand around one and his gaze fixed on you. You can barely hold back a small smile as you see his shadows hovering in the corners of his cell.

"Believe what you want… but not everything was a lie between us, Aleksander. And you've had your fair share of lies for me, before I've even considered doing what you hate me for. Does the fact that you managed to tell me your lies before Baghra reported my secrets to you make any difference? You and I... we are similar. I am a witch without a coven, and you are a Grisha without an order. We are both alone in this world. But I admired the fact that you continued to fight, even when everyone else was against you. You may have been a villain in everyone else's story, but you've always been a hero in mine. In Ulla's. We admired you for what you were, for the strong leader who would do anything for his family and people. And who are you now?"

"I am the man your lies and manipulation created. All of yours. My mother's, Alina's, yours. So don't you dare stay here and say that I am meant to be something more when you stabbed me in my back and left when I needed you the most."

"You hated me then."

"And what gives you the impression that I still don't?" That I didn't need you even when I was furious with you?"

"I..." You're at a loss for words. You have no idea how to answer him, especially when the stormy blackness of his eyes overwhelms you as much as his words.

He couldn't mean them, could he? He couldn't be mad that you left him. He had to play with you… There was no way he'd want you around after you'd supposedly betrayed him.

You snort and shake your head at his words. No. You won't let him enter your mind and manipulate you. Although… You can't say your heart has shifted indifferently at the revelation he's told you. Because what if he really needed you by his side? What if… he loved you more than he hated you?

"It doesn't matter. Say what you want or get out." Well, his words only prove that you are right about this. And they reassure you in the decision you want to make.

"I'm going north with Alina. You can either join us or rot here. And to be honest, I don't care anymore. I was never your enemy, Aleksander. But if you so desperately need one, then all right. Make me your villain. But know that everything I did, I did for you. For us. Even if I hurt you in my desperate attempts to protect you, for which I do not intend to apologize. Everything I did, I did for us, for you. But maybe it really is time to change things between us once and for all."

After your words, you take a few seconds to look at him. Your gaze lazily follows his dark hair, his eyes, the set of his jaw. Without a word, you nod to him and leave, as if saying goodbye for the very last time.

"Protect me from what?" You hear him walk over to the table and open the package in a hurry. Then he freezes when he sees the familiar object you've placed there. "Y/N?! Answer me! Y/N!" He shouts after you, banging on the metal bars, but you don't spare him a second glance. You just walk out of there, hoping your little trick will work.

Because if he won't follow you to war after you give him a necklace with his blood—the same blood you tricked him into taking and enchanting to give you immortality—then you don't know what'll get him out of that stupid cell.

Taglist (I hope that everyone who wanted to be there are there. If not, I am soooooooooo soooo sorry): @aoi-targaryen @chelseyyouraverageluigi @watersquirtpewpewboomm @summersummoner-pat @barnes70stark

@zeeader @the-desilittle-bird

@thepassionatereader @budugu

@sinistersnakey @diaries-of-a-hopelessromantic

@aryhyuuga

@oh-thats-cute

@meadows5

#the darkling x reader #aleksander morozova x reader #romance #the darkling #aleksander morozova #shadow and bone #ex lovers #enemies and lovers #argument #love and hate #tension #general kirigan x reader #general kirigan #i want then to kiss already #but we have to wait a little bit #i hope you like it

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apteryxparvus · 5 months ago

Text

where the dragon sleeps

Pairing — Neuvillette / Female Reader

Word count — 2,973

Content warning — none

Summary — In a crumbling Fontaine, a former Treasure Hoarder stumbles upon a hidden lake and awakens a sleeping dragon.

Part I • Part II • Part III • Part IV • Part V • Part VI • Part VII

Part I

The thin branches claw at your skin as you sprint through the uneven forest terrain, ripping at your clothes and leaving shallow scratches that join the deeper, bloodier wounds already marring your body. The forest is unnervingly silent; the only sounds accompanying you are the crunch of the brittle twigs and the frantic rhythm of your breath.

You’re more than certain you’ve lost them—your pursuers, the ones you once called friends, companions-in-arms even. But fear keeps a vice grip on you, driving your legs forward. Every shadow feels like it’s reaching for you; every rustle feels like their imminent return.

The trees loom overhead, their crowns intertwining, forming a dense canopy that blocks most of the pale moonlight, save for a few slender beams of light that streak through the gaps.

Each breath burns your lungs. Every step feels heavier than the last, your muscles screaming in protest.

You lose track of time—perhaps, you’ve been running for mere minutes, or maybe hours have bled into days. You don’t know, at this point; your legs move on instinct. When you finally break through the dense foliage, you stumble upon a vast expanse of water.

A lake stretches out before you—an enormous void of blackness. Its surface is eerily silent, broken only by the faint ripples of short waves lapping at the shore. It’s like an abyss, reflecting the scattered constellations of the night sky. The stars, themselves, seem impossibly close, as though you can reach out to them and grasp them in your hands.

