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cosmic-dust-poltergeist · 1 month ago

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Pt 4 of forever teen Danny adopted JJ Tim and Red Hood Jason. Sorry if you're a Batman or Nightwing fan, I'm not nice to them in this one.

[Pt3: Here][pt5: here]

The last 4 years have been a riot. Danny has 2 wonderful and slightly unhinged boys that he stole from the Bats. They've gotten in so many shenanigans, between normal vigilante shit, the Bats and/or ghost/supernatural hunters trying to bag them, and them just fucking around.

It's the most fun he's had in a while. They're good kids, but they, of course, have started branching out. They're 19 (Jason) and 17(Tim) now and don't necessarily want their dad following them around. So Danny gave them his personal summons just in case and made them promise to stay close together, the two of them are good at covering for the other's weaknesses. Like how Tim only being Liminal, he can take more hits from the ghost hunters that will clock Jason as a Revenant or Jason's supernatural strength taking out the bigger assholes that target Tim for his small size or Joker mannerisms.

So he tries not to worry, simply going to work and trusting them to either deal with any trouble themselves or summon him. And for 3 months they don't need to summon him once. But at the end of month 3, he feels it.

"Hey, Eddy! I got to go! My kids are in trouble!" Danny calls to his boss, already moving to somewhere there's less witnesses to see him poof.

"Okay! See ya! ...Wait, you have kids?" Danny doesn't answer, letting the summons take ahold and pull him through the fabric of reality.

A fun side effect of being summoned is that he always ends up in his High King form. The form is humanoid in the vaguest of sense. It's also just stars and the void of space. His eyes are giant stars and his mouth is too wide and full of rows and rows of needle-like teeth. A crown of ice smokes like dry ice on his head and the ring of rage is simple stripe of neon green on his right hand's middle finger (he thought it'd be funny to flip people off with it). All in all, he's terrifying for mortals to see unprepared.

And the cussing around him tells the people hassling his sons are NOT prepared.

"HOW THE FUCK DID YOU SUMMON THE GHOST KING???" A very distraught British man shrieks. Danny would feel bad, but this idiot is standing near the Bat and Nightwing AND Danny's sons are tied up in front of them.

"DAaaaAD!" Tim whines, flopping over to look at him. "They're trying to excorise Hoodie!"

"Are they now?" Danny hisses. His voice sounds like glaciers crashing together.

"Bats! What the fuck??? You didn't tell me THAT WAS THEIR DAD!" British man sounds on the brink of a mental breakdown.

"We've never seen this entity." Batman frowns.

"Yeah! They've been calling a ghost kid dad this whole time!" Nightwing defends. "How were we supposed to know they could summon this guy??"

"What...what did you say the "kid"'s name was?" British dude asks faintly.

"We didn't." Batman says.

"Weeell, Johnny-boy!" Jason sounds like he has a shit eating grin. "What they didn't tell you is our sweet ol' adoptive father is called Phantom~!"

"Oh goodie! We're so dead..." "Johnny" says and starts chugging his flask of probably alcohol. It suddenly clicks that this is the fabled John Constantine.

"You should know better than to take a job half-assed, John Constantine." Danny grins with teeth.

"Oh good, he knows my name.." Constantine mumbles to himself.

"Give me one good reason to not kill you all for trying to kill my son and kidnap the other." Danny waves a hand and slices his sons' bindings. "I have only been so patient with you bats because my sons are fond of you, but my patience is running out."

"Tim belongs with us! He needs help and healing!" Nightwing proclaims.

"I talk to a licensed therapist twice a week and take my meds every day! Try again, Big Birdie!!" Tim snarls. "Just because I'm not what you want me to be doesn't mean I'm a broken doll in need of saving!"

"Besides, don't you have a new bird to destroy?" Jason asks with a head tilt. "The second birdie died, the third got mentally fucked, the four died... I think we can count birdie #1 as mentally fucked up, meaning if we follow the pattern, birdie #5 will be mentally fucked by the time he flies the nest."

"How do you know so much about us, Red Hood?" Batman demands with a scowl.

"He doesn't have to tell you anything!" Tim steps in front of Jason and glares.

"I'm still waiting on a reason to not kill you." Danny reminds them. The bats look towards Constantine.

"Don't look at me, mates. That's head bitch of all head bitches. The fact he's letting you plead your case after threatening what he deems as his is a step up huge from most overpowered dead guys. From what I heard, the last guy would have just killed us the moment he was summoned and then destroyed the whole dimension afterwards. This guy beat that guy in single combat." Constantine pulls out a cigarette before addressing Danny, "Your Majesty, I had no idea these were your kids. I was just told a Revenant had kidnapped and "brainwashed" the ex-Robin. Clearly, I wasn't told accurate information."

Nightwing sputters, "What Do You Mean?? Clearly Tim has been brainwashed or something!!"

Constantine whips around to Nightwing, "Oh shut up, you big blue twit! King Phantom DESPISES mind control! Which means your ex-bird is with these two completely willingly."

"There's n-" Nightwing tries, but Constantine bulldozes on.

"I don't know what you did to the kid, nor do I care. But he's considered ROYALTY to the dead and undead now. He doesn't have to have ANYTHING to do with you. If you take him away from his new and apparently accepting family, that's considered an interdimensional crime, and no magician or supernatural or even god-like being will help you." Constantine takes a long drag of his cigarette. "I suggest you apologize, make your excuses, then leave them the fuck alone. Besides, chas been at a record low in Gotham from what I hear. Let them do what they want. "

"That's because Red Hood keeps killing the Rouges!" Nightwing protests. "Who gives him the right to be judge, jury, and executioner???"

Constantine points to Danny and says flatly. "The ruler of basically everything, that's who."

Danny grins at him, his ghost half is very pleased with the man. "I shall spare you, magic man."

Constantine looks like he's going to faint from relief, moving to park himself by the door. "Just fucking apologize and leave them be, Bats."

"But!" Nightwing looks like he's going to cry. He turns his teary eyes to Tim. "Why can't you just come home, Timmy?"

"What home?" Tim stares down his nose at Nightwing, anger clear in his voice. "The Manor was Never my home. I was simply the stand in for your and B's grief for a boy you both pushed to his death. Phantom showed me what family really was. And that was AFTER I was too broken for you to accept. I was NOT Joker Junior then or now. I'm my own fucking person and I'm staying with the family that accepts me for ALL my oddities."

"You tried to put him in Arkham when he tried to go to you." Red Hood growls. "He wanted your support and help and you were going to lock him up and throw away the key."

"We were n-"

"YOU WERE!" Tim starts to trembling in hurt and rage. "You couldn't even look at me! I wanted you so badly to help me and you were going to put me in there right next to Harley! I wanted you to be my family, but I've only ever been a tool to you!"

"You weren't-" Danny doesn't like how the Bats seem ready to jump at his kids, so he freezes the Bats' feet to the floor.

"Shut up, Dickwing." Jason snarls, pulling Tim into a hug. "You lost your chance to be his brother 4 years ago. Go pretend to care about the new cannon fodder. We don't want to hear it."

"Hood." Batman finally speaks. "Who are you?"

"Who do you think, old man?" Jason takes his hood off for the first time ever in front of the Bats. They visibly startle, recognizing him despite all the changes.

"Ja-" The Bat starts.

"Shut up." Jason glares. "You were a shit dad and brother to me in life. I found the BEST family in death."

Danny picks up his boys, deciding to let them decide on the severity of the Bats' punishment. "Maiming or death?"

"... I say maim, but only because I know the newest bird and want him to stay out of the death cult his mother's in." Jason says softly. The Bats sqawk as they Just realize Danny froze their feet to the floor. Mortal tools and fire can't break/melt his ice, but it's amusing to watch the bats try.

Tim is quiet for nearly 3 whole minutes, locked in some sort of internal battle, before he answers. "Maim in a, at least mostly, healable way. Gotham needs Batman, even if we don't."

"Hmm." Danny ignores the Bats' protests to think about what he should do. "Ah! I know exactly what to do!"

He unfreezes their feet and gently forces both to the ground and processes to break both of Nightwing's legs and both of Batman's arms. He pulls one of their coms off and hands it to Tim, he's the only one that sounds normal on normal tech. Jason hasn't been able to use normal tech since Danny fixed his ecto, so Danny modifies anything he or Jason use.

"Hi, Agent A! Batgirl!" Tim's cheerful tone barely hides his seething rage. "You should send a pick up for Dickiebird and B-man! They need medical attention! Ba-bye~!"

Danny can hear the shouting over the com, but Tim simply yeets it towards the Bats instead of listening to whatever they have to say.

"I have a reason for the injuries I picked." Danny informs the room. Jason and Tim look intrigued, Constantine looks exhausted and slightly guilty about the Bats getting hurt on his watch, and the Bats themselves look dazed and in pain, so who knows if they'll remember his reasonings. "Nightwing is an acrobat and truly a bird, so grounding him is cruel, but hopefully he feels as small and helpless as you both did. Grounding him will give him time to think on his actions and their consequences."

Danny's sons look curiously at the grounded Nightwing before looking back to him.

"I broke Batman's arms so that he's forced to ask for help and communicate. He's far too old for his shitty behavior." Danny frowns. "They both need therapy, but I doubt the flying furries will actually get the help they need."

Tim suddenly cackles in delight. "Maybe THEY should check THEMSELVES into Arkham! Ya know! Since they think I, the one ACTUALLY getting help, should be in there!"

Jason starts cackling alongside his brother while Danny chuckles.

"I shall take my children home now, good day." Danny says while wrapping his sons in his invisibility and intangibility and takes them home. A cozy 3 bedroom apartment on the top floor of a building Jason owns as Red Hood.

#tim drake #tw mental disorders #batfam shenanigans #danny phantom #danny fenton #jason todd #damian wayne #bruce wayne #dick grayson #john constantine #dc x dp #dpxdc #dp x dc crossover #tw body horror #tw bodily harm #tw threats #tw death mention #bad parent bruce wayne #bad sibling dick grayson

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oceantornadoo · 2 months ago

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rose scented scrubs

ex-husband Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch x f!reader

the post-divorce love confession fic of my dreams, word count 5.5k

ps I know Dana said it was her last shift in one of the episodes but idc deal with it I had to write her.

It was a few hours into your book when you realized you’d made a terrible, terrible mistake.

It had been the first cafe to catch your eye, advertising a yummy pastry you’d been aching to try on a beautiful late Saturday morning. Only after you’d noticed the fourth person in scrubs at the counter did you realize your mistake. The cafe had two entrances - one on the busy street you came in on, the other right outside of Pittsburg Medical Center.

Current workplace of your ex-husband.

You hadn't been near the hospital in months. When you'd been married (the past tense of it a hard pill to swallow, let alone think), you would drive by the hospital on your way to work, leaving early so you could stop by and get a kiss from the man who'd already been up since 5am. After the papers were signed, ink dried and heart broken, you told yourself to revel in those extra twenty minutes of sleep. Now you could drive straight to work, no pit stop needed, and all you had to give up was your marriage.

An almost-kid in black scrubs burst through the door, scanning his phone like his life depended on it. With his flustered expression, he looked like the stereotype of a country boy losing his way in the big city. You checked the clock - 3pm. A little over halfway into the usual twelve-hour shift from 7 to 7. The knowledge sprang up unbidden, carved into your brain by how long you’d lived and breathed it. “Hello! Can I get one black coffee, no cream or sugar, two lattes, regular milk…” he ended with a total of ten drinks, an amount the barista behind the counter barely seemed flustered by. At least for one of them, it wasn’t their first day on the job. He ended up near your chair and the urge to ask was too great, desperation clawing its way out of your throat.

“Are they making the interns get drinks now?” You quip, immediately cursing yourself. There was absolutely no reason to interact, who knows if he’s even in Robby’s department, why- “Yeah, actually. We had a pretty rough time last month, so the admin staff is giving us a new food and drink stipend instead of more staff.” He laughs to himself before remembering that you're a stranger, his cheeks apple red. “Are you a doctor?” He asks. Now it just sounded creepy if you said no, but there was absolutely no chance you could say yes. “No, but I’ve got friends at the hospital.” Friends being Dana, who forces you into monthly mental health check ins where she stares at you until you cry.

“Who’s your friend? If you want, you could stop by with me. I haven’t memorized her name yet, well it’s only my first month, but the front desk worker is super nice, especially since the ER is slow right now.” You gulp at the pit (figurative, not literal) that you’ve dug yourself into. Of course you had to talk to the ER intern. It couldn’t have been Peds, where they’d invite you to say hi to cute babies from the NICU glass? You’ve done it once or twice, bored of waiting on Robby and making friends with all the nurses.

You open to give your refusal and apologies but get interrupted by the barista shouting “Dennis!” Three containers of drinks appear out of nowhere, and you can’t help but cringe at how Dennis has no way to carry them all. He’s currently attempting to balance one on top of the other, and your duty as a Good Samaritan suddenly becomes clear. The thought of seeing Dana, and perhaps Collins or McKay if you’re lucky, makes your heart swell. Robby will be easy to avoid if you stay vigilant. Tucking your book into your tote, you stand and prepare yourself for battle. It’s easy to make your way to Dennis, who looks like a circus performer, and grab two of the drink trays. “C’mon, kid. Let’s caffeinate these people.”

It feels like a dream you’ve dreamt a thousand times. Walking into the ER, looking fabulous with your makeup just right and your best perfume on. Dropping off a sick friend and running into Robby, stunning him with your six-month post-divorce glow up. Or maybe it’s a year later and you bring in an injured and scandalously younger boyfriend to show him what he’s missing. After those dreams, you always wake up empty, soul heavy. In other ones, it’s you on the gurney, letting him prove to himself he can save the people he loves, that you’re not just another Adamson. A romantic revelation that would fix those last hollow months of your marriage, grief and regret heavy on his tongue but never making its way out. Those end in tears, your face wet when you wake.

You’d never imagined this - your best weekend leggings and your favorite tote swinging from your shoulder as you follow in what has to be Robby's baby intern. You nod at the woman behind the counter, a new person you don’t know. She seems about to stop you from going in but then you hear a clear voice yell your name. So much for an in and out mission.

McKay greeted you with a warm smile, taking one of the drink trays from you as she nudges your shoulder. “Long time no see!” Her friendly tone makes you ache with regret. You’ve kept up with Dana only because she forced her way into your new, solitary life. It felt uncouth to reach out to McKay or Collins, like it would seem a ploy to get back to Robby. Shame ruins through your veins at your actions, or lack thereof. “Hey, I’m sorry for the ghosting. Been going through some stuff. I like your new bangs!” She doesn’t let you distract her, brows staying knitted at your second sentence. For once, you hate how determined she can be, her maternal instincts knowing no bounds. “What stuff?” McKay pulls you off the side, ignoring the drinks in both of your hands that are definitely in demand.

“Well, I’m sure you already know.” You roll your shoulder forward to emphasize your point. It’s pretty clear what you’re talking about, but the word ‘divorce’ feels too ugly to mention between you two. She doesn’t seem to get the memo, looking you up and down like she’s expecting the answer to pop out of the sweater you’re wearing. “I don’t get paid enough for you to waste my time being all facetious.” You snort, but the anticipation of your next words sobers you quickly. “Moving out, finding a new place, all the paperwork. It’s been a lot, but I should’ve kept up and I’m sorry.” Her lips purse in confusion. There’s a strain around her shoulders and you hate that this talk might be causing it, probably reminding her of her own divorce. “Did something happen at your old apartment? We don’t talk personal lives too much, but Robby would’ve mentioned a flood or something. Or did you guys finally get a bigger place?” The thought of that lightens her eyes, a rare smile you don’t see too much in the ER. Your heart sinks.

Robby didn’t tell her.

Of course, he left the hard stuff to you, once again. “Cass…” you trail off, unsure how to continue. Once again, you’re saved by an interruption. “What are you doing, robbing my best staff and not saying hi?” Dana appears, her short white-blond hair framing her face like a stern angel. You’ve haven’t seen her in a month and a half since she took some time off to deal with personal stuff after a particularly rough shift. She’s never been a big texter, so you anticipated more information at your future catch up, planned for next week. “I ran into one of the interns looking lost in the cafe over and simply had to help.” You tease. Your eyes meet hers but immediately look over her head, searching for him. Wherever she goes, he’s not far behind, always paying his dues in following her wisdom.

“He’s in Trauma 1, helping a drowning victim.” Fuck, you’re caught. Dana smirks at you like she’s inside your head. McKay’s eyes twinkle like there’s something romantic about to happen and you mourn the fact you’re about to give her yet another reason to not believe in a man, again. “I wasn’t looking for him, I was looking for Collins.” You bite, ignoring how McKay’s confusion has reached an all time high to your right. To distract them both, you push the drink tray forward. “I think there’s a hazelnut latte somewhere in here for you, Ms. Busybody.” Dana narrows her eyes as she finds the drink you’re talking about, plucking it out with precision. One drink down, three to go and then you can leave. That intern, Dennis, is nowhere to be found. You’d leave the drinks on the desk, but you know that would be a hazard in so many ways. Plus, some person would probably grab a drink that’s not theirs and you can’t be responsible for pandemonium - you know what lack of caffeine can do to a healthcare worker. Thankfully, the white lids read their contents: black coffee, hot tea, and…hot chocolate? Maybe there’s a kid who needed some comfort.

“Do you know who the rest are for?” You question. Dana shrugs and you can sense some ulterior motive behind her eyes. “Sounds like a question for Whittaker.” That must be Dennis. In the crowd of gurneys and scrubs, you can’t seem to find him. “The hot tea is for Collins and the hot chocolate is for Javadi, one of the interns. Of course, you know who the black coffee is for.” Double fuck.

You had hoped it was someone else who had a taste for black sludge, but unfortunately only one doctor does. Cowardly, you turn to McKay and give her your best try of puppy dog eyes. “Do you mind passing these out?” She snorts, clearly amused. “As if I’m getting between you and Robby mid shift. I remember last October all too well.” You stiffen at the memory. Surprising the staff with pumpkin cookies you’d baked, shrieking when Robby had grabbed you by the hips and ordered you into an unused storage room. How McKay had opened the door (“looking for supplies, I swear I did not want to see any of that”) with your hand in your husband’s scrubs and your leg, chilly in a skirt for easy access, wrapped around his waist.

“I see Collins. It was nice seeing you, McKay.” It’s a rude goodbye, but you can’t stomach anything more. Collins’ signature red jacket is easy to spot as she comes out of one of the nearby rooms, conferring sternly with what seems to be another intern. They just keep multiplying.

“Like I told you, you wait for my instructions, you don’t just intubate because-“ Your eyes catch and the emotional weight around your shoulders sags a bit more. She sends the intern off with one more warning before greeting you with a slight smile. “I heard you needed a hot tea.” You brandish the drink tray like a shield. She takes the cup delicately, taking a small sip and sighing in delight. “I haven’t seen you in six months. Work trip or something? Robby’s been worse than usual.” He didn’t tell her either. It’s starting to look like the only people who know about your divorce are you, Robby, and Dana. It begs the question why, but you’re not strong enough to answer. You know Collins would be a good person to confide in, but you don’t want to drop a bomb on what looks like an exhausting day. Her outward mask might be tough, but once you got over the awkwardness of her being Robby’s long-ago fling, you’ve always been able to see right through it.

“Something like that. You okay?” You move her off to the side before she can get swept into another case. She gives you another one of those barely-there smiles, and you ache to think that she’s been struggling with something, maybe worse than you. Maybe she sees something reflected back, because in a rare move, she opens up. “I had a miscarriage a month ago.” On instinct, you find an empty chair to set the drink tray on before sweeping her in your arms. She doesn’t like to be touched by many, especially at work, but she makes an exception for you.

“Oh, Heather.” It’s all you can say. She doesn’t cry, too battle worn and aware of the eyes on her, but the breath she takes is a near thing. After a few seconds, she pulls back, tight lipped and eyes shining. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve been there, but this isn’t about me. Oh, honey.” You murmur. You squeeze her hand, trying to impress on her all the things you cannot say. Heather Collins doesn’t like empty platitudes, so you don’t try to give her any. For a second, she squeezes your hand back before her mask slides back into place. “Thank you. Robby’s been kind, let me go home early the day it happened and pick the best shifts. It seems he kept it secret, so I’m thankful.” You don’t mention that the last time you talked to him was six months ago in a lawyers office. You know Robby and even if you were still together, he would’ve taken this secret to the grave. One of the things you love about him.

She switches the topic to you, asking about your supposed trip, but a miracle, or rather a group of interns, rumbles past you. You might not be a doctor but they’re easy to spot, unsure or overconfident, spilling unhelpful advice like gospel. “Hey! Any of you Javadi?” You call out. The girl nearest you whips her head around like you just cursed her name. She looks barely past college, hair pulled back into a ponytail of midnight black. “Me. I- that’s me.” You bend down, plucking the hot chocolate out of its tray and handing it to her. Her eyes are bright and thankful, like it's a winning lottery ticket instead of a drink. “Thank you! I’m sorry, I don’t know your name, Doctor…”

“Robby!” The middle intern says, her posture stiff with self-confidence. “Um…” you trail off, looking to Collins for help before remembering she doesn’t know. “I heard Princess and Perlah talking. You’re Robby’s wife, right?” All you can do is gape at the gall of her, your mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Collins restrains a laugh, unhelpful, and the other interns are looking at you like you’ve hung the stars. What in the world do you-

“Indeed. Last time I checked, this was a hospital to learn, not gossip. Keep it moving, you three.” His voice is like melted honey, warm and gooey and too comforting to name. Collins mentions something about a patient, taking her leave with raised eyebrows. It’s hard, but you try not to acknowledge the voice behind you as you watch her walk away. Only when her red jacket disappears from view do you turn.

He doesn’t look good. It’s what you said you wanted, of course, but the truth is, you’re just concerned. There’s dark circles under his eyes, almost covered by those black rounded glasses of his. A few new grays grace the side of his head, stark against the rest of him. The wrinkles on his face make him look aged, not the wise wizard you forced him to be for Halloween a few years ago. His scruffy beard dots his jawline and the ache to feel it is so deep, you fear it’ll never leave.

“Hi.” You whisper shyly, a knock-kneed girl instead of the woman you are. He smiles that gentle smile of his, crow's feet unapologetic, and it seems to turn back time. Just yesterday, you might’ve been making dinner together or cuddling on the couch. “Hi. I heard you’ve got a drink for me?” You nod, not trusting your voice as you point to the chair in between you. Deft fingers find his cup and pull. It’s hard not to watch them work, not to trace the calluses and the nimble movements. “Since when do interns order you around?” He asks, taking a second to gulp down his coffee. You stare at the movement of his throat, so many dirty memories making themselves known in the back of your head. “I’ve been demoted, I guess.” It didn’t mean to come out like that but it’s clear that’s what he thinks, a sudden frown appearing on his face.

“Is something wrong? Some paperwork I need to sign?” He asks in a burst. Your stomach churns at the rejection and instinctively, you take a step back. He seems to try to follow you, but the leg of the chair stops him. “No, I just - It’s funny, I guess. I was at that new cafe across the street and ran into an intern who looked like he needed help and well, I figured it would be nice to see Cassie and Heather, so here I am.” You end your rant with a shrug, instantly regretting every decision that led you here. Of course you were going to run into him. There wasn’t any other path, not for you. And of course, he just thinks you’re here for paperwork. He’s clearly moved on, even if he looks like he’s hurting. It’s time you do to.

“Well, that’s all my drinks, so…” Trailing off, you look around desperately for help. The Pitt seems to be against you, everyone following their standard practice of leaving you two alone when all you want is to be away from him. “How are you?” He whispers like a secret, voice raspy but sure. Emotion swells in your sternum instantly at his question. Soft eyes take your awkwardness in stride as he steps around the chair until he’s on your left, back to the Pitt. The familiarity of it is like a bullet to chest. “I’m fine. You?”

Robby shrugs, letting you trace the lines of his shoulders under that familiar sweatshirt. "Rough couple of months, to be honest." You blink at his honesty. That same honesty that led to that fateful conversation - you'd served him the divorce papers, but he was the one to suggest lawyers and due process. The papers were meant to wake him up, make him realize how much he needed to fix this, but all they did was end things.

"I wanted to see you. Dana wouldn't give me your new address, something about not being ready. Plus, I think you blocked me," he laughs at himself like it's funny, what he's admitting. A thousand questions form, 'why' and 'when' and 'what'. You'd blocked him and deleted his number the moment the papers finalized, knowing you weren't strong enough to truly recover if you could talk to him. It looks like he didn't do the same, and a rare burst of hope shines through the fog that's made itself at home in your brain. You gape, no words coming to you.

One of those hands, strong and capable and not yours, raises to push his glasses up his nose. You freeze.

It's still there.

Three years ago, ring shopping to find a perfect band. He got a black plastic version as well, something he could wear to work without worrying about blood or a rogue patient. That same black band still graces his ring finger, a blaring alarm that things aren't what they seemed.

"Michael." There's nothing else to add, your eyes still trained on his hand. Of course, all-seeing as he is, he picks up on what you're looking at right away. He's quiet, face worn with contemplation. "Why?" You ask, voice wavering. Tears form in an instant, choking any air in your lungs. "I couldn't take it off," he admits, somber. You think of your own ring, tucked away in your new bedstand that you had to build yourself. "I don't understand," you rasp.

"Baby, I've been-"

"Robby, we need you!" A voice breaks through the bubble you're in. Without realizing, you've become almost nose-to-nose, curling your hands to your chest in an attempt to not touch him. He sighs, pulling back a little, and it's like losing the warmth of the sun. "You know where the staff lounge is?" He asks, smiling when you nod immediately. "Wait for me. I'll be there soon." He hands you his coffee and rips himself away, already reaching for a hand sanitizer station.

In the staff lounge, your book sits unopened on the table. It's hard to do when your mind won't stop whirling, wondering if you've gotten this all wrong. The door bursts open and you snap up, hopeful, only to shrink a little when you realize it's not him. You recover quickly, not wanting to seem rude in a place you're not supposed to be in. "Hi, Kiara." You've only met her once or twice, but she's the kind of comforting soul you'd remember. She gives you a smile and then beelines for the electric kettle in the back. "Mrs. Robby, how are you?" You gulp at her question, realizing your ex-husband truly told no one about his divorce. "I've been better, but nothing I can't handle. You?" It's hard not to be honest when she's so easy to talk to, pulling out a chair for her to wait for her kettle. "One of those days. A mother just lost her child, so I'm making her a hot tea." Despite the dark news, the tight-lipped smile she sends you seems genuine. You ask about the ER overall and she tells you about the mass-casualty event that happened last month. You know a bit from Jake's mom, checking in on him through her instead of wanting to bother a grieving teenager who'd already been frustrated about the divorce.

As the kettle finishes, the door bangs open again. This time it is Robby, who looks flustered but sends you a smile anyways. It's like licking a spoon of brownie batter - secretive and a little wrong, but delicious anyways. You shouldn't have waited, should've left when you could, but deep down you need your questions answered. Kiara passes him with a cup in her hands, whispering something into his ear as she leaves. "I will." Robby replies, making you frown at the secrecy. Usually, if they're discussing a patient, they'll do it in front of you without names. Whatever that was had to be personal, and you're too emotionally raw not to ask.

"What was that?" You mutter, a little unkindly. Robby takes a seat, and you push his coffee cup towards him. His knee taps yours in thanks and stays there, its presence bewildering but not unwelcome. "She told me to use the communication skills we've been talking about." A laugh bursts out of you and you regret it instantly, your knee pressing into his. "Since when do you have communication skills?" You chortle. That's one of the things he might have at work, but never in a relationship. It used to be a joke between you, how you had to pry his true feelings out of him at the beginning of your relationship, but it turned to bitter satire in the end.

A heavy hand lands on your thigh, burning its way through the thin fabric of your leggings. "I know my communication has been...lacking," you hold back a snort, "but after last month, I've been talking to Kiara. Seems like I should've been following my own advice all this time." He admits, squeezing your thigh at the end of his sentence. Wide-eyed shock works its way through your veins. He actually addressed the major reason you said you wanted a divorce. The contentment you feel is like a nugget of gold, there for you to hoard and keep safe from judgement.

"Robby, that's wonderful. I'm proud of you, really." You exclaim, finding his hand on your leg and covering it with your own. The silicone of his ring digs into your fingers, and you let it. "I like it better when you call me Michael." He confesses. His chair squeaks as he turns towards you, shifting positions until his knees bracket yours on either side. His free hand raises to cup your face, familiar fingers petting your hair and your skin.

"Why are you wearing your ring, Michael?" You blurt, the need for his answer too great to hold back. Your ex-husband sighs, leaning forward until his face is all you see. On instinct, you reach out to take off his glasses and set them on the table. He always complained they hurt his nose, so he only wears them when reading. You brush the imprint left behind, smoothing down red marks and tracing the places you used to kiss every morning.

"You're still the love of my life, sweetheart." He confesses as you stiffen. He takes the lead, guiding you out of the chair and onto the worn couch on the far side of the room. It's easier to sink into his hold here, your face and your heart in the palms of his hands. Yells echo through the door, giving you an out to slide back and interrogate.

"That's how you treat the love of your life? You barely talked to me for months, Robby. You refused to go to therapy or marriage counseling and..." What you leave unsaid is too hurtful to bare. An old insecurity that was watered by months of loneliness, Robby picking up shifts to skip out on weekends together. "And what, baby? Don't hold back now." He practically demands, tugging your legs into his lap so you're under the full force of his stare. "And you started skipping weekends with me. Taking shifts when we were supposed to go on dates. Smelling different, like perfume instead of disinfectant." You whisper the last part, staring at your hands in your lap.

He laughs. An actual laugh.

You try to push off of him, but he tugs you until all the fight drains out. "I really fucked this up, haven't I?" He states. Robby almost never swears, so the use of one makes you pay attention. "Will you stop being an asshole and tell me what you mean?" You pout, upset that your emotions are getting brushed off. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip that juts out, tucking it back until he touches your teeth. "Detergent, baby, I swear. They found some awful cheap laundry detergent for our scrubs. I had some bad luck for weeks, fluids on me every day." He reasons, but you refuse to believe it. He knows you too well, of course. Robby tilts your chin until your eyes catch on a box of Rose Detergent for Hospitals, Clinics, and More near the trash can.