Your legs give out, and you collapse on your knees by the water’s edge. You tilt your head, letting your gaze wander to the sky above. Above you, ribbons of color ripple—soft greens and vivid pinks, weaving and shimmering like they’re alive. The aurora’s reflection dances on the lake, twisting and swirling with every faint ripple of the water.

Your breath shifts as you notice a constellation—one brighter and more vivid than any you’ve ever seen before. As your group’s navigator and ancient language translator, you’ve studied the stars for years, honing your craft to perfection.

But this constellation is unfamiliar —its pattern forms an elegant shape of something coiled and resting, as if lost in a peaceful slumber.

This unknown constellation shouldn’t exist. It couldn’t exist. But there it is, twinkling faintly, almost like it’s in sync with the rhythm of the waves.

Bewildered, your hands fumble for the hidden pocket in your tattered rucksack. You pull out a crumpled map. With trembling fingers, you unfold it, the paper crackling softly as you smooth out the edges.

The star chart, once pristine and vibrant, is now faded—the ink has dulled, the corners are frayed, curling inwards. The map depicts the sky crowded with familiar constellations, each represented by faded illustrations. You trace your fingers over the well-known patterns, clusters of stars that have guided you through countless perilous terrains.

There’s Nereides, drawn in soft blue shades—a nymph-like creature with delicate wings that seem to flutter even on the page. Next to it is Cerberus, a lone wolf’s head with piercing dark eyes and a spiked collar etched tightly around its neck.

But now, at the very heart of the celestial map, something new has appeared—something that wasn’t there before.

You’re sure of it—you had spent days pouring over every little detail of the chart after your group leader had won it in a barter. You had tried to decipher the text scrawled along the edges, but the symbols seemed to belong to a long-forgotten, dead language. Despite your inability, your leader has persistently urged you to decipher the text, fervently convinced the map would lead to you an otherworldly treasure.

And now, in the center lies an image of a slumbering dragon, its body curled inwards in a protective coil. Its tail loops around its lower limbs, and its head is tucked low, framed by elegantly curved horns.

You glance up at the sky, then back down at the chart, heart racing. The stars are unmistakably the same ones you see above you, glowing softly against the abyssal canvas of the night sky.

Fighting to stay awake, you carefully fold the map. You tuck it back into the hidden pocket of your backpack, careful not to crumple it further.

A flicker of unease sparks within your chest. Perhaps this is why so many bandit groups had been desperate to claim the celestial map.

You’re too drained to dwell anymore on the thought of the map’s origins. Shaking your head, you push yourself off the cold ground and move towards a nearby tree. The bark is rough against your back as you curl into yourself.

The rhythmic sound of the waves fills the silence—it’s soothing, like a lullaby from a distant memory. Your eyelids grow heavier with each passing second, and before you know it, exhaustion has taken over you. You fall into a deep slumber.

When you open your eyes, the lake and your makeshift camp are gone. You’re standing in the center of an opulent ballroom, its grandeur almost suffocating. The air is heavy with an eerie stillness, and the golden chandelier above glistens with an unnatural brilliance, its countless crystals refracting the faint light into a kaleidoscope of fractured rainbows across the polished floor. Towering golden organs line the wall, pipes gleaming with an otherworldly glow.

Your gaze shifts to the massive paper-like screen behind them.

The mural sprawled across the screen is mesmerizing and foreboding. In the center of the mural, a single droplet falls into a dark, endless rising tide. Above it, a gleaming circular symbol watches, as though it could see into the depths of your soul. Below it all, a single flower struggles to bloom beneath the weight of the waves, its fragile stem bending. Surrounding it are scattered petals and withered blossoms, their lifeless forms drifting aimlessly in the current.

You take a step closer to the mural, unable to tear your gaze away from the haunting image before you. Standing next to it, you feel suffocated, its presence pressing down on you like an invisible tide. Your fingers trail over the painted flower, brushing against the parchment. As if responding to the touch, the flower begins to pulse faintly, as if breathing.

Your look upwards, gaze drawn to the looming, watchful eye above. Its gaze is piercing, heavy with hate and remorse, and an unfamiliar sorrow wells up in your chest—the emotion feels foreign, yet intimate, a betrayal so deep it knots your stomach. Yet, you cannot place its source.

You stumble back, heart pounding. You take in the room around you—seaweed and coral have taken root, sprouting from the stone floor and the cracks of the gilded walls.

At first, you’re baffled—how can ocean life thrive in a space like this? But the answer creeps up on you slowly, as you start to notice how blurred your vision is, how light your body feels.

You are submerged.

And yet, despite it all, you can breathe—you have been doing so for the past minutes without any difficulty. Fear bubbles beneath your skin. You are trapped in this submerged, decaying ballroom; the weight of the water should be crushing you, but it isn’t.

You try to remember who you are and how you got here, but the answers slip away. You search for something—anything—that can ground you, but your thoughts come up blank, an empty void where your memories should be. It’s as if the act of realizing you’re submerged deep within has erased your own ego, leaving a faint outline of a name, one that feels like it might also dissolve any moment.