"This is what I mean, Michael! This kind of shit was in my head for months but I couldn't talk to you." He sobers instantly, that constant forlorn expression of his making itself known on his face. Robby interlaces your hands, laying his in your lap. Against your will, it grounds you. "The administration had wanted me to do a post-COVID remembrance for all the workers we lost and I just couldn't. Couldn't look at you without being reminded that I lived when so many better people died. I felt like I didn't deserve our happiness, and I took it out on you. I'm sorry." Only when he brushes your face do you realize it's wet. This is what you wanted for months, to hear the thoughts in his head instead of his sarcastic quips or his no-nonsense tone. This was your husband.

He held you to his chest, letting you calm down to the sound of his heartbeat. There's a compulsion under your skin, wanting to bind you two together until you don't know where you end and he begins. Ambulance sirens and pattering footsteps and shouts of pain all fade away when you work your hands through his scruffy beard, admiring the glints of silver that show here and there. "You might be a doctor, but you're an idiot." He nods, letting you curl further into him. "I don't regret divorcing you, because I am not doing your emotional labor for you." Another nod, this one shorter and more serious. "But I'm willing to try again, if you want to. The right way, where we go to counseling and actually talk." Finally, a grin. It changes his entire face, muscle and sinew rearranging into the man you once knew.

He doesn't have to answer. His kiss does it for him.

It's soft and tentative, barely there. A surge of anger sinks through you at how utterly bull-headed he's been. You push into him until his back hits the sofa, climbing him until your pelvises meet in a kiss. You pour months of resentment into your kiss and he meets you halfway, muscles under you tensing as you clash. "You asked to get lawyers." You bite his jaw as you say it, a fact you've been stewing over. "Wanted to make sure you got my money." He squeezes your ass, pulling you into him until you roll your hips over his cock, barely contained by his scrubs. This isn't the place for your first recoupling, but with how the couch is out of the way of the window over the door, and that no one seems to be looking for him, it'll do for now.

"Such a stubborn old man." You gripe, then gasp as he nips your neck. Robby lays kisses to your jaw, trailing down to your neck and sucking hard like a teenager. Broad hands urge your hips to grind, fucking yourself in his lap as you chase satisfaction. It's been so long since you've had an orgasm, every attempt reminding you of Robby. "Pretty sure you used to call me something else, baby." He mutters, one hand leaving your waist to sneak under your sweater. He finds your nipples hardened and achy, pulling one out of your bra cup and rolling it between his fingers. "I only call my husband that." You whine as your clit hits just the right angle of his clothed cock, bucking faster in his lap.

"Everyone around here knows you as my wife." He shoots back, pinching your nipple to emphasize his point. You find the crook of his neck and lay your forehead there, panting as your thighs burn with their ministrations. His hand on your waist flattens, fingers inching closer to your front but not where you need them. It's clear he's waiting for something, his thumb tracing the outline of your panties as he stays there. The longing to give in is too great.

"Please, Daddy. I need to come." You moan, not letting shame make its way into your head. You can feel him grin against you as his thumb finds your clothed clit, rubbing small circles as you keep bucking. It's what you needed, release creeping over you until you collapse in his arms. He moves his hips a few times into you until you complain of overstimulation.

"Think I just came in my pants." He mutters as you pull back. Giggles erupt from you, turning into snorts as you take in the pained expression on his face. Dr. Michael Robinavitch, coming in his pants like a teenager as his wife straddles him.

"Good thing they have scrubs. And a new rose detergent, I heard." You sass, squealing as he pinches your nipple, still cupped in his hand. He rights your clothing as you calm down, tucking your bra back in place and untwisting your leggings. "You're lucky I love you." He pecks your forehead before resting his own against it. You close your eyes in satisfaction, relieved to have filled this year-old hole in your heart. "I love you too, Michael." Your breaths mingle for a few moments, peace in the middle of the most unpeaceful place in Pittsburg.

Someone bangs on the door. Dana smirks at both of you like she predicted this was coming. "Two GSW's on the way, five minutes." You both sigh at getting caught, yet again. At least it was Dana. "Just enough time to get new scrubs." You cheer. He laughs, moving you both to a standing position before pecking your forehead again. "Put your address in my phone." He orders, fishing out his phone from where it fell into the couch cushions. "So forward, Doctor." You laugh as you type into his familiar phone. "I'll be over with takeout around 7:30, Mrs. Robinavitch." You grin.

"With your luck, it'll be 8 o'clock."

"Will you still wait?"

"Always."

this got away from me but wow it was necessary

#the pitt #michael robinavitch #dr robby #michael robinavitch x female reader #michael robinavitch x reader #female reader #the pitt spoilers #the pitt x reader #dr robby x reader #tornadothoughts #the pitt episode 14

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daylighted · 4 months ago

Text

♡ㅤSPORTS CAR! with [ dean winchester ] & [ angel!reader ]ㅤ (18+!!)

. . . dove really likes dean's car. or, let him drive it real far.

notes, i was going to post a dean & angel thing for his birthday... better late than never! have a sports car by tate mcrae inspired drabble as an apology<3 THIS IS SMUT! MDNI! also i don't think it needs to be said, but don't attempt this at home. all actions performed by professionals!

★ ˚⋆

dean only needs one hand to drive.

it was once something you marveled at — his innate ability to speed down open streets, tires squealing in the dusty dirt roads, as one hand steered the wheel and the other crept up your thigh.

skills needed to be exercised and pushed to strengthen their foundations. that was along the lines of what dean had said, once, before his fingers reached the button on your jeans to undo them.

even broken clocks were right twice a day. dean did not need both hands to steer the car, as he told you, and he did not need both to drive well.

he pushes a little harder on the gas, the engine revving, the sound of it miniscule compared to the mewling in the back of your throat as you ground your hips farther down on the length of his cock. his free hand rests firmly on your waist, trying to keep you steady as you squirmed.

"do you want me to crash, baby?" he asks in your ear, words a little breathless, "is that it?"

your lips stutter open and closed in a wordless denial, only managing to shake your head instead of mouth out a response. dean's grip on your hip guides your shallow movements farther down onto him, stretching your tight heat around the girth of his thick cock. "no, you don't want us to crash, dove," he mumbles, his breath hot in the crook of your neck, mouth pressed to the back of your shoulder, "that'd ruin the fun, wouldn't it? my pretty dove likes the thrill."

dean shifts a little beneath you, the act making him bury deeper into you, a little gasp falling from your pouty pink lips. he presses a kiss to your shoulder blade in response, a shudder wracking through your muscles at the light touch. "yeah? tell me how much y'like it, dove."

you weren't sure that you had the capabilities to say something coherent in that moment, but you choke on a response regardless. "yes," is what comes out, and even then, it's more of a gasp than it is a word. dean chuckles low and raspy in your ear, bucking his hips up in slow, deliberate movements that make his foot press harder on the gas pedal. the engine revs again. your head tips back into his chest. "dean─"

"y'know how fast we're goin'?" dean grunts into your ear, the hand on your hip shifting to grab one of your wrists and pry it off of its death grip on his muscular thigh. he lifts your hand to his mouth for a second, kissing your open palm, before resting it on the steering wheel. "not nearly fast enough."

the same hand reaches across you for your other hand, and finally, you pull your eyes away from the expansive back roads to watch his movements. another kiss to your palm, the other joined at ten and two on the steering wheel. "what are─"

"do you trust me?"

never have you nodded yes faster before. yes, you trusted dean. yes, you would do anything for dean. yes, he knew this; exploited it often, prodding at what he knew was your sole weakness. dean's hand on the wheel lifts off, both of them now going back to your thighs.

"make sure we don't get ourselves killed f'me, yeah?" dean's laugh is breathless and airy, the same nervous energy that you'd heard that first night alone with him, when he'd taught you how to drive. the circumstances were different now; impossibly higher stakes.

you swallow thickly, jerking the wheel to the right again when it starts to drift into wrong lane. you're distracted ─ dean can't possibly expect perfection from you when your head is in the clouds and spinning.

thankfully, there's no scolding or scathing comment. the only thing that comes is a slight lift of your hips with his grip beneath your thighs as he shifts again, half sitting and half sat up. dean bends you over the steering wheel just enough for you to keep a steady control over the car, and just enough to─

a mixture of the car's revving engine and his panting breaths in your ear and skin slapping against skin overwhelm your senses. he's buried inside of you now, enough to where you can feel each thrust bruising against your cervix.

"what would the other angels say if they saw my angel, all spread out for me like this, goin' 78 in a 40?" his hands move to your ass, squeezing the skin between his warm palms, using that grip to work you deeper onto him. you're forced to keep your head forward, eyes on the road, when all you want to do is squirm and bury yourself back into his chest and cry out.

you barely manage a whimpering, throaty whine of, "prob'bly say─ t'slow down─"

dean laughs heartily this time, his nose brushing against your jawline, pressing hot, wet kisses down the column of your throat. his head lifts, and so does one of his hands, fingers grasping the hem of your dress and pulling it up again from where it'd slipped back down.

a glance in the rearview mirror reveals the fabric held tightly between his teeth. his eyes are downcast, watching intently as he buries into you, his cock slick with your juices. his eyes flick up to meet yours, one corner quirked upwards. "eyes on the road, dove."

you glance back out of the windshield just in time to see a stop sign─ and blow past it. dean's head hits the back of the seat with a thump as he laughs this time, and the lightness in his voice is enough to make you laugh, too. as breathless as him, a burst of adrenaline sparking through your veins.

how long had it been since dean felt this free? part of you wishes to keep this moment going forever, to travel the universe in the backroads as he finds ways to bend you and maneuver you around in every space of his car, to wail his name in every state. the other part knows you aren't going to last much longer. there's energy pumping through your veins that shoots straight down to between your legs, your foot moving to rest over his on the gas, pressing down harder.

you expect an easy, tiger. it wouldn't be the first time that you'd tested a limit and found the invisible edge of a barrier. what comes out of dean's mouth is a rasping groan and a, "there's my girl."

he doesn't say anything after that, which somehow proves to make everything all the more intense. kansas is wheatfields and long, winding roads that never seem to end.

the wind rushes in through the open windows, your hair blowing in your eyes, roaring in your ears. how long had it been since you felt this alive?

it's a passing thought, but it leaves traces of itself in your blood. dean deserved to live a little, sometimes; you deserved to live a little all of the time, to let him teach you all that he knew and relive it alongside you.

dean's finger pries your mouth open, releasing your lip from your teeth. "make that face again n' m'not gonna last."

you smile, a wicked little thing that he's began to call your devil's grin. you sink further back onto him with each of his thrusts, and he groans all over again, something unintelligible in your ear about being wicked and unfair and other whining sounds that sound more like excuses to keep this dragging on.

you don't want the moment to end. he doesn't want the moment to end. but fate had its pretty ways of cruelty, and you were beginning to feel the telltale signs of impending bliss. you move to bite down on your lip again and find dean's finger instead, his mouth trailing a string of kisses down your shoulder blade. "nice try, honey."

with the growth of your relationship came a longer list of pet names. dove, baby, honey, my girl. each one set a fire ablaze in your belly. you stumble on a breathy moan, your eyes briefly squeezing shut before you remember they need to be open, your lives in your hands, held delicately between your palms.

"i'm─" the words are difficult. dean likes to talk for the both of you while he fucks the sentiments and the sentences out of you.

somehow, the grind of his hips and each shallow thrust becomes more erratic. "yeah," dean says in response, and it's no clarification to you, either, what he's trying to say.

silence again, except for the wind listening in, and the car's rumbling engine. you're racing against time and yourself, each gasping breath becoming throatier, whinier, dean's hot breath on your sweaty skin making you squirm, until─

you cry out, fingers tightening around the steering wheel, your legs clenching together and foot lifting off of the pedal at the intensity of it. dean's pace never slows even as your heart pounds, each thrust more slick-sounding from the orgasm. you almost lift a hand off of the steering wheel to stop him, to grasp his thigh and pause, but his cock twitches inside of you against the fluttering heartbeat of your sensitive walls, and there's no point to stopping him.

always in sync, now, sam once said in passing after you and dean had stopped dancing around each other. he didn't know how true it really was.

dean's cock stays buried in you, filling you up with the thick and hot release of his come. he presses his forehead to the curve of your neck, his foot slowly easing off of the gas finally. the car slows, but your hands don't leave the wheel, gripping it so tight that your knuckles have paled.

"m'gonna pull over," you mumble, easing the car to the side of the road, the right half of it treading spurts grass and the left still kicking dust and dirt up in baby's wake. "because i can't see."

dean's mouth curves against your skin; you feel it rather than see it, since his face has not left the spot between your shoulder blades yet. "you're a little adrenaline junkie in the makin', y'know that?" a light kiss to one of the ridges along your spine as he slumps back into the seat properly, tugging you down along with him in the process. "gettin' off on the speed and the danger."

he catches your elbow before you rear it back into his ribs. this part is a common occurrence of your little escapades. your tricks are becoming easy to pick up on. "you start wrestlin' me, honey, i'm gonna remind you how that backseat feels."

supposed to be a threat but you both know it's a promise, a given. as if you could ever forget how the leather of the backseat felt on your bare skin, anyways.

you twist your neck around once you've fully rolled to a stop along the side of the road, just enough to see the glaze in dean's glimmering green eyes. the moon hangs above his head, now, painting him in a wash of pale blue. he's always been beautiful, but there's something about the post-bliss of him that makes him devastating.

his smile becomes shier when he notices how you're studying him. you open your mouth to tell him everything you love about him, overwhelmed with it all at once, but he intercepts it with a warm, lingering kiss to your cheekbone.

your eyes close, face scrunching up as the single kiss becomes an onslaught of them over that side of your face. "dean!"

"mm?" he's not deterred, and again, you want to tell him every way that you love him. love how he loves, love how his dark eyelashes frame and brighten the pale of his eyes, love how he's always gentle even when he's trying to be rougher with you, love how he kisses and nips purple bruises into your neck in the shape of hearts.

maybe you would have said it, too. maybe you would have opened your heart and let himself make a home within it, right there on the side of a kansas dirt road, frogs chirping their own soundtrack to your unconventional love story.

the low fuel light dings onto the dash. the words vanish from your mouth, along with the courage you'd built up in your sated daze.

"how fast you think we can get to a gas station?" dean asks, the mischief evident in his voice, as he nips your earlobe between his teeth.

you sit up straighter in his lap, not even bothering to move yourself out of his lap, off of the half-hardness still buried inside of you. "let's find out."

the tires squeal as you peel out of your temporary parking spot, and you realize, then, that you don't really need to tell him how much you love him. not out loud. his arms slinking around your waist, cheek pressed to your skin and your dress low on your back, trusting you fully to drive his car, was love enough.

notes, the innocence is a virtue sequel i never planned on making but we all deserved. sorry if it's bad or incoherent it was actually supposed to be at least 1k shorter than this.

tags, @figthoughts @jasvtsc @titsout4jackles @deansbite @whisperingwillowxox @bombarda-babe @whyyouegg @bluemerakis @loverslantern @bitchykittenconnoisseur @jensenacklesantidote @keira-kaz2y5 @sthefferrete @depressionbarbie2023 @honeyryewhiskey @ultravi0lence14 @bleuatlas @minettacreekk @moonstruksandco @moodyquesadilla @severe-mental-illness @cevansbaby-dove @deansbeer @bluestrd @mccartneyqp @im-bili @chevroletdean @angelblqde @lyarr24 @psyches-reid @momoewn @globetrotter28 @starzify @florchids @ryngzmn @aileenunfiltered @beausling @frosttbitessam @amberlthomas

#dahlia's ☆ journal #dean winchester x angel!reader #angel!reader #jensen ackles #jensen fucking ackles #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester smut #dean winchester one shot #supernatural #spn #supernatural one shot #spn one shot

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clementineinn · 16 days ago

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before you fade, 2.

abstract: a string of disappearances in a snowbound town pulls the BAU into a chilling case — one that hits too close when the next target is personal. chosen not for weakness, but for the strength that's been buried, hidden away in the depths of a person. as a team races against time, secrets resurface, and the line between subject and survivor begins to blur.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (some usage of Y/N)

genre: angst / fluff

word count: ~7.5k

note: i finally finished up the second part to this story! ill link the first part in case anyone wants to check it out as well :) thank you sosososo much to all of you who liked, commented, reblogged my previous post, it was so heartwarming to see!! thank you, you beautiful community who accepted me w open arms. KISSES tO ALL OF U MWAH!!!! enjoy! :)

She woke to cold metal beneath her skin.

It wasn’t the kind of cold from snow or air — it was worse. The sterile, dead cold of stainless steel. Her head throbbed in pulses, and her limbs wouldn’t move the way she wanted, the way her mind willed them to. Her hands were restrained — not roughly, but with precision. Cuffs attached to the bed. Her ankles were the same. She could flex her fingers, but her strength felt distant. Detached.

Lights burned overhead. Fluorescent. Harsh.

She blinked, once, twice, vision adjusting.

The room around her was wrong. Not a basement. Not a dungeon. Something worse. It was clean.

She was on a surgical table — straps across her torso, her legs, her arms. Her jacket was gone. So were her shoes. She wore a plain, gray hospital gown that didn’t belong to her.

The walls were white. Immaculate. To her left, she saw a counter lined with metal instruments, each laid out in careful rows — forceps, syringes, scalpels – tools that made her stomach flip. To her right, a tray with a notepad and pen. A recorder.

And against the far wall — cages.

Three of them. Stainless steel. Empty. Animal enclosures.

Her heart lurched.

Then she heard it.

Footsteps. Soft. Measured.

A figure emerged from the shadows beyond the door. A man — maybe late 30s, lean, gloved hands. No rage in his face. No glee. Just curiosity. Calm, clinical interest.

He didn’t look like a monster. He looked like a doctor.

“Hello, Agent,” he said gently.

She didn’t speak.

He smiled a little. “I’m glad you’re awake. I didn’t expect to take you this soon. But… you fit.”

He approached slowly, his eyes scanning her face the way someone might scan a page in a textbook. She turned her head away, her jaw locked.

“I know you’re scared,” he continued, voice as smooth as glass. “But this isn’t about pain. I’m not interested in hurting you. I’m interested in understanding you.”

She didn’t respond.

“I’ve read your file,” he said. “Not the Bureau one — not the sanitized version they handed you when you joined the BAU. I mean the real one. The one Interpol tried to bury after Prague.”

Her stomach clenched.

He smiled, not cruel — but pleased. “That got your attention.”

“I know what happened to you there. The explosion. The agents you lost. The three weeks you spent in a burn unit. The trauma counseling. You were broken once — not just physically. Psychologically. But you survived.”

She glared at him now, eyes narrowing.

He leaned closer. “That’s what made you perfect. You know how to fracture and rebuild. That’s what fascinates me. Not weakness. Not fear. Reconstruction. I want to see what happens when all that strength… finally stops holding.”

“The team will find me,” she said, voice raw but firm. “And when he— they do—”

“I’m counting on it,” he replied brightly, his expression almost gleeful now. “I want them to see what happens to the unbreakable ones.”

Then he pressed record on the tape deck.

And turned off the lights.

Time didn’t exist in the white room. Not in any way that mattered.

There were no windows. No clocks. No day or night. Just the endless, sterile glare of fluorescent lights that never dimmed — a brightness so constant, it began to erode the edges of thought. Shadows didn’t shift here. Time didn’t pass. It hovered, oppressive and still.

The hum of electricity behind the walls was constant. Not loud, but invasive — a subtle, vibrating presence that crept under her skin and coiled in her skull. The air was dry, recycled, and carried the faint, inescapable scent of antiseptic and metal. It wasn’t cold enough to kill — he’d made sure of that — but it was cold enough to numb. Cold enough to make her body forget how warmth felt.

Everything in the room was curated. Precise. White walls. White floor. Stainless steel. The kind of blankness that invited madness. That erased identity.

She didn’t scream — that would’ve given him too much. She didn’t beg — that’s what he wanted. She didn’t cry — not because she didn’t want to, but because she wasn’t sure she could anymore. The tears had dried up somewhere between the restraints and the silence— and the bruises.

They covered her jaw, her ribs, the tender skin at her temple where his knuckles had struck hard and fast in the dark. He never hit her with rage. Never while yelling. No warning. Just methodical strikes — knuckles to cheekbone, heel of the hand to sternum — meant to test reflexes. To study how pain shifted the body’s defenses. How silence buckled under pressure. Every hour that passed was another test of will, another slow-motion sparring match with a man who didn’t want chaos — he wanted collapse.

And she had spent years learning how to outlive collapse.

She focused on the details. The click of the lock before he entered. The shuffle of paper. The faint scent of latex. She counted them like lifelines, cataloged them like patterns. Because patterns meant control. And control — even the illusion of it — could mean survival.

Ben Milburn entered the same way every time.

No wasted motion. Clipboard in hand. Gloves already on. A white coat worn not for warmth, but for theater.

He didn’t look at her like a person. He looked at her like a subject. His gaze was clinical, dispassionate — the kind of stare she’d seen in war footage, in documentaries, in predators. And when she didn’t respond, when her defiance lingered too long behind swollen eyes, he would lean close and, in that same gentle voice, say, “Let’s accelerate the variables.”

Then he’d strike.

One night, it was a fist to the temple — sudden and sharp — that left her dazed, blinking blood from her eyelashes. Another, he backhanded her hard enough to split her lip and knock her head sideways into the metal frame. When she coughed from smoke in her lungs, he struck low, right below the ribs, to hear how breath sounded when it shattered.

He watched her every time. And he wrote it all down.

“I notice your sleep cycle hasn’t reset,” he said after being gone for — she didn’t know. A day? Maybe less. The lights never changed. Time bent strangely here.

She didn’t know how long it had been since the last blackout — since he turned off the lights and struck from the dark, his fists meeting bone and skin in clinical rhythm.

“You’re still trying to control time. That’s interesting.”

She didn’t respond.

“You’re still regulating your breath rate, too,” he mused, circling the table. “That’s a primitive defense. Mind over body. But eventually, that’ll crack, too.” A wicked smile played on his lips, the corner of them twitching as if trying not to laugh, and his eyes looked far away, as if he was reliving a distant memory. “It always does.”

Her face throbbed. The skin under her left eye was tight and hot. A bruise swelling beneath it like a second heartbeat.

Still, she kept her eyes on him. Calm. Steady. She refused to give him the sound of pain.

“It’s fascinating,” he murmured, gaze drifting down her body like she was a medical scan. “I’ve read your file. Childhood trauma. Strict self-regulation. Authority issues. Emotional isolation. But still… you became someone. Highly functional. Brilliant, even. Your pain made you exceptional.”

He circled slowly, his steps soft on the tile. A man who lived in silence. Who fed on it.

Her lips curled — not into a smile, but something sharper.

“Yours,” she said, voice low and razor-thin, “just made you boring.”

He stilled.

Just for a moment.

His hand paused above the tray of instruments — a needle halfway to its case. He didn’t react violently. His expression didn’t twist with rage. That wasn’t his nature. But something shifted. A flicker in his gaze. The illusion of total control cracked.

It was the smallest tell. And Y/N saw it.

She filed it away like a weapon. Because she knew now — he wasn’t unshakable.

The injections were mild sedatives. Nothing paralyzing — just enough to loosen the mind, distort time, make fear crawl more easily under the skin. He was too careful for brute force. That wasn’t his style. He wanted surrender, not obedience. Collapse, not compliance.

But he underestimated her.

Every time she drifted under the haze, she forced her mind to focus — on Spencer’s voice, on the rhythm of profiling exercises, on the feel of her badge in her hand. Anchors. Things that tethered her to herself.

She noticed patterns. He entered every hour. Always from the left-hand door. He avoided the cages when she watched. There was something beneath the floor — once, when he left, she heard machinery start humming under the metal table.

This isn’t a basement. It’s something else. A lab? A clinic?

The third time he brought food, she noticed the smell: antiseptic, animal dander, faint but distinct.

Veterinary clinic.

Old. Repurposed. Out of sight.

She tucked the thought away like a blade in her pocket.

He sat in the corner that time, not looming or circling. Just sitting. Like they were having a late-night conversation in a quiet study. Like this was something intimate.

Y/N lay still on the table, one wrist still cuffed, the sedative fading from her bloodstream in slow pulses. Her mouth was dry. Her face throbbed. But her eyes — bloodshot, bruised — stayed locked on his.

“You know,” he began, his voice calm, “they’re searching. The way your team always does. Brilliant minds. Cracking timelines. Profiling patterns.”

He tapped the pen against the clipboard — rhythmic, idle.

“They found the old facility on Claremont Road. The one with the rotted subfloor and the leftover cages. I knew they would. That was intentional.”

Her breath hitched.

He smiled, small and patient. “They think that’s where I brought you. That’s where they’re focusing now. Grids. Maps. K-9 units.”

She clenched her jaw. “They’ll find this place. They always do.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Eventually, maybe. But this clinic isn’t in any current zoning records. No satellite imagery. No listed utilities. You don’t stumble on this one unless you already know it exists. It’ll probably take them days.”

He leaned forward now, eyes glittering in the light.

“Only locals know this land. People who were born here. People who remember the vet that used to run this place — back when it was a roadside barn before the county paved the forest around it.”

He said it almost wistfully, like he was recounting folklore.

“I used to come here with my father. We’d bring in raccoons, injured strays. I remember the smell of iodine. The way the walls would sweat in summer. It’s always been quiet here.”

Y/N swallowed hard.

“You planned all of this.”

“Of course I did,” he said, almost offended. “You don’t trap someone like you without planning every inch of it.”

Her pulse spiked. He glanced toward the monitor and smiled.

“You see, Agent, they’re close. But not here. And that’s what makes this perfect. You’ll still be alone… right up until the end.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.

But inside, her brain raced.

Claremont Road — that’s where they were. But this wasn’t Claremont. He’d led them there. On purpose.

And unless she found a way out, they wouldn’t find her in time.

Milburn entered in silence this time, no clipboard, no syringe. Just a chair in hand.

He placed it beside the table and sat like they were about to begin a therapy session. His gaze moved over her not with hunger, but reverence. The reverence of a man studying a masterpiece.

“You’re stubborn,” he said quietly. “It’s admirable. Most subjects began showing cracks by the first 10 hours.”

Y/N didn’t respond. She’d learned that silence provoked more than resistance.

“I imagine the team thinks they’re close,” he continued, almost conversational. “I left enough in the decoy site to suggest activity. Staged prints. Traces of sedatives. A broken monitor. The perfect crime scene for a partial timeline.”

He glanced at her, waiting for a reaction.

She blinked slowly. “The Claremont Road clinic.”

His smile widened, pleased that she knew. “Exactly.”

“You wanted them to find it,” she said.

He leaned in, tone soft and smug. “Of course. Letting them believe they’re closing in — that’s part of the breakdown. Hope, then disappointment. Over and over. The mind eventually lets go.”

She tilted her head, blood still dried on her lip. “You always this theatrical?”

He let out a soft chuckle. “I like design. I like when things fit.”

“And you’re sure they haven’t figured it out?”

He looked faintly insulted. “This property isn’t in any active database. The original veterinary license expired before digitization. No power grid, no plumbing registry, no road signs. Just a gravel trail locals used to know. They’d have to know this land the way I do.”

Y/N swallowed, keeping her expression neutral. “And you’re fine with dying here?”

“If it completes the study,” he said, voice low and even. “If it finishes the arc, yes.”

She let the silence stretch.

Then, with deliberate care, she said, “You know, I’ve profiled men like you. Not exactly like you — but close. The ones who claim they don’t need an audience… always want one most of all.”

His jaw tensed. Subtle. But there.

“I think,” she added, shifting slightly against the table, “you want them to see what you did. Not read about it in a case file. You want your final subject to be found. Otherwise, it’s just… wasted data.”

Milburn’s expression flickered. Not rage. But doubt.

And she smiled through the ache in her jaw.

“Maybe you’re not as certain as you pretend to be.”

He stood slowly.

He didn’t speak.

But he walked out without administering another dose.

And for the first time, she felt him slip.

The room was humming now. A different kind of hum — not the sterile buzz of lights or the faint static from the speaker, but a pulse. Mechanical. Deep.

Like something buried beneath the floor had woken up.

Y/N sat hunched on the edge of the table, one wrist still cuffed, lip split from the last blow, eyes locked on the glowing red light in the upper corner of the ceiling — the camera. Her breath was shallow. Her limbs were shaking. Not from fear, but from calculation.

She knew she’d only get one shot. Flashes of his previous victims flashed through her brain, grimace coming on her face as her lip quivered. Charred bodies, burnt all the way through, only recognizable through dental records.

The lights had dimmed, but she could still see — just enough. The tools were gone – in fact, it seemed like the room had been sterilized again. Everything reset. Everything perfect.

Except her.

The loop of her own voice still echoed overhead.

He watches them fall apart.

Over and over. Warped now, slowed like a vinyl melting.

She yanked again at the last cuff, teeth gritted, blood now wetting the strap from where she’d cut her wrist on the metal. Her hand limped to her side, strength quickly depleting, hopelessness starting to kick in every time she tried to take a breath through her nose only to be met with a clogged, bloody mess.

Then — a different sound.

A relay snapped. Mechanical. Below the floor.

And a low, rhythmic beeping began.

She froze. That wasn’t part of the sedation system.

Her eyes snapped to the vent in the corner — a faint plume of smoke, barely visible in the dim light. Chemical, not fire. But spreading.

The speaker cracked to life, the static sharp against the hum of failing vents.

Then his voice came through — calm, steady, disturbingly warm.

“I always knew I’d be caught.”

A pause. Just long enough to make her blood chill.

“People like me don’t get away with it forever. That’s a myth. The smart ones, the ones who study—they know there’s no such thing as forever. There’s only timing. There’s only design.”

His voice moved with a strange rhythm, like he wasn’t just speaking to her — like he was reading aloud from a thesis only he understood.