“Who am I,” you whisper, walking back to the mural, staring into the intimidating, all-seeing eye. Your voice trembles. The question stays unanswered, and your shoulders sag.

Hesitantly, you press your hand to the mural again. As if in response, a torrent of visions floods your mind.

You see water nymphs—Oceanids, creatures of long-forgotten myths—glide effortlessly across vast expanses of crystalline waters. Their forms shimmer under the moonlight, while their laughter rings lightly.

Then the vision shifts. A pristine lake stretches before you, glowing under a sky of bioluminescent fireflies. People dance around its edges, faces filled with joy. In the center of the lake stands a majestic willow tree, its gilded branches reaching upwards as though touching the sky. The scene radiates an almost too perfect harmony.

But that peace shatters. Another vision overtakes you—dark purple tendrils erupt from the ground, creeping and crawling around. They latch onto every lifeform they can reach, draining their lifeforce until what remains is withered and lifeless, crumbling into ash. Deafening beastly roars split the sky, shaking the ground. Rain begins to fall, and soon, the once-pristine waters turn murky. The golden willow collapses, swallowed by the depths, the violent tendrils wrapping around its withering form.

You choke back a scream as the vision abruptly vanishes, leaving you feeling disoriented and clutching your head in pain.

The sunlight filters through the trees, bright enough to hit your closed eyelids and rouse you from your slumber. Groaning, you shift on the uneven ground, limbs stiff, making you wince. You stretch your aching body, and your hand moves to check your injuries, fingers pressing against the makeshift bandages you had hastily tied while being pursued. To your relief, they’re still in place, though stained with dried blood and frayed at the edges.

You don’t remember what you dreamed of—if anything at all. Perhaps it was a fitful, dreamless sleep. Yet there’s evidence of a nightmare you cannot recall—the streaks of dried tears on your cheeks and the deep pang of sorrow lodged in your chest.

Blinking against the light, you sit up, feeling groggy and sore. Your gaze shifts towards the lake—and you freeze. For a moment you wonder if you’re not actually awake, but dreaming in this moment.

The lake glistens under the morning rays, its surface smooth and crystalline-clear. You stumble to your feet and take a small, hesitant step towards the water.

As you approach the edge, you start to see details that make the scene even more surreal. The water is so clear that you can make out the colored pebbles and seashells scattered along the edges. The soft waves continue to lap gently at the shore.

Your hand hovers over the surface, trembling.

Clean bodies of water shouldn’t exist. Not here; not in Fontaine, where pollution has claimed every lake, river and spring.

Cautiously, you dip your hand in the water. The cool sensation spreads across your fingers, and for several moments, you feel nothing. But then, you notice something strange.

Your scrapes—the faint lines marring your knuckles—begin to mend themselves. The skin knits back together, smooth as ever, as if the injuries never existed to begin with. You pull your hand back, staring in disbelief at the unblemished skin.

You reach into the water again, dipping your other hand, this time watching closely. The bruises along your wrist start to fade. Taking out your hand, you flex your fingers, running a thumb over the now-perfect skin.

Glancing at the lake again, you feel your heart racing. Something compels you to do more than touch the surface. You hesitate briefly before pulling off your boots and stepping into the shallow water. It embraces you, and a shiver runs down your spine—not from the cold, but from an odd sense of being… welcomed.

You take another step, and then another, until the water rises to your knees. It’s almost as if the lake itself is calling out to you, urging you to continue deeper.

As you wade deeper into the lake, you feel the soreness in your muscles fade and dissolve with each step. The waves lap gently against your body, pulling you further in with every step.

Soon, the water reaches past your shoulders. You don’t hesitate, almost as if in a trance, and duck your head beneath the surface. When you open your eyes underwater, there’s no sting, no blurriness.

Intrigued, you decide to explore what lies ahead. You swim towards the center of the lake, and watch as the underwater world begins to bloom with color—schools of fish flit past you in a synchronized dance, their scales shimmering like jewels; some hide behind the wavy tendrils of the underwater flora. You spot large shells nestled deep in the sand, their curved pink surfaces bubbling softly; they open and close lazily, revealing pearly insides that glisten like treasure.

The further you swim, the more alive the lake begins to feel, almost like it’s something ancient and aware, not a mere body of water.

In the distance, something catches your eye—a large, imposing tree rooted at the heart of the lake. Its golden leaves sway gently in the underwater current. There’s something unnatural about it, different from the rest of the lake. No fish swim around it, and no flora grows near its roots. The life teeming in the lake seems to avoid it entirely.

Curiosity pushes you forward, and the shape grows clearer as you near it. The tree is enormous, its trunk and branches rivaling the towering trees you’ve read about in tales of Sumeru’s Mawtiyima Forest. You can’t help but feel small in its presence.

As you approach, you slow your movements, careful not to disturb the tree's golden branches. Swimming around its base, you tilt your head upward, following the trail of its branches to the very crown of the tree.

And then you see it.

Nestled behind the branches, hidden in the shadows of the tree’s golden canopy, is the silhouette of a slumbering creature. Its body is curled in on itself, and long, spiraling horns crown its head. Its chest rises and falls in a slow, rhythmic pattern. A thick tail swishes lazily in the water.