“I’ve seen how it ends for others. Reckless monsters with blood on their hands and panic in their veins. They get sloppy. They get loud. They get stupid. They burn out in chaos.”

He paused again, then continued, even more softly.

“But I… I never wanted chaos. I wanted clarity.”

Another relay snapped behind the walls.

“You weren’t supposed to die in rage or fire. That’s not what this was for. I brought you here because I believed you’d last. I believed you’d show me the precise moment where resilience fractures into surrender. I wanted to see you break — slowly. Completely. And maybe you would’ve. If I had more time.”

The smoke thickened in the corners. The beeping quickened.

“I always planned for this. Every subject was a step. Every cage, every dose, every silence — all of it leading to you. The perfect profile. The cleanest mind. You don’t scream. You calculate. And I thought, maybe... if I could break you, then I’d understand how it all ends.”

His tone shifted — brighter, almost breathless.

“And now it does end. Not because I lost. But because I chose it. I’ve seen what happens after they catch people like me. The cage. The headlines. The slow rot of purpose. No thank you.”

The beeping was constant now. Almost shrill.

“This way, the story stays mine.”

Then one final pause.

“And if you survive this, Y/N — if you crawl from the fire — then you’ll live knowing that I got inside your head. That I chose you as the last page. And that everything after this moment... belongs to me.”

The speaker went dead.

And the door unlatched.

The lock gave a soft, mechanical click — almost casual.

The kind of sound you could miss if you weren’t listening for it.

But she heard it.

And she moved.

Y/N surged upright, her world a blur of blood and smoke and failing light. Her legs nearly gave out as her bare feet hit the freezing tile. Her right wrist was still shackled — the torn flesh around it slippery with blood — but she didn’t hesitate. She gripped the metal base of the restraint with her free hand and ripped, screaming through clenched teeth as she tore the cuff off the rail with brute force and adrenaline.

The torn metal edge sliced deeper into her wrist, hot blood spurting down her forearm. But the pain didn’t register. Not really. It was just another noise in the growing cacophony.

The hallway outside the room was blinding white — too clean, too bright — but the air was already sour. Smoke poured from the vents in ribbons now, curling along the floor like fingers searching for skin.

Beep. Beep. BeepBeepBeep.

The emergency lighting strobed red overhead — a pulsing countdown that painted her body in flashes of panic.

She stumbled forward, one arm pressed to her chest, the other swinging wildly for balance as she bolted down the corridor. Each step burned. Her right thigh screamed with every movement — the wound he had carved there was now a deep, wet gash. Her lungs convulsed. Her skin felt like paper.

She slammed into the wall, rebounded – kept going.

Every door she passed was shut. Sealed. Designed not to open from the inside.

She reached a T-junction in the hallway — and for a second, she froze.

Left? Right? She turned right.

A gust of heat struck her — the fire had reached the lower floors. Somewhere in the building, structural integrity had begun to collapse. A ceiling tile fell behind her with a crash. Smoke turned black.

Then she saw it — the red glow of an EXIT sign through the haze.

A steel door. No lock. No keypad. Just a crash bar.

She sprinted, half-limping, half-collapsing with every step. Her ears were ringing. Her vision dimmed at the edges. The beeping was almost constant now — so fast it became one unbroken shriek.

She hit the door with her shoulder.

It didn’t budge.

She hit it again — harder. Her body screamed.

Then she threw herself at it with everything she had.

The latch gave. The door burst open.

And she flew forward — into snow.

She tumbled face-first into the ice, her breath wrenching from her lungs in a broken sob. Cold air shocked her lungs, crisp and clean and real. Finally real.

She scrambled up, hands sinking into the drift. Her legs collapsed again — but she crawled.

Three feet.

Five.

Ten.

Behind her, the clinic trembled.

And then — it erupted.

The explosion hit like a living thing.

The entire back wall of the building lifted first, bricks and steel shrapnel exploding outward in a wave of orange fire and debris. The shockwave followed — concussive and furious.

Y/N was thrown like a rag doll. The world tilted sideways.

She hit the ground hard — skidded across the ice, body twisting midair — then slammed into the base of a snowbank, the breath knocked out of her in one violent rush.

Everything went silent.

For a few seconds, she didn’t know if she was dead.

Ash began to fall like snow.

The sky flickered, flames roaring behind her. She blinked slowly, her left arm twisted under her. Her shoulder was dislocated. Her thigh oozed blood. Her face was burned — just barely — along the temple and jaw.

But she was alive.

The air was sharp and frozen and she breathed it.

The explosion had blown Milburn’s empire into dust.

And somehow, she had crawled out of it. His words replayed in her mind, foreboding and haunting: “And if you survive this, Y/N — if you crawl from the fire — then you’ll live knowing that I got inside your head. That I chose you as the last page. And that everything after this moment... belongs to me.”

The SUV skidded to a halt on the icy road, tires crunching through snow and ash.

The roar of the explosion still echoed in the trees. Flames licked at the sky from the collapsed roof of the old clinic, casting long, flickering shadows across the snow – as if trying to burn the stars out, setting the sky aflame. Debris crackled in the wind. The smell of scorched chemicals, wood, and something acrid hung thick in the air. Smoke bloomed up ahead like a black wound in the trees. The remains of the clinic glowed in the distance — not just burning, but obliterated. The structure was gone. Collapsed inward.

Spencer was out of the car before it fully stopped.

“Y/N!” he screamed, boots slipping as he tore across the snow.

Morgan followed fast, radio in hand. “We need medics now. Structure’s gone. Repeat — the clinic is gone. We’ve got fire and active ground collapse.”

They crested the ridge behind the ruins just as the wind shifted — and Spencer saw it.

A shape. Small. Slumped. Barely a shadow against the snow.

“There!” he shouted, voice cracking. “She’s there—Morgan, she’s there!”

He dropped to his knees beside her, sliding the last few feet. Her body was twisted at the edge of a snowbank, half-covered in soot, her skin streaked with blood and ash. Her right arm was limp. Her leg was slick with deep red. Her lips were cracked and blue, and one side of her face was bruised and blistered.

But her chest rose, even if barely.

“Y/N,” Spencer said, voice shaking as he leaned over her. “Hey—hey, it’s me. You’re okay. You’re safe now.”

Her eyelids fluttered just a little. Her lips parted — but no words came out. Just a sound. A raw, rasping breath.

Morgan slid in beside them, pulling off his jacket and pressing it over her. “She’s in shock. We’ve gotta stop the bleeding. Pulse is weak, but it’s there.”

“I’ve got you,” Spencer whispered, brushing damp hair back from her face. “We’re right here. You’re not alone.”

She blinked once — slow and painful — and focused on him. Recognition hit like a gasp of air underwater. She tried to speak. Her mouth moved.

He leaned in.

“I made it.”

It was nothing but breath. But he heard it.

And then she passed out.

Fifteen minutes later, the sirens pierced the silence.

A wall of red and white light cut through the trees as the first ambulance skidded onto the scene, tires fishtailing slightly on the packed snow. EMTs leapt out before the vehicle had fully stopped, rushing toward the figures crouched near the base of the ridge.

“She’s here!” Morgan called, waving them over with one hand while the other remained pressed firmly to Y/N’s thigh, trying to slow the bleeding. “She’s in shock, multiple lacerations, third-degree burns on her left side, possible dislocated shoulder—”

“Airway’s clear,” another medic confirmed, kneeling at her head. “Breathing is shallow but present. BP’s dropping.”

Spencer barely registered the shouts and movements around him. His focus never left her face.

She was unconscious now. Still. Her skin ghostly pale beneath the smears of ash and blood. Her hair was damp, matted to her temple. Her lashes were dusted with frost. Every rise and fall of her chest felt like a war waged by her body to keep going.

He held her hand in both of his — fingers cold and shaking — and kept whispering her name, over and over, like he could keep her tethered just by saying it.

“Y/N, stay with me. You’re almost there. Just a little longer, please—”

They moved fast.

An IV line was secured with shaking, practiced hands. The EMTs slid a mask over her nose and mouth, oxygen hissing softly into her lungs. A cervical collar was fixed around her neck. One of them wrapped her bleeding arm with quick, efficient pressure while the others readied the gurney.

“We need to move now. She’s crashing.”

Morgan helped them lift her.

Spencer didn’t let go.

Even when they strapped her in, even when they wheeled her toward the back of the ambulance, even when the medic had to gently tap his arm and say, “Sir—we need space.”

He only released her hand when the doors closed.

And still, he stood there, staring after her like he could follow her with just his breath.

Hotch came to stand beside him, silent.

The fire behind them had begun to collapse inward — a thunderous groan of bending metal and concrete giving way. Sparks cracked into the sky as another wall folded in on itself. The building was all but gone now — reduced to flame and ruin.

“She survived him,” Spencer said, his voice raw, barely audible.

Hotch didn’t look away from the wreckage. “No,” he said. “She beat him.”

And together, they watched the last of Ben Milburn’s empire dissolve in fire.

All that control. All that calculation.

Reduced to ash. Swallowed whole by the dark.

36 hours later, the world came back slowly.

First sound — a low, rhythmic beep. The quiet hiss of oxygen. Distant footsteps. The soft hum of fluorescent lights that didn’t buzz like the ones in the clinic.

Then feeling — heavy limbs, warm blankets, a dull ache in her leg, her arm wrapped in something stiff and unmoving. Dry lips. A throat that burned from breathing in smoke.

Then finally — light.

She blinked once. Twice.

Everything was white, but not like his white. This wasn’t sterile silence. This wasn’t a cage.

It was a hospital. Safe.

Her heart rate monitor chirped a little faster.

“Hey—hey, it’s okay.”

The voice was gentle. Familiar. Real.

She turned her head — slow, careful, her neck protesting, every nerve stiff — and found Spencer sitting beside her bed. His tie was askew. His hair a mess. There were faint smudges under his eyes — the kind you only got from worry and no sleep. His fingers were wrapped around hers, careful but unrelenting.

“You’re awake,” he said softly, voice frayed at the edges.

Her lips parted. It took her a second to find her voice, to summon the breath. “Spence,” she rasped, trying her voice for the first time by saying his name – her mantra that kept her alive through the cold, desolate clinic. “You stayed.”

“Of course I stayed,” he said quickly, as if the alternative had never occurred to him. His voice was quiet, but still, the end of his sentence cracked.

She closed her eyes briefly. A tear slipped down the side of her temple, vanishing into the pillow.

“It’s over.”

Spencer nodded, but his throat tightened. “You got out. You saved yourself.”

“I knew you guys would find me,” she whispered.

He leaned in slightly, his hand brushing hers on the blanket.

“There was a moment,” he said, his voice rough, “when we found the cruiser. Your phone was gone. The snow was already covering your tracks. I thought—” He stopped, swallowing hard. “I thought I was too late.”

Her fingers moved. Slow, trembling.

But they curled into his.

“You weren’t,” she murmured.

And they sat like that — hand in hand, hearts syncing in the quiet — not as agent and profiler, not even as survivors, but simply two people who had almost lost each other.

She was the first to speak again. “The others?”

“They’re okay,” he said. “Hotch and Rossi are working with local PD to clear the site. JJ’s been here every few hours. Garcia’s already set up a 24/7 alert on every case with a similar profile. And Morgan’s…” Spencer chuckled faintly. “Pacing holes into the floor of the waiting room.”

A weak smile tugged at her lips. “Tell him to stop. He’s going to hurt those precious muscles of his.”

Spencer laughed — hoarse, but real.

Then his expression shifted, suddenly, so fast even she couldn’t place exactly when it had happened. Darkened.

“He was going to kill you.”

“I know.”

“He wanted to take you with him. End it on his terms.”

“I know,” she repeated, more softly this time.

There was a pause. Then her fingers pressed a little tighter around his.

“But he didn’t,” she said. “And that matters.”

Spencer looked at her for a long time, and in that silence, she knew he saw it — all of it. The pain she hadn’t shared. The fight she’d endured. The scar tissue behind her voice.

And still, she wasn’t done.

“Before anyone else asks. Before someone digs it up. I know you guys are aware of my general backstory, but I haven’t told you guys everything.”

He straightened slightly, sensing the shift in her tone.

“I wasn’t just some profiler who fit the behavioral sketch,” she said. “He picked me for a reason.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I do,” she said. “You deserve to know everything.”

Spencer stayed quiet. Open.

She took a breath that rattled. “Before Quantico… I worked with Interpol. Undercover intelligence. Blacklist operations. I was embedded for over a year with an Eastern European trafficking network. A weapons cell. It was brutal. I made it out during a final sting — barely. There was an explosion. Two agents died. I was inside when the roof collapsed.”

Her voice cracked, but she pushed through it.

“I crawled out over one of my partners’ bodies. Spent three weeks in a burn unit. Three months in trauma counseling. I was broken. Physically. Mentally. They sealed the records before I transferred to the BAU.”

Spencer said nothing, but his hand never left hers.

“He found them,” she continued. “The unsub. Milburn. He found pieces of the files — enough to know I’d already been through hell. That I’d survived it. He wasn’t just picking women who fit a profile. He was choosing survivors. Ones who wouldn’t go quietly. He wanted to see what happened when people who already crawled out of the fire… were pushed back into it.”

Spencer exhaled like he’d been holding it since the moment she started.

“You weren’t meant to break,” he said. “You were meant to end.”

“I think he wanted to study that moment,” she said. “Where strength breaks. Where pain rewrites people. And I was the perfect study.”

“But he failed,” Spencer said. “You didn’t breaks. You held on.”

She blinked slowly. “Only because I had something to hold on to.”

Their eyes locked.

“You,” she whispered. “You were my anchor.”

Spencer’s own eyes welled, but he didn’t look away. Didn’t blink.

“You’re not allowed to scare me like that again,” he said quietly, a shaky smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

She let her eyes close, the weight of exhaustion finally overtaking her. But her grip on his hand didn’t loosen.

“I’ll try not to.”

They both knew it wasn’t a promise she could keep. Not in their line of work.

But for now — for this moment — it was enough.

She was alive.

And he was still holding on.

The elevator doors slid open on the sixth floor with a soft ding that echoed through the corridor like a memory.

Y/N stepped out slowly.

Her shoes met the polished tile with quiet, deliberate weight — not hesitant, but grounded. She wore her long coat, the collar turned up slightly, and her badge clipped at the chest, just where it used to be. Outwardly, she looked the same.

But something in her was different.

Not diminished. Not broken. Just heavier.

Each step down the hallway was familiar, but her body felt new inside it. Slightly off-axis. She could feel the line of scar tissue beneath her shirt tug with every movement of her shoulder, where pins and plates still held healing bone. Her left thigh ached subtly with each shift in weight — a dull reminder of shrapnel buried and removed. And in her chest, behind the steady rhythm of breath, lived a quieter wound: the memory of a room built for her to not survive.

And she had.

The overhead lights buzzed faintly. A printer churned somewhere in the bullpen. A phone rang twice and stopped. It was all so normal. So mundane.

And then—

“HEY!”

Garcia’s voice rang out like the sun breaking through clouds, full of warmth and sugar and uncontainable emotion.

Y/N barely had time to inhale before she was engulfed in a hug that smelled of citrus and lilac and safety. Garcia’s arms squeezed tight around her middle — careful not to jostle her shoulder — her voice a rush of words against Y/N’s temple.