You freeze, heart pounding. The creature’s presence is overwhelming, and an ancient power radiates from it even in its dormant state. Something about it feels familiar—achingly so. Yet, you can’t recall why.

So you move, gliding closer to the shimmering figure. Despite the sadness etched deep in your chest—or perhaps because of it—you extend a trembling hand. Your fingers brush against the creature’s scales, cool and smooth beneath your touch.

It turns out to be a mistake.

The moment your hand connects, flashes of the forgotten dream surge through your mind, disjointed and overwhelming. Water nymphs and Oceanids. People dancing by the lake. The golden willow. And then—the darkness, the tendrils, the roaring storm.

The beast stirs.

The massive creature opens its eyes, revealing an otherworldly gaze that pierces straight through you.

You gasp, the sharp inhale sending bubbles rushing from your mouth. The creature shifts. Its massive wings unfurl, glowing with an ethereal light that blinds you.

Panic sets in. You kick your legs, arms straining as you desperately try to proper yourself upward, hoping to break to the surface as soon as possible. But the water churns violently. You feel a pull—a whirlpool forming beneath you, where the creature stands. It drags you closer, and no matter how hard you struggle, you cannot fight it, cannot escape its clutches.

Your lungs burn. Your movements grow sluggish. Your vision darkens, spots appearing at the edges.

But through the haze of your final moments, one image sears itself in your mind—the dragon’s unblinking eye, staring at you.

A fire crackles nearby when you open your eyes, its gentle warmth in stark contrast with the wet chill clinging to your skin. Your chest burns with every breath, and your entire body feels drenched, clothes sticking uncomfortably to your skin. You sit up closely, shaking your head and letting a few stray droplets from your hair.

Confusion grips you. The last thing you remember is swimming in the lake, the golden willow, and the slumbering beast. Then—nothing. And yet, here you are, back at your makeshift camp, a fire flickering gently a couple of meters away.

Your eyes dart around, scanning the area. Your belongings are scattered just as you had left them.

You shiver, not just from the cold, but also from the gnawing sense that something is off. Wrapping your arms around yourself, you glance towards the lake. It looks the same as before—clear, its surface glistening under the fading sunlight.

But then you hear it—a soft rustling, the faint sound of movement. Your body tenses, and your hand instinctively reaches for the nearest weapon. Rising to your feet, you clutch the half-dulled dagger that was lying within arm’s reach.

Near the edge of the lake, someone—or something—stands. Their silhouette is illuminated by the soft glow of the setting sun. They’re tall, their figure lithe but imposing, with long, pale hair cascading down their back and a tail that sways faintly with each shift of the figure’s weight.

Your grip on the dagger tightens. In that exact moment, the figure turns and you inevitably meet their gaze—piercing, light-purple eyes with slit pupils that seem to glow faintly. They almost look like they hold entire galaxies within them, the colors giving the impression as if you’re staring into a distant nebula.

It’s him. You’re certain of it, even if you cannot explain why.

This man—if you can even call him that—bears the same presence as the beast you’d seen beneath the lake. A strange mix of awe and terror washes over you as the realization sinks in.

He steps closer, his movements deliberate but nonthreatening, and you can’t help but stumble back a step, your voice trembling as you find yourself blurting, “Who—who are you?”

Author's note: suffering from insomnia just means my wips folder starts looking like a buffet 💔

I plan to update this every Sunday evening.

Also, I'm trying to write more descriptive and immersive text, so I hope it doesn't get too prose-y... but oh well... 🤧

#genshin x reader #neuvillette x reader #genshin x you #neuvillette x you #genshin x y/n #neuvillette x y/n #genshin #genshin impact #reader insert #neuvillette #x reader

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prentissmultiverse · 6 months ago

Text

No Strings to Hold Us - part II

Weeks of avoidance and unspoken tension between you and Emily come to a head when the case takes a deadly turn. tw: mention of death, violence

part I and part III

(words: 4410)

The weeks that followed your one night with Emily were a strange blur. She acted like nothing had happened—no lingering looks, no suggestive comments—as if she hadn’t unraveled you completely one night and then stitched herself back together before sunrise. It was all business as usual, as though she hadn’t pinned you against her bedroom door or whispered your name in a voice that still echoed in your mind when you least expected it. She was poised, professional, and utterly detached, and you played along, convincing yourself it didn’t matter. You’d agreed to leave it as a one-night stand, after all. Right?

You’d buried yourself in work, using every free moment to either assist Garcia with her endless data streams or pore over old case files that you could’ve sworn you’d memorized. Anything to keep your thoughts from wandering.

But late at night, when the bullpen emptied out and your mind was no longer distracted by the chaos of the job, the memories crept in. The way her lips felt against yours, the low timbre of her voice whispering things you hadn’t dared to repeat even to yourself… it all came rushing back. And just as quickly, you shoved it aside.

You were fine. This was fine. You could handle this.