“Oh my God, you’re actually here, I didn’t want to text because I didn’t want to push but I’ve been counting down the days and oh my God you’re really here—”

Y/N let out a breath that trembled at the edges, and her arms came up slowly to return the embrace. Her fingers clutched Garcia’s shoulder, a little tighter than she meant to.

JJ appeared next, quiet as always. She waited for Garcia to step aside before reaching out, pulling Y/N in with gentle arms. The hug was softer — but no less fierce. JJ’s hand pressed lightly against the back of her head like a mother with a child returned home.

Y/N didn’t realize she was holding her breath until JJ whispered, “It’s good to see you.”

Then it released. Just a little.

Morgan stepped up next, towering and warm, his expression unreadable for a moment.

Then he gave her a single clap on the back — light, but firm — and held her at arm’s length just long enough to look her in the eyes.

“Good to have you back, warrior.”

She offered him a faint smile. “I missed you guys.”

Morgan didn’t say anything else — but his jaw flexed. His eyes lingered on the fading bruise along her jawline. The slight wince when she moved her shoulder. He saw all of it.

Then he nodded and stepped aside.

Across the bullpen, Hotch stood in the doorway to his office. His arms were crossed, his expression as composed as ever — but even that cracked slightly when his eyes met hers.

“We cleared your desk,” he said. “You have full discretion over when — and how much — you take on.”

Y/N gave him a quiet, grateful half-smile.

“Thanks, Hotch.”

His gaze softened, just enough to register.

“Take the space you need,” he said. “But know that we missed you.”

She nodded.

Her throat tightened, but she held it down. She hadn’t cried in weeks. She wasn’t ready to start here.

Then, as the laughter and chatter faded around her, she glanced down the hall.

Her eyes searched, almost involuntarily.

But he wasn’t there yet.

And somehow, she already knew he would be.

She didn’t hear him at first.

The buzz of the bullpen had resumed — Garcia chattering excitedly about reorganizing the “entire sparkle-driven filing structure” of the case board, JJ subtly blocking Morgan from sneaking one of the cinnamon scones she’d brought back from her morning run. Everything was soft chaos. Familiar.

But Y/N felt it before she saw him.

That shift in air.

The way the sound around her dulled — not in volume, but in focus.

She turned — slowly.

And there he was.

Spencer stood just beyond the corner of the corridor, leaning ever so slightly into the threshold. He hadn’t said a word. He didn’t need to. His eyes said everything.

He looked different. Not in the way clothes or hair changed someone, but in the way grief and fear etched themselves into the quietest places of a person. His tie was loose. His curls slightly disheveled. And his eyes — those eyes — were full of so much relief, she had to look away before she drowned in it.

He stepped forward, cautiously, like he didn’t want to startle her.

“Hi,” he said softly.

She blinked. And smiled — tired but true.

“Hi.”

The distance between them was ten feet. But it felt thinner than breath.

He didn’t rush her. Didn’t reach out. He just stood there for a second, watching her like she might disappear again. Like the smoke and flame and snow might reclaim her.

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” he said. “I just… needed to see you here. In this hallway. Alive.”

Her chest tightened.

“I wasn’t sure I’d ever walk it again,” she admitted.

Spencer nodded, his throat working around words he hadn’t yet found. “You did,” he said eventually. “And it’s different now. But that’s okay. You’re allowed to come back different.”

She looked at him.

Really looked at him.

And this time, the silence between them felt sacred. Not hollow. Not strained.

He stepped closer — just one step — and then hesitated.

Y/N met him there. Two more steps forward. Not quite touching, but almost.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said, voice low.

His response was immediate. “I never left.”

Her breath hitched.

But instead of speaking, she reached for his hand — quietly, without a word — and he took it, like he’d been waiting every hour since the fire for that moment.

No theatrics.

No declarations.

Just presence.

And that was enough.

Rain whispered against the windows in soft, steady waves — the kind of rain that quieted the world, smoothed the edges of thought. It blanketed the city like a hush. Like the kind of silence that asked not to be filled, only felt.

Y/N stood at her kitchen sink, rinsing out her tea mug with one hand, the other resting lightly on the counter to ease the pressure from her still-healing leg. The ceramic clinked gently against the basin, hollow and distant. The candle on the table flickered, casting the living room in warm, golden light that painted soft shadows on the walls.

Her apartment was calm. Clean. Almost peaceful.

But inside her chest, something stirred.

Then— A knock.

Soft. Hesitant. Two beats. A pause.

Not the knock of someone making a delivery. Not a neighbor. It was careful. Intentional.

She already knew.

Y/N moved to the door, her heart beginning to beat a little faster beneath her ribs. She paused, just long enough to press one hand to the wall beside her — a grounding touch — then unlatched the deadbolt.

Spencer stood there.

His coat was damp from the rain, curls clinging in ringlets to his forehead. His glasses were slightly fogged. His cheeks were pink from the cold, but it was his eyes that stopped her. They were soft, tired, and filled with something he didn’t know how to name. Something quiet and aching.

He looked like a man who had walked through a storm he didn’t fully survive.

“Hi,” he said, voice low. Again.

She stepped aside, her voice matching his. “Hi.” Again.

He entered without a sound, toeing off his shoes as if even the sound of rubber on tile might shatter the fragile quiet between them. He stood just inside the entryway for a long second, fingers still buried in his coat pockets. He looked around slowly — the dim lamp, the steaming tea, the blanket folded over the edge of the couch. The evidence of her living. Surviving.

“You’re walking better,” he said quietly.

“You’re still worried,” she replied.

A soft smile tugged at his mouth. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I wasn’t sure if I should come. Or if it was too soon.”

“You’re always allowed to come here,” she said gently, her voice barely more than breath.

He took a shaky breath and stepped forward. “I wanted to tell you something.”

She turned to face him fully now, watching him carefully. “You kind of already did. In the hospital. In the snow.”

His gaze met hers.

“This is different.”

She didn’t move. She waited.

Spencer’s voice wavered, just slightly. “When we found the cruiser and your phone was gone… there was a moment when I thought we were too late. And all I could hear was this voice in my head screaming I never told her. Not really. Not the way I wanted to.”

He stepped closer. Not invading. Just near enough that she could feel the change in air between them.

“I’ve spent months—years, maybe—waiting. Telling myself it was too complicated. That work made it dangerous. That maybe you didn’t feel the same. So I stayed quiet. I watched you be brilliant and brave and haunted and I told myself I could live with loving you from a distance.”

She blinked slowly, breath caught in her throat.

“But I can’t,” he said. “Not anymore.”

His voice cracked at the edges now, the words spilling out like something that had built behind a dam too long.

“When we thought you were gone, something in me broke. Because I didn’t just lose you in theory. I felt it. I imagined every second I hadn’t said it out loud. Every smile I hadn’t kissed. Every moment I wasted thinking there’d be more time.”

He stepped forward again.

“I care about you. So deeply I don’t think I even know where the caring ends and the love begins. I think I’ve been in love with you longer than I’ve known how to admit it. And it scared me. But not saying it scares me more.”

Silence.

Then—

“I love you,” he said, a little louder now. “I love you, and I don’t want to spend another day pretending that I don’t.”

Tears welled in her eyes, sudden and unbidden. She didn’t try to stop them.

She reached for his hand.

Her fingers slid into his — warm, familiar, grounding.

“You didn’t wait,” she whispered. “You showed up. You always show up.”

He smiled — but this one was real. Open. Vulnerable.

And then, without hesitation, she stepped forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t urgent. It didn’t need to be. It was slow and trembling, the kind of kiss that was built from pieces — of fear and relief and every unsaid word that had finally found its way to the surface. His hand curled around her waist like he was afraid she might disappear, but she pulled him closer, breathless and solid and here.

When they finally parted, their foreheads pressed together, and she exhaled against his mouth.

“It’s okay now,” she said softly.

And it was.

It was raining again.

The steady kind — soft against the windows, more of a hush than a storm. The kind that wrapped the city in gray light and made the world feel a little slower, a little closer.

Spencer stood at her kitchen counter in socked feet, brow furrowed slightly as he read the instructions on the side of the French press. He’d made it perfectly for weeks now, but he still double-checked — out of habit, out of reverence.

Behind him, Y/N sat curled on the couch, one leg tucked beneath her, a well-worn copy of The Secret History open in her lap. A fleece blanket draped over her shoulders. She wasn’t reading, though. Just holding the book. Listening to the rain. Watching him.

It had become a rhythm.

Sundays were slow. Their safe place. No work. No trauma. No unfinished case files or briefing folders or hospital check-ups. Just the two of them, in borrowed stillness.

“I think I used too much water,” Spencer muttered.

Y/N smiled softly. “You didn’t.”

“I always use too much water.”

“You also always say that. And it’s always fine.”

He glanced over his shoulder. Her eyes were tired but warm. The scar on her temple had faded into a thin, pale line. The gash on her thigh still ached on colder mornings, but the limp had almost vanished.

Emotionally, she was still healing. Some nights she still jolted awake at sounds no one else heard. Sometimes the quiet pressed in too close.

But she had found something steady in Spencer’s presence. Not safety, exactly — because she didn’t want to be protected. Just seen. And he did that, without asking her to hide anything.

He brought her coffee and crossword puzzles and hand-scrawled notes about obscure philosophers. He sat beside her when the nightmares left her breathless. He didn’t fill the silences — he just waited in them.

He walked with her. And never ahead of her.

Spencer poured two mugs and brought hers over, setting it on the table beside her book.

She looked up at him.

“I never thought I’d feel normal again,” she said softly, as if the words surprised her.

He didn’t sit immediately. Just studied her.

“You’re not normal,” he said. “You’re you. That’s better.”

She smiled. This one fuller.

He sat beside her, their knees brushing. She reached for her mug but didn’t drink it — just wrapped her hands around the warmth.

The rain kept falling.

Their fingers found each other again — naturally now, without ceremony — and neither of them spoke for a long time.

Because some love stories didn’t need declarations or dramatic moments.

Sometimes, they just needed two people who chose each other. Again and again.

Even after the worst had passed.

Especially then.

@maisyyyyyy @theredvelvetbitch @alexistexas21 @blackbirdbella

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer fic #reid fic #spencer reid fic #spencer x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst

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withleeknow · 1 year ago

Text

genre/warnings: friends with benefits au. pwp. smut right under the cut. minors dni.

note: yeah i don't even remember what i thought about yesterday that made me do this. i was possessed. i always wanna set myself on fire after i post smut bye don't perceive me

main masterlist / blurb masterlist / ko-fi

hyunjin, who knows exactly how to make you feel better after a long and tiring day. you'd called him right as you clocked out at work, not having even left the office building when you were dialing his number impatiently, demanding asking him to meet you at your place in thirty minutes.

hyunjin, who's already standing by your front door with a cocky smile you arrive home. but you're too strung out today to indulge in pleasantries with him. you both know what you're not here to exchange small talk. sometimes, he calls you to help him deal with his stress and frustrations. today, it's you who's in need of his assistance.

hyunjin, who's got you pressed against the wall about half a minute after you unlock the door and usher the both of you inside. "want me to make you forget?" he tilts his head, a shadow of a smirk in his voice and yet, there's something so gentle in the way he asks for your confirmation.

hyunjin, who drops to his knees the second you give him the green light, glancing up at you with mischievous eyes before he gets to work. your pants are off in no time, though he opts to leave your panties on as he nudges his nose against the fabric, flicks his tongue over the wet patch on the cotton where he knows your clit is.

hyunjin, who gives you your first orgasm of the night just like that, licking you through the layer separating you and him, making you cream your panties in mere minutes while you try to hold yourself up against the wall, your fingers weaved through his hair to push his face closer to your core.

hyunjin, who discards your soaked underwear soon after, spreading your legs further open and diving in until his tongue makes direct contact with you, trailing his way from your entrance to your clit, cleaning you up just to make you messy again.

hyunjin, whose skilled fingers join the fun, slipping inside of you with ease while his tongue never relents. he relishes in every sound you make, every whimper and broken moan, the way your thighs shake around his head and the clench of your velvety walls around his digits when he hits your sweet spot.

hyunjin, who's practically an expert on everything you like. he knows every button to push, knows how to curl his fingers to get you to make a very particular sound that he likes. knows how to bring you to the edge and reel you back in and repeats the process a few times so the pleasure would be amplified tenfold for when you do come again. that's how he gets you to gush once, twice more for him, with his name tumbling out of your mouth like a fallen prayer.

hyunjin, who licks his fingers clean afterward, then rises to his feet and kisses you deeply with you still smeared all over his lips and coated on his tongue.

hyunjin, who carries you to your room like a proper gentleman, laying you gently on the bed as if he hadn't just given you three earth-shattering orgasms with his mouth and fingers alone.

hyunjin, who removes the rest of your clothes before he strips himself naked. you keep your legs open as you watch him eye you with lust-blown pupils, his hand wrapping around his hardened length. he stares at your core that's still glistening with your earlier release, biting his lip and slowly pumping his cock until it's heavy as a fucking rock and leaking at the tip.

hyunjin, who makes your eyes roll back in pure bliss when he pushes inside of you, bottoms out and immediately sets a steady pace. he knows you can take it and he knows you need it, so he rocks into you as hard as you beg him to, hard enough that the only coherent thing coming out of your mouth is hyune, hyune, hyune..., his name repeated on your lips like you're a broken record.

hyunjin, who holds off his own release just to make sure you get there first. he sucks on your nipples and flicks your clit just the way you like, all the while still thrusting into you until he feels you clench around his cock, your breathing becoming more and more ragged by the second, until your orgasm crests and you're crying out, your walls convulsing around him as your body shakes underneath him.

hyunjin, who fucks you through your high and then some. when you whine from the overstimulation, he pulls out and shuffles up the bed, moving over your form until his tip is pressed against your lip. "open," he says, and you do exactly that, albeit a little lazily after being fucked to heaven and back again. he slides further into the warmth of your mouth before his hips start thrusting shallowly.

hyunjin, who throws his head back in utter euphoria as you suck him off. it doesn't take long before he's coming undone, shooting ropes of warm cum right down your throat, and you happily swallow all of it despite the way your eyes brim with tears upon reflex.

hyunjin, who collapses next to you on the bed after you've milked him for all that he's worth. when you turn to him, wearing a fucked-out smile and thanking him for tonight, he only rolls closer and throws an arm over your waist, "glad to be of service."

#stray kids fic #stray kids imagines #stray kids smut #stray kids x reader #skz fic #skz imagines #skz x reader #skz x you #hyunjin smut #hyunjin scenarios #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin imagines #hyunjin x you #hwang hyunjin x reader #hwang hyunjin x you #stray kids #hyunjin #hwang hyunjin #blurbs

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kyupidos · 8 months ago

Note

Hello, if you take requests, can I maybe request a male!not Yuu!reader that can control time ? And he is the son of one of the staff..

So, my request is : Heafcanon of the Platonic!Staff with a m!son!reader that can control time (I can see them knowing when something happen with the time but not really knowing what this is [for example, if the reader rewind the time, they have a feeling something isn't right, but nothing more], and the reader won't tell them).