It was a relief when a new case finally came in, promising to occupy every waking thought for the foreseeable future. The air in the briefing room was heavy as Emily stood at the head of the round table, commanding the team’s attention. She clicked a button on the remote, and the screen behind her lit up with five photos. Five women, each vibrant and full of life—until they weren’t. Their bodies had been found frozen solid on the outskirts of Anchorage, Alaska.

“The unsub has been active for just over six weeks,” Emily began, her voice steady and authoritative. “Five victims, all dumped along service roads leading into wooded areas. Preliminary forensics shows they were restrained for several days before being killed, and then… frozen.”

“Frozen?” Luke repeated, frowning.

Emily nodded. “The medical examiner’s report confirms they were kept in a freezer. The exact time hasn’t been figured out yet, but the marks on their bodies indicate prolonged exposure to sub-zero temperatures days or weeks prior to being dumped.”

Tara leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Freezing them could be a form of preservation,” she said thoughtfully. “He might be trying to keep them in a state he considers perfect or untouchable. It’s a form of control—maintaining his victims in a way that serves his needs, even after death.”

“And the dumpsites?” Rossi asked, gesturing toward the map on the screen. “Is there a pattern?”

Garcia’s voice chimed in; her tone uncharacteristically grim. “All the locations are secluded but within a two-mile radius of main roads. He’s careful to make sure the bodies are found, but he’s not exactly leaving a calling card.”

JJ nodded. “He might want them to be discovered but not immediately. It’s possible he’s testing something… maybe seeing how long it takes for someone to notice.”

The discussion continued, theories bouncing around the table as the team worked to piece together the unsub’s profile. You took notes diligently, your mind locked on the details. But then Emily licked her lips—a quick, absent gesture as she scanned her file—and your focus faltered.

It wasn’t the same as before. The maddening pull of desire had been replaced by something heavier, something that lodged itself in your chest and refused to leave. Every time her tongue darted out to wet her lips, your thoughts drifted. Not to the memory of her touch, but to the unspoken chasm between you. The wall she’d built, impenetrable and cold.

By the time the briefing ended, you were desperate for action—anything to shake the fog that clung to you. Emily’s voice cut through the lingering tension, sharp and decisive. “Wheels up in 30,” she said, and the team immediately dispersed to prepare for the flight to Anchorage.

You headed to your desk to grab your go-bag, the flurry of activity around you providing a welcome distraction. Tara caught your eye as she passed, giving you a small nod of reassurance. Across the bullpen, Emily moved with practiced efficiency, already coordinating with Garcia to ensure all the files and preliminary reports were ready to go. She didn’t look at you once, and you told yourself it didn’t matter.

As you shouldered your bag and prepared to head to the jet, JJ appeared at your desk, her expression concerned. “Hey, can I ask you something?” she said, leaning against the desk.

“Sure,” you replied, trying to sound casual.

She hesitated for a moment, her blue eyes scanning your face. “Is everything okay between you and Emily?”

The question caught you off guard, and you froze mid-motion. “Why do you ask?”

JJ tilted her head, giving you a knowing look. “Because you two have been acting… off. Like you’re avoiding each other. Did you have a fight or something?”

“No,” you said quickly, waving her off. “Nothing like that. We’re fine. It’s just… work stuff.”

She didn’t look convinced but didn’t press further. Instead, she added, “You know, Emily’s been through a lot over the years. She puts up walls, but it doesn’t mean she doesn’t care. Sometimes you just have to read between the lines.”

Her words lingered with you as you boarded the jet, stealing glances at Emily as she reviewed the case file with focused intensity. Whatever had passed between you that night was a mistake—wasn’t it? You tried to push it from your mind as the jet soared into the icy Alaskan night.

The next two days were grueling. The cold seeped into everything, a constant reminder of the urgency of the case. The unsub struck again the night the team landed; his latest victim found frozen near an abandoned logging road. Every piece of evidence pointed to a pattern—one that suggested he was escalating.

Your thoughts about Emily faded into the background, replaced by the singular focus of finding the unsub before he took another life. Two could play the game of emotional distance, and you buried yourself in the case with a determination that matched her own.

By the third day, the team had narrowed down his location to the outskirts of Anchorage. A secluded property with a dilapidated warehouse stood at the center of your search. The unsub had a clear pattern: he always kept one victim alive while dumping another. This meant there was still a chance to save the latest woman he’d taken.

You moved in with the team, your FBI vest strapped tightly over your jacket and your weapon drawn. The air was sharp and biting as you approached the warehouse, the snow crunching beneath your boots. The team split up to cover all exits, the tension palpable as you readied yourself to breach the door.

The chaos that followed was a whirlwind of sound and movement. Inside, the warehouse’s narrow hallways twisted like a labyrinth, their walls dimly lit by flickering, outdated bulbs. Every step you took was cautious but deliberate, your breath visible in the cold air as you methodically cleared one room after another.

The tension in the air was suffocating. Furniture was overturned, and remnants of the unsub’s deranged mind cluttered the spaces—newspapers with headlines about missing women, scattered tools, and an eerie silence that felt like it could snap at any second. Then you found it. The freezer room was at the end of a dark corridor, its door slightly ajar. A faint mist of cold air seeped from the opening, curling around your boots like a warning. The sight sent a chill down your spine that had nothing to do with the freezing temperature.