Have a great day ! And ignore it if you don't want to write it !

10/20/24 — twisted wonderland <3

you know what they say about broken clocks — summary. ‘time control is rough, but your father is here for you.’

characters ;; dire crowley, mozus trein, divus crewel, tags ;; reader is male ( he/your, and the term “son” is used to describe them ), reader is not yuu, platonic fluff(?)

a/n ( SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO RESPOND!! never did smth like this before so i did my best to lock in,, on the topic of doing my best, i wasn’t sure if this should be fluff or angst so i was like, kind of mixing it? i wasn’t sure how to do this with every staff, so i just did the “big three” ( i think..? ) hope this is okay! also, i’ve starting writing using a different app, so sorry if the format’s different than usual 😓

d. crowley

— in a way, you were quite sure your father, crowley, had some sort of sense of your capabilities. for as..eccentric as your father was, he possessed a great deal of care and concern towards you, his son. hey, he may give off “deadbeat” vibes ( and this is particularly true for the prefect that you’ve become acquainted with out of necessity due to them hanging out around his office to get updates about returning to their home ), but his care for you certainly shows no bounds.

— this was especially true whenever he was acutely aware of a stressor that may have been on your mind. well, he did give you a little pat on your head in affection, giddily preening to tell you “how ready he was to aid you in ailing your woes!”

— perhaps it was just a gut feeling. as you sat there, your eye almost twitching as you looked down at your terribly marked assignment paper. it was returned on the same day you worked on it with the rest of your class; you could only figure based on the usual efficiency of your teachers, but something you’d rather not praise at the moment.

— honestly, you were just too stressed out over the multitude of other assignments you’d received over the past week. what was wrong with that? and, as the son of the head mage of all staff, you couldn’t help but feel bitter in your ashamed state. so when you went to go get a beverage to cool your head off only to see your father gingerly picking up your worksheet in curiosity, your fingers twitched twice as harshly as your eye did just before.. before, coming to the fruitful conclusion to head back.

— this time, you got a far better grade. one that you were much more proud of, to show your father willingly. you were keen on repeating moments such as these; though it wasn’t like your father’s sudden blank moments whenever those times occurred led you clueless as to his abilities to catch on. “ah..oh my little raven, how well you did!” he pat your head again nonetheless, the silent agreement of ignoring how somewhere in the back of his subconscious, he recalled the event going somewhat, slightly differently. “now, my son, if you ever feel discouraged by your school work, just take it up with your ever so generous father, alright? i’m prepared to tutor you with anything!”

— his words of encouragement were just enough to dissuade the undertones of heaviness in the air that lingered for those few seconds of his recollections of the original event escaped him. you couldn’t help but smile a little more, knowing how your father tried to ease you up just to make you happy. “thank you, dad.”

m. trein

— trein is no stranger to feelings that revolve around the concept of deja vu. he’s old and wiser, and you couldn’t be prouder to know him as your father. on that note, you have two elder sisters, and this afternoon you’re all visiting together at the family home, instead of you staying at your dorm.

— your father has good intuition; that much is obvious by the kind but careful glances he gives you sometimes, just to make sure you’re feeling okay. you could see the thoughts lingering on his mind every now and then, if there was a little something you might have been keeping from him. and unfortunately, today had decided to follow that trend, but hey to be fair, it’s nobody’s fault but your memory..

— “fuaaah, hey hey, [y/n],” one of your elder sisters called out, dressed elegantly and frilly in her lavender sleepwear, clearly not too keen on bothering to change after her little afternoon nap ( you understood her there, it was a saturday after all ). “you remembered to prep the dinner, right?” she called out as she stretched her limbs, not caring to notice the quick cringe on your face at the sudden recollection. “papa said it was your turn this time, didn’t he?”

— huh? oh, well crap…you didn’t want to have to deal with those repercussions. you shrugged your shoulders not so smoothly, before leaving your eyes shut to be sure to not forget the next time.

— dinner was well served that evening, indeed. in fact, you think you put a little too much of your all into it. and while trein is delighted by the taste, he recalls it differently; no, in the back of his mind, he was sure he was just about on his way to make it himself once he’d made the realization you’d forgotten.

— he’d come to that lingering conclusion more often than not recently; and he knows for a fact you seem to have to do with it with the unnecessary awkward look you gave when he asked you about it. but he’s also concluded you’re not quite ready to talk about it, so once dinner is over and it’s about ready for everyone to sleep in for the night, he comes up to you and pats your head.

— “remember, you can always come to me if you need anything, okay?” he’s as reassuring as he’s always been to you, and you can tell with the way he looks at you. “..okay, dad.”

d. crewel

— nothing special was going on today, honestly. you were staying in the teacher’s lounge ( crewel’s son privileges ), and you were waiting for your father to get back from whatever he supposedly had to do that was more important than grading papers. not like you cared, it just meant you could lounge around doing whatever you wanted to.

— you should probably stop being so careless, all things considered. one would assume it would get through to you, as whenever he gives you a furrowed brow in response to his confusion about recollection of events, it should surely be enough to be a hint that he’s slowly catching on. or perhaps he already has, but he knows for a fact that if you hadn’t said anything, then perhaps he shouldn’t either until you’re ready.

— nonetheless, you didn’t pick up on your father’s train of thought. you do your best not to use your magic willy nilly, since it gets absolutely exhausting. especially considering the amount of blot you’ve learned you end up accumulating when you do. but you’re too used to using it to avoid even the simplest of things, even though sometimes it’s a mistake that you know any normal person would forgive; especially when it’s your father.

— you’re too anxious by the coffee you already accidentally spilled, though, which completely tainted the half-finished stack of graded papers he had left on the desk. you can’t even register how you did that, but perhaps it was from the way you accidentally shook the table a bit too much when your legs hit it while you were aiming to lay on the couch. and you know you can absolutely not deal with the reaction you’d get from your father when he inevitably walks in on the disaster.

— the stack of half graded papers was pristine and untouched, which was exactly what crewel had walked in on. virtually nothing had happened, in his eyes. and yet, somehow, the whole thing didn’t quite play out right in his mind—like it was telling him he should be walking in on another situation entirely.

— and then, his eyes glide over to meet you, doing exactly as you were planning to do. just lounge around. though still, his brow furrows as he slowly connects the dots that he doesn’t even realize truly exist yet. and then his face softens, going to sit down on the couch beside you to drink from the coffee that hadn’t spilled, a calm atmosphere shared between the two of you. “how’re you doing, [y/n]? i hope i wasn’t gone for too long.” “huh? oh no, it’s fine dad…i’ve just been relaxing.” “mhm…i bet.”

#(๑^⤙^๑). . approved!#kyupidos #twst #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twst x male reader #twst fluff #twst hcs #dire crowley #dire crowley twst #crowley x reader #dire crowley x reader #divus crewel #crewel x reader #mozus trein #trein x reader #( feels odd tagging this way..but we still up )#( how do you even tag for platonic 😭😭🙏🙏 )

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that-girl-from-nicu · 2 months ago

Text

Saving the Savior - Part 2

Trauma and therapy.

Song inspo: Way Down We Go - Kaleo (it's the song at the top of his 'stamina' playlist. He listens to that when he needs to keep pushing through something. Playlist is like 185 songs long because he's deeply troubled)

Said I wouldn't write again but here we are.

Warnings: implied gun violence. Blood. PTSD. Panic attack. Death. Death of partner (10 years ago). Shared bathwater (some people find it gross okay? Don't be judgin'). Slight smut. Angst. Fluff. Dork behaviour. Implied diamond ring in a cute box. Cold tea. Hot shower. Crying.

Scene: fem reader comforts Dr Robby as best she can after the Pittfest shift. He falls harder than ever for you and you accidentally find a token of just how committed he's about to ask you to be.

You stood stiff in the lounge, grasping a long-cooled cup of chamomile tea that you didn't even remember making.

Live coverage of the aftermath of the Pittfest mass shooting illuminated the room. You hadn't blinked in God knows how long, only realising when your eyes stung from dryness; a contrast to the wet tears that filled them hours ago as Robby sternly told you to go home.

It was ten years to the day of the largest mass shooting in Pittsburg history. The day he had lost her in his arms in the Pitt, and the day his walls went up. The timing of today was cruel.

----

Your shift had ended at 3pm, fifty minutes after the casualties had started rolling into the Pitt. Gloria, suddenly sweet as pie, had asked for any adequately trained staff members to help in the Pitt after their shift. Obviously you felt pulled to go. Anything to help Michael.

You got down to the Pitt as soon as you clocked out, and your eyes searched for Michael. He felt them on him and then found you. He came straight for you, fast and mildly furious.

"Get out of here. Please. Go home" he said, desperate and urging.

He was stressed but focussed. His PPE covered in the blood of undoubtedly at least a dozen victims.

"I'm here to help. I want to help." You almost begged him.

He grabbed your wrist and spoke so quietly, it was almost inaudible. But you heard it. "I'm not having you exposed to this level of trauma. I can't knowingly damage you the way I am damaged. I won't allow it. Go home. Now."

He let your wrist go after a quick squeeze and a loving look, and dashed to his next patient. Tears threatened at your eyes.

You looked over to Dana. She'd heard the whole interaction.

"Can't I stay?" You pleaded.

Dana shook her head and ushered you toward the staff exit. "You know he's going to need help when he gets home tonight" she said with her arms crossed. She was right. You needed to be there for you man when he came home extra broken.

And that he did.

-----

Still standing with your cold tea in your hand, staring at the television, your attention turned to the front door which was being unlocked.

Michael. He's home.

You placed your cup on the bench next to where Michael dropped his backpack haphazardly, and jumped up to sit on the marble countertop while he grabbed a glass of water with ice. He quickly finished it and stood next to you, leaning forward into the bench, reddened eyes fixed on the marble.

You could see the stress of the day in his features. His knotted brow. The dark circles under his eyes. His knuckles were blanched as his hands rested in tight fists on the counter top. Neither of you had spoken tonight. Not yet.

You reached your right arm to him, grabbing him gently by his bicep to pull him toward you. "Come here", so softly you lead the way. He moved to the front of you, his hands either side of you, still feeling the cool sensation of the countertop. He leaned forward to place his head at your sternum, and your hands found his hair in a loving and truly compassionate embrace of this man's beautiful mind.

Michael felt safe. He felt secure. So he started to let go, just a little. His tears came first, followed by slightly erratic breating. Hitching in twice, and out once. Panic was coming. He knew it well but so did you.

In an instant he began to hyperventile. You pushed him back a little and slipped off the bench and into his field of vision as he was towering over you, looking down.

"Michael. Michael I'm here. Feel my hand. That squeeze? That's me. That's real. That's now." You tried using your voice to tether him in the present, but it wasnt enough. Michael drifted further into panic. His eyes darting back and forth, occasionally shutting tight in the hopes of shielding himself from the flashbacks.

You took both of his hands. You held one of his hands to your chest, and the other to his own. The jerking of his breath was worsening, his shoulders high to give his lungs extra space to fill.

"Michael. Breathe with me. Feel me breathing?". He opened his eyes briefly to look at you and nodded through his tears, shutting his eyes again in an instant. "OK. Try to match my breathing. Just a couple of times, come on let's try this together. In..." you exaggerated a long breath in through your nose and Michael attempted the same, a noble effort but not quite deep enough. "And out..." You slowly exhaled and he did too. "You're doing great. Keep it up, let's go again". Together you breathed in and out. But Michael was struggling to slow down.

"Hold on a moment, baby. Keep breathing for me. In and out. I'm going to keep helping you. I'm right here" You kept talking to him as you moved to the medicine cabinet and took out a lorazepam tablet from his stash, returning to him with the type of insistence only a nurse could bring. "Here. Take this. It's for the nerves."

Michael shook his head, continuing and escalating his hyperventilation.

"Michael. Help me. Help me, help you. It'll take 20 or so minutes to work and in the meantime, I'm going to look after you. But you've gotta take it. Do you trust me?".

He looked at you briefly, eyes bloodshot and his deep smile lines dragging in pain. "I trust..." two sharp quick breaths in, and one out "...you."

He took the small white tablet from your hand and quickly chased it with some more ice water.

"You're doing so great. Thankyou for working with me. Let's keep it going okay?"

Michael felt light-headed. He had blown off far too much carbon dioxide and needed to sit immediately. He slid down the side of the island bench to a crouch on the floor.

You followed quickly to sit facing him, legs crossed. You held space for him, knowing this would be over soon, trying to convince him of that.

"Shhh. You're safe. You're safe now. It's over. I'm here". Your hand rested on one of his knees as he clenched the gold chain at his neck. This was peak panic for Michael; desperately praying to a God he claimed not to know. His right hand covered his eyes. And he manically recited the Sherma. He was losing touch with reality now, seeking relief in the comforting memory of his grandmothers morning prayer.

His words were rough and hurried. Desperate. He prayed in English rather than Hebrew, but the plea was the same.

Michael's words became clearer. "Place these words of mine upon your heart and upon your soul, and bind them for a sign on your hand", and he clung steadily to his chain. Eyes still covered in reverent prayer.

You joined him and carried on, with Michael suddenly silent in disbelief as he uncovered his eyes to be captivated by you "and they shall be for a reminder between your eyes. You shall teach them to your children, to speak of them when you sit in your house and when you walk on the road, when you lie down and when you rise."

Your recital had silenced the ringing in his ears and calmed the tides of shaking fear. He looked at you in silence, his breath had slowed considerably and he was present again.

You smiled at him, and shrugged lightly. Unsure if you'd made an error of wording, or of faith. You weren't Jewish. You weren't sure if you believed in a God, but if God existed he was right there in front of you.

"When did you learn that?". He asked, still breathless but bewildered. "Why?".

You pushed your glasses up a hitch and considered how best to respond.

"I love you. Thats most of the 'why' covered. I've seen this happen before and I wanted to join you in prayer. I thought it might help? So I learned the Shema. Thankfully you pray in English because I would have slaughtered the Hebrew version and probably ended up in hell as punishment". You felt unsure of yourself for a moment, but Michael reached his hand out to lift your chin and looked ever so lovingly into your eyes. "Thankyou." His breathing was slowing more, his mind finding peace in your eyes locked on his.

You stood and offered Michael your hand. "Come with me". He rose slowly from the ground and you led him down the hallway to the bathroom. A few candles dimly lit the cosy room, and the steam from the hot bath you'd prepared hung gently in the air.

You spun to face him. "What's this?" he was curious.

"It's therapy. But instead of a couch it's a bath. With magnesium salts and lavender oil and your girlfriend. You're going to take a bath with me. We're going to talk and I'm going to hold you through it. And at the end, the water will go down the drain and take the day with it." You stood on your tip toes to meet his lips with a gentle kiss, and began to undress. He lovingly watched you let down your hair from its high ponytail, his eyes red. He didn't move, though.

You lightened the mood. "If you're waiting for a rubber duck, I'm fresh out."

"Can we not call it therapy?" he asked, a hand rubbing the back of his neck, as you started removing his scrubs.

You rolled your eyes and let out a breathy laugh. "Sure. Let's call it a debrief."

"Better" he said as he kissed you, both of you now entirely bare in the flickering candlelight.