As you moved closer, gun drawn, the hair on the back of your neck prickled with unease. The thought struck you like ice—the missing woman might already be inside. You hesitated for only a moment before gripping the edge of the freezer door and pulling it open slightly wider. A rush of cold air hit your face, and you squinted into the mist, trying to make sense of the shapes inside. But before you could process anything, a sharp blow landed on the back of your head. Pain exploded through your skull, and the world tilted violently. You stumbled forward, falling hard onto the icy ground, your gun slipping from your grasp as darkness threatened to claim you.

Dazed and disoriented, you turned your head just enough to catch a glimpse of the unsub. He stood over you, his expression cold and detached as he muttered, “You shouldn’t have come here.”

The door slammed shut behind you with a deafening clang, the metallic sound echoing in your ears as the lock clicked into place. You instinctively reached for your communication device, pressing the button. “Rossi, Emily, anyone, I—” Static cut off your words, the thick insulation of the freezer walls rendering your headset useless.

The bluish light of the freezer surrounded you. You struggled to your feet, black edges creeping into your vision as you leaned heavily against the steel walls. Your hands fumbled for the latch, your breath visible in short, ragged bursts. Your head was hammering. You instinctively touched the back of your head where the blow hit you. When you pulled your hand away from your head, it was slick with blood.

Panic clawed at the edges of your mind as the realization set in—you were trapped, and no one knew where you were.

Desperation surged through you as you hammered against the door, your fists pounding on the icy steel with every ounce of strength you could muster. "Help!" you shouted, your voice hoarse and cracking from the cold. "Is anyone out there? Please!" The thick walls absorbed your cries, muffling them into the oppressive silence of the freezer. The metallic surface bit into your bare hands with every strike, the icy burn making you wince, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop.

Your breaths came in shallow gasps, visible in the frigid air as your strength began to wane. The pain in your head pulsed in time with your frantic heartbeat, and your hands trembled as they slid down the unyielding surface of the door. Still, the silence remained, as relentless and unforgiving as the cold surrounding you.

Slowly, your legs gave out, and you sank onto the icy floor as your strength faded. In the corner of the freezer, a pale figure caught your eye—the unsub’s latest victim. Her lifeless, frozen body was propped against the wall, her glassy eyes staring unseeingly in your direction. The sight sent a fresh wave of horror through you, but your body was too drained to react.

Your bare hands, sticky with blood, trembled as you tried to draw them closer to your body, seeking any scrap of warmth. The blood had already dried in streaks, a chilling reminder of how long you’d been here. You curled in on yourself, every instinct screaming at you to preserve your dwindling heat, but the cold was unrelenting, seeping into your bones. Each passing minute sapped more of your energy, and a heavy drowsiness began to settle over you.

“Stay awake,” you whispered to yourself, your voice barely audible over the hum of the freezer’s compressor. Your eyelids grew heavier, and your mind fought a losing battle against the exhaustion that clawed at you.

The frozen woman’s empty eyes seemed to bore into you, a grim reminder of what awaited if you let yourself succumb. You clenched your fists, the movement sending sharp jolts of pain through your skull where you’d been struck. Your vision blurred, dark edges creeping closer with every passing second. You needed to stay awake. You needed to survive.

Inside the maze of hallways, the unsub bolted, his erratic footsteps echoing off the narrow walls as he searched for an escape. His chest heaved with exertion, and his head snapped back at every noise, panic twisting his features into a mask of desperation. He rounded a corner and skidded to a halt, his path blocked by Tara and Luke. Both agents stood firm, weapons raised and aimed directly at him.

“Freeze!” Luke barked, his voice sharp and authoritative.

The unsub hesitated, his eyes darting between them and the corridor behind him. Tara stepped closer, her steady aim and calm demeanor leaving no room for negotiation. “It’s over,” she said firmly. “Get on the ground. Now.”

Realizing there was no escape, the unsub dropped to his knees, raising his hands slowly above his head. Luke moved in swiftly, cuffing him as Tara kept her weapon trained on the man. The unsub smirked faintly but said nothing.

The sound of running footsteps signaled the arrival of Tyler and Rossi, both agents skidding to a stop beside Tara. “You got him?” Tyler asked, his voice taut with adrenaline.

Luke nodded as he tightened the cuffs. “Yeah, he’s secure.”

Tara’s gaze swept the area before landing on Rossi and Tyler. “Where’s Y/N?” she asked, concern creasing her brow.

Tyler answered grimly, “She split off to cover the north side. Haven’t heard from her since.”

Tara’s expression darkened as she keyed her radio. “Y/N, report in. Do you copy?”

Only static greeted them.

Emily’s voice crackled through the channel as she and JJ made their way through the hallways and down to their team. “What’s going on?” she demanded.

Rossi’s tone was grim as he explained. “Y/N’s M.I.A. She went to the north side and hasn’t checked in.”

Emily frowned, adjusting her earpiece. “Y/N, do you copy?”

Still nothing. Only the faint hiss of static filled the channel, and a cold knot of dread began to form in her chest.

“We’re heading to you now,” Emily said, urgency sharpening her tone. She glanced at JJ, who nodded, and the two agents picked up their pace.

Tara stepped forward, her gaze fixed on the unsub as she holstered her weapon. “Where is she?” she demanded, her voice low and dangerous.

The unsub’s smirk widened slightly, his icy eyes gleaming with malice. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he sneered.

In that moment, Emily and JJ rounded the corner, their eyes locking onto the scene. Emily’s face was a mask of determination and barely contained anger as she strode toward the unsub. “If you’ve hurt her, I’ll make sure you regret it,” she said, her voice razor-sharp.

The unsub’s smirk grew wider, his voice dripping with mockery. “Her heart’s probably frozen solid by now. Stone cold, like the others. But if you hurry, you might just catch a glimpse of her before she’s gone.”

Emily’s jaw tightened as the unsub’s words sent a fresh wave of panic through her. She didn’t wait for the others. She darted away, her boots pounding against the floor as her mind raced. The thought of losing you—of not being there in time—was unbearable. She couldn’t shake the image of you alone and in danger, her heart twisting with guilt and fear. She’d ignored you for weeks, burying her feelings about that night. And now, the thought of never having the chance to make things right was too much to bear.

JJ called after her, “Emily, wait!” But Emily didn’t slow down, her focus singular as she sprinted toward the north corridor.

Behind her, the rest of the team followed, Tara and Luke keeping pace while Rossi and Tyler stayed back to secure the unsub and escort him out. Emily’s breaths came in sharp gasps, her pulse pounding in her ears as she closed in on the north side.

The cold was consuming. It seeped into your bones, coiling tightly around you like a predator, stripping you of the last vestiges of warmth. Your breaths were shallow, each one visible in the frigid air before dissipating into the oppressive silence of the freezer.

Your body trembled violently, the shaking now beyond your control. You pressed your back against the icy wall, seeking some form of support, but it offered no solace, only a harsher reminder of your dire situation.

Each breath felt heavier than the last. You tilted your head back, the bitter chill biting at the exposed skin of your neck. Your vision blurred, the room warping at the edges, and you blinked rapidly in an attempt to focus. Your limbs were growing sluggish, the once insistent ache in your fingers now replaced by a creeping numbness.

"Stay awake," you muttered to yourself again, your voice weak and cracking. It felt more like a desperate plea than an order. Your mind clung to the sound, hoping it could anchor you, but the pull of exhaustion was stronger.

Your eyelids fluttered, heavy with the weight of the cold. The world tilted as your upper body slid down the wall, your legs folding beneath you as you hit the icy floor. The impact sent a dull ache through your already numbed limbs, but it wasn’t enough to fully rouse you.

You tried to focus on the victim in the corner, her unseeing eyes locked onto yours. She seemed to be watching, waiting for you to join her in the frozen stillness. Her silent stare bore into your soul, and for a brief moment, you wondered if this was how she’d felt in her final moments—alone, cold, and desperate.

The frost crept further into your body, stealing the last remnants of feeling from your fingers and toes. Your thoughts began to slip, disjointed and slow, as if the cold had reached your mind. It was so tempting to let it take you, to surrender to the darkness.

Your head lolled to the side, and your vision dimmed further. The sound of your own heartbeat was a dull, erratic thud in your ears. You exhaled shakily, watching the vapor dissipate into the air, and let your eyes close.

Then, a noise.

A rattling sound, faint but distinct, pierced the silence. The freezer door screeched open, a flood of light and sound pouring in. You could feel the rush of warmer air hit your frozen skin like a shock, but your body remained numb, unresponsive. Heavy footsteps echoed against the steel walls, and then she was there.

“Y/N!” Emily’s voice was sharp, commanding, but trembling at the edges with barely contained fear. It cut through the fog in your mind, a lifeline in the freezing abyss. You wanted to answer, to let her know you were still there, but no sound came.

Her hands found you, gentle but firm, as she knelt beside you. “Stay with me, Y/N,” she pleaded, her voice softer now but no less urgent. She leaned closer, her warmth brushing against your frozen skin as her hands cupped your cheeks, tilting your face toward hers. “Open your eyes. Come on, look at me.”

Your eyelids fluttered weakly, your lashes barely parting. You caught a blur of her face—dark eyes filled with something raw, unguarded. She shook you lightly, her voice breaking. “That’s it. Just keep looking at me. Don’t close your eyes again. Do you hear me?”

She shifted, slipping out of her burgundy coat and draping it over your trembling frame. The heavy fabric smelled faintly of her—woodsy and warm, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. “You’re okay,” she murmured, more to herself than to you, as she worked quickly, wrapping the coat tighter around your body. “I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

Her arms slid beneath you, one looping around your back, the other under your knees. The chill in your limbs dulled the sensation, but you felt the press of her strength as she lifted you effortlessly. Your smaller frame was no burden for her as she rose to her feet, holding you close against her chest.

“Y/N,” she whispered, her voice dropping to something soft and almost tender. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re going to be fine. Just stay with me.”

Her warmth enveloped you, and though your body still refused to respond, your mind latched onto the sensation. It was a fragile comfort, like holding onto the edge of a cliff, but it was enough to keep you tethered.

As Emily carried you out of the freezer, the distant murmur of voices reached your ears. JJ, Tara, and Luke—calling out to Emily, asking questions—but their words blurred together, muffled and indistinct, like they were coming from underwater. None of it mattered.

All you could focus on was Emily.

Her voice, steady and constant, filled your senses. “You’re okay. Just keep breathing for me, alright? I need you to hang in there. We’re almost out.” Her hold on you was secure, protective, and you could feel the way her heartbeat thudded against your cheek where it pressed against her chest.

The cold still held you captive, your body a prison refusing to obey your mind’s desperate commands. Your fingers didn’t twitch; your lips wouldn’t move. It was as though you were trapped inside yourself, helpless.

Her voice grew sharper, tinged with hope. “I can feel you trying,” she murmured, her lips brushing the top of your head. “Come on, Y/N. Just a little more.”

And then, like a fragile thread snapping, your lips parted. Your voice was broken and weak, barely a whisper, but it was enough. “E…Em…ily…”

Emily froze for a split second, her dark eyes wide with relief as she looked down at you. “Yes,” she said quickly, her tone softening as she cradled you closer. “I’m here. I’ve got you. Just hold on for me, okay?”

Emily’s arms held you tightly as she moved with purpose, her every step swift and deliberate. You could feel the faint sway of her movements, her strength steady beneath you, but the cold clung to your body like an unrelenting shadow.

“Stay with me, Y/N,” she said, her voice firm, cutting through the fog creeping into your mind. Her breath ghosted against your forehead as she glanced down at you, her dark eyes filled with worry. “We’re almost there. You’re safe now.”

You tried to focus on her words, her warmth, anything that could keep you tethered to the present. But the exhaustion was like a siren’s call, pulling at you, tempting you to let go. Every breath was an effort, shallow and rasping, and your eyelids fluttered as the weight of the cold pressed down on you.

“Hey, no,” Emily said sharply, her voice a lifeline. “Keep those eyes open for me. Just a little longer.” She shifted you slightly in her arms, her burgundy coat cocooning you in its warmth as she quickened her pace. “You’re not allowed to give up on me, do you hear me? Not now, not ever.”

It was the desperation in her tone that struck you, even through the haze. It wasn’t the detached professionalism she’d shown you for weeks, the cool and distant demeanor she’d maintained since that night. No, this was different. This was Emily—unguarded, scared, and maybe just as broken as you felt.

The cold gripped you tighter, and as Emily carried you, her voice was a thread pulling you back from the abyss. But it was thin, so thin, and fraying with every second that passed. You tried to focus on her words, her warmth, the feeling of her arms wrapped around you, but your strength was slipping fast.

“Y/N, please,” she said again, and there was something raw in her voice now. Something breaking. Emily’s voice cracked as she spoke, her words stumbling out in a way you’d never heard before. “I’m not losing you. Do you hear me? You don’t get to leave. Not after… not after everything.”

It was the closest she’d come to admitting what you both knew but couldn’t say. For weeks, she’d avoided you. After that night in her house, when the world felt like it had shifted between you, she’d acted as though nothing had happened. She’d stayed professional, untouchable, and you’d mirrored her distance because it was the only way to keep yourself together. But that night had meant something. It had left marks you’d both ignored, pretending they didn’t exist.

But here, now, in her arms, all of that fell away. You could feel it in the way she held you, her grip too tight, her voice trembling despite her efforts to steady it. The walls you’d both built were gone, crumbling under the weight of the moment.

“You can do this, Y/N. You’re stronger than this. Just stay with me.”

You wanted to. God, you wanted to. But the tiredness was a force beyond anything you’d ever felt, a heavy, suffocating pull that dulled the edges of the world. Emily’s voice was still there, but it felt distant now, as though she was speaking through layers of cotton.

Voices echoed faintly around you.

“Emily, over here!” JJ’s voice cut through the haze, urgent and close.

“She’s freezing,” Emily snapped, her tone laced with both authority and fear. “We need to get her warm. Now.”

Tara’s voice came next, clear and calm but tense. “Notify the EMTs—she’s hypothermic and losing consciousness.”

The words registered faintly in your mind, but their meaning slipped through your grasp. You tried to fight the pull of the darkness creeping in at the edges of your vision, but it was like trying to hold onto water with your bare hands.

Emily’s voice was the last thing you clung to. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting you go.”

But her words, too, began to lose their grip on your mind. The warmth of her body against the cold pressing in from all sides blurred together, indistinguishable. The world grew softer, dimmer, until finally, you couldn’t hold on any longer.

The darkness welcomed you, silent and all-encompassing, as the last of Emily’s voice faded into nothingness...

to be continued...

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