Michael relaxed into the warm water, a gentle sigh escaping his lips as his back rested against your chest and your legs encircled his waist.

You grabbed a wash cloth and soaked it, gently dabbing at his exposed chest.

"Today was..." he started but didn't finish. Twenty seconds passed.

"Yeah", you squeezed the wash cloth over his collarbones, keeping his attention on the present. "But you're here now and you're safe." You kissed just behind his ear and he relaxed a little further.

"I wish I could say I've never seen anything like it, but..." again he didn't finish.

"You have. And maybe you will again. And it will suck every damn time. I can't imagine what you went through today", silent tears blurred your vision slightly.

Michael gentle squeezed at your knees and spoke softly. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been so harsh with you. I didn't want you hurting. I stand by my choice but I love you for wanting to help us today"

You ditched the washcloth and started massaging his ears. "It's okay. I get it now. Plus I think my skillset is more useful in the bathtub than the Pitt. Hindsight."

"I don't think it'll ever stop hurting", he said quietly.

"Mmm? What's that?" You encouraged him to keep talking.

"Losing a patient. It hurts the same every time. Saint or sinner, it doesn't change the pain. They all hurt. They hurt because I couldn't save them. I wish I could save them all" His hands were softly resting on your legs now, and even though you couldn't see his eyes, you knew they were weeping.

You wrapped your arms around his chest and nuzzled into the back of his head. "We don't have the right timing to save everyone. Most of the time we don't have the science either, yknow? And sometimes we don't have the resources, like today. But their deaths aren't through lack of trying, Michael. Doing what you can, with what you've got, is the aim. But the wins will always outshine the losses, you just have to let them. And if a day comes where a death doesn't affect you, it's time to take Gloria's job." He huffed a small laugh.

"I'm sorry it was today, of all days..." You started, cautiously but with love "That must have been extra hard. Just cruel."

He tilted his head back, surprise in his eyes, "you knew?".

"How could I not? She is an important part of the man you are today. The man I'm so proud of. I just know she would be proud of you too". A tear escaped your eye at the thought of what it would feel like to lose your love. You kissed Michael's brow gently, the water now slightly cool, bordering on unpleasant.

After drying each other off, you ceremoniously pulled the plug and held Michael's hand as you watched the day go down the drain with the water.

-----

Michael made love to you twice that night. Sensual and sweet and with a worship you felt in your soul. His lips must have whispered "I love you" a dozen times while he was inside you.

----

Morning came too soon, his arms wrapped lazily around you as the sun came up. You scooted quietly from the bed to make him breakfast and pack him a lunch that he wouldn't get time to eat. His alarm would sound in 10 minutes, so you hurried along as quietly as you could manage.

A banana and a ham sandwich. You laughed at how pathetic your attempt was, but knew Michael would chuckle at the penned inscription on the banana. 'undress me and put me in your mouth'. Such a dork.

In your hurry you accidentally pushed Michael's backpack off the bench where it had been leaning precariously from the night before. The sound woke him and you heard him yawn and stretch. Picking it up from the ground, you quickly gathered its contents to pack with his lunch. Wallet. Keys. Pens that he definitely stole from nurses who will now have beef with him. A little blue velvet box. Your breath caught in your throat. You heard Michael's footsteps in the bedroom and hurried to cover up the very obvious situation.

You sheepishly sipped your coffee as Michael wearily padded toward you. You placed your cup on the bench and he pulled your head into his chest, planting a kiss on your messy hair. "Morning, beautiful, you're up early?"

You eyed him lovingly. "Yeah, something was poking me in the toosh at 6:15." and you nudged him.

"Must have been dreaming about you. Not my fault" he said with his hands raised. "You're off for 4 this weekend right?"

"Mmmhm" you agreed.

"Me too. Come to the cabin with me. Weather's going to be amazing. We could hike. Swim. Maybe just spend four days in bed together?" He winked.

"You lost me at hike but you had me back at bed. I'm for the sheets, not the streets Michael, you know that" you chuckled.

He looked a little panicked but covered it quickly. "Well you can either come with me on a hike to a breathtaking lookout, or stay in bed alone while I go. No wifi, remember".

You feigned imminent death with the back of your hand across your forehead "no wifi, how will I cope?" Your response next was deadpan but playful. "Fine. I'll hike. I'll even pretend I love hiking"

His hand grazed your stomach as he moved toward his backpack, peeking inside it and smiling to himself - probably at the banana but maybe at the velvet box - "Trust me, there's nothing on earth quite like this view. I promise, you'll remember it forever."

Your heart skipped a beat or ten, as Michael went and turned on the shower. Your brain consumed with what might - will - happen at the lookout.

"Showers lonely!" He yelled from the bathroom.

You rapidly joined him in the shower and he had you pinned against the wall under the scorching water in under two minutes. Not long after, you whined his name into his neck and you both unravelled in the steam together.

Michael headed off to work ten minutes later, handing you his credit card as he kissed you goodbye. "Buy yourself some hiking gear. I need you to be comfortable so go for the good stuff."

The door clicked shut and you immediately started daydreaming about the upcoming weekend away. The whole trip was so Michael-esque. Rugged and wild, measured and planned. And just a hint of sparkle.

#the pitt #doctor robby #noah wyle #dr robinavitch #dr robby #dr robinavitch x reader #dr robby x reader #michael robinavich x reader

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loveyislost · 26 days ago

Text

ex!boyfriend osamu ; the beginning of the end

warnings/tags: angst, falling out of love, guilt, neglect, past fluff, some things just don't last

hanakotoba: the language of flowers series masterlist

red camellia, wilting (tsubaki) (椿)- “a noble death” “the blossoms behead themselves” “perishing in one’s prime” “the flower falls from the plant at one moment, instead of petal by petal, a sudden, complete fall” “bad luck” “the misfortune of suddenness”

empty.

it’s the only word that comes to mind.

she remembers how their bed felt when they first moved in — soft giggles, softer words. the wandering hands, pulling her closer and closer and clo — well, there’s no need to get caught up on that, it’s the past now, isn’t it?

it’s more reminiscent now of their bed when he wasn’t home. when it was cold and her heart ached in the best way. because missing someone meant there was someone to miss, a warmth that was gone, but was still hers.

it’s different now though, the longing is there, but now it’s for something that she’s lost, for something that once was everything.

he’s on his own side, she on hers. a thick arm is thrown over her waist, but it’s more in the way one reaches for warmth out of habit, less out of the intimacy it once was.

because before, he would set two alarms. one, on his normal clock, at his normal wake up time, 4:35, to get up, get ready, and head downstairs to the shop to start food prep.

the other, at 4:30, wasn’t set on the blaring clock next to the bed, instead, it was on his phone, the soft, tingling tone he had to manually select so only he would be awoken.

he would reach over, in his sleepy daze somehow forgetting that she always woke up naturally before him. palms, dry from hours in the kitchen, smoothing over her hips and down her thighs, tugging her into the heat of his chest, practically a furnace.

lips, slightly chapped, would pepper lingering kisses along her shoulder, neck, jaw. she would sigh, melting back into him and pretend to wake up, eyes half lidded from feigned grogginess, insides melted. god she could’ve woken up like that for the rest of her life.

now, the two alarms stay. just now the first isn’t followed by callused skin and lingering caresses.

osamu sits up, stretching his arms above his head with a yawn. she can hear the creak of the mattress as he stands, the soft padding of his steps along the plush rug, placed lovingly to protect their feet from the nip of the hardwood floors.

by the time the second goes off, he’s already back from the bathroom, pulling a black tee down over his waist and reaching out to press the button before it even has a chance to ring twice.

she knows what it means. the alarms, once a sweet gesture, an excuse for just five minutes of loving before starting the day, five more minutes in their little bubble before going out into the real world, are now a reason to spend five minutes less with her.

she’s not stupid, as much as she almost thinks she’d like to be.

she’s noticed everything.

the way his touches lingered less and less, his kisses grew fleeting, and his excuses to get out of drinks with friends so he could stay home with her, well, those turned into the opposite. now he stays out every night, a “sorry, out with the guys” text and then a brief kiss to her head when he inevitably returns home at midnight.

if she loved him less, maybe she’d say something. how could she though? because acknowledging it means the end, and this is something she knows all too well.

right now, he can try to pretend everything is fine. he’s not avoiding her, he’s just busy! it’s important to keep up with outside hobbies and friendships. the lack of affection? oh, well he’s stressed. running a new restaurant takes it out of a man, you know?

but he knows, and she knows, and they don’t say it. because they moved here together, moved to a new city and a new apartment and started new lives.

and the second the oh, so fragile balance is broken, someone will have to be honest. then she’ll have to move out, find a new place in this new city.

their friends will be split, atsumu and suna undoubtedly sticking with him, though the looks they’ll share when they don’t think he’s looking will tell him exactly what they think of how he’s acted.

kiyoomi, of course, will choose her, and kita will likely follow, and then hangouts with the group will be forced, awkward. because how does one speak casually with someone they once shared a home with? make small talk with the voice that promised them forever? share a back booth of their favorite bar with the eyes that watched as they were torn apart so casually by the one that swore gentleness?

and, if he’s being honest, he’s selfish. he’s used to the dinners left warming in the oven, his pajamas already laid out on the bathroom counter when he gets home far later than he said he would.

there’s a familiarity there. they started this together. left everything behind to start a new dream, full of love and kisses shared between bites of sticky rice and salmon. he’s not sure how to be alone anymore, to be without her.

a guilt fills his stomach too, every time that he thinks about it. because she gave up everything to be there. transferred schools, got a second job at the conbini down the street, left her family and friends and gave her cat to her sister. all for murmurs of a family, and a big kitchen, and a list of baby names.

so, unaware she’s awake, god, he really is so forgetful when he’s just woken up, he makes his way to her side of the bed, leaning over. a kiss is pressed to her temple, his voice is soft, “i’ll always care about ya, ya know? in some way, at least.”

and when the door clicks shut behind him and her shoulders can’t hold back their shakes, she finally lets herself cry.

taglist: click here to be added to my general taglist

@chisakidream @chlefnikkl @tiredafbruh @ietss @aperfectlynormalblackbutlerfan @elfiethechaotic @slutlight2ndver @optimisticwonderlandgardener @mybusinessco

#osamu miya x reader #miya osamu x reader #osamu miya #miya osamu #osamu miya angst #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x f!reader #haikyuu fic #haikyuu #haikyuu x y/n #haikyuu x you #osamu miya x you #osamu miya x y/n

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imrllytootiredforthis · 2 years ago

Text

All in an hour

pairing: felix x reader

summary: A lot can happen in one hour...in other words during what's supposed to be a fun night with all of the others felix instead suffers through a night of desperation, need and finally, pleasure

warnings: dom reader, sub felix, voyeurism (pretty much all of the others watch as felix gets ruined), mommy kink (though the reader's gender is never mentioned) nipple play, biting, marking, humiliation, degradation (felix's called a slut like once or twice), possibly more that i forgot

word count: 1.8k

a/n: yes it's short, i'm working on the changbin fic rn so take what you can get!

A lot can happen in one hour.

In 60 minutes. 3600 seconds.

It's funny how when you break it down like that it seems smaller, more insignificant.

Or sometimes it's the opposite, when your eye is on the clock, counting down the seconds time seems to slow just for the fun of making one suffer.

Funny...

Funny how Felix has been sitting here for exactly that long. Three thousand, six hundred seconds. Each tortuous one feeling like an eternity.

He's experiencing the latter of the two. Watching the analog clock that sits on the side table by the tv. He swears it's broken, the seconds can't possibly be moving that slowly.

But they are.

And he's endured a whole sixty minutes of this insanity.

Of clenching his thighs together, trying to stave off the inevitability of his neediness. Especially in front of all the others.

And friday nights are usually his favourite of the week too.

Because it's the agreed upon day when they all get together, him and all his bandmates and sometimes you if you're off for the night.

The one night a week when they get together in one place, set aside work entirely and watch a movie, play games, eat junk food and be normal people for once, not perfect idols with unblemished skin and the vocabulary of puritans and priests.

Not worrying about their idol images and able to act as they are. Young people who if they weren't in the eye of the public would be in college, running around, experiencing the world of sex, drugs and whatever the hell they wanted.

And for one night, in the privacy of one of the three dorms or possibly your place they could do that. Be that.

But tonight he really can't help but want this to be over as soon as possible.

Really, truly, Felix doesn't want to be rude to any of his friends, the guests of the night but it is anything but his fault that your hand brushes over his inner thigh under the comfort of the blanket that covers the two of you, making him wanna kick them to the curb so that you can have a bit of privacy while he lets you have your way with him.

"Okay Hyunjin, truth or dare?"

And this annoying game, the one that Jisung is having way too much fun with, the lightweight he is, all giggly and fidgety as he points at Hyunjin, shouting as if they aren't sitting next to each other.

"Hmm, truth."

They all groan."Pussy!" Minho clears his throat, giving a good fake cough for measure.

Hyunjin glares but doesn't budge even when Han begs him to.

That's all he's picked all night and anything juicy has been extracted from the first few questions, leaving only the dry and boring yet strange ones that Han's drunk mind will come up with.

"Hmm, let's see,"

Felix nearly jumps out of him skin as you touch him again, a simple brush over his hips, it really should be nothing but he really can't help how sensitive they are and the sweat that begins to run down his temple only prove how easy it is to break his composure.

He zones out just in time to hear the question that Han comes up with.

"Would you rather eat an entire block of blue cheese in one sitting, or drink a whole glass of water from a rain puddle? That children have been jumping in, like all muddy and s..."

His voice tunes out, your hands sliding up and higher, twisting and playing with his already hard nipples. And he doesn't even care anymore. He's ready to kick all of these nerds out right here and now. Or, he's not even sure if he has enough energy to do that-at this point he's willing to let them watch.

Watch you make him cry and whimper and beg, play with his body and use it however you'd like.

He can imagine 50 different positions that you could fuck him in right now.

Missionary and mating press and doggy, you riding him, him riding you; him with his back against your chest just like this, legs spread wide open all on display fo-

"Oh~"

He gasps and you smile. "You have such pretty tits baby, just keep quiet and I'll keep playing with them."

You're practically all over him at this point, groping his tits with one hand, pinching at his swollen nubs, twisting them so hard he has to bite his lip to keep quiet. The other higher up, holding his throat in place as you pepper kisses all over his neck, nipping and licking, laving affection onto every freckle and spot with your tongue.

The blanket does almost nothing to hide your stolen touches. It's not hard to see the bump of your hand on his chest and paired with the fucked-out expression on his face and the fingers wrapped around his throat there's very little left for interpretation.

He can feel their eyes on him. Feel the attention he's gained and can't help the way he flushes under it.

His body burns under the weight of it. Humiliation searing through his body like liquid heat, his panting coming out heavier and more ragged.

No one talks anymore. The game seems to be over and even Han's drunk self has seemed to sober up with the show presented in front of him.

"Isn't he pretty?" You coo, nuzzling gently against his ear before nibbling at the lobe.

"So pretty," Felix isn't sure who said it, his head isn't working right, his vision is blurring and a pathetic whine slips out, shivering against you at the praise.

"Oh, he liked that." you laugh, an edge to your voice he's very sure is matched with a wicked grin even if he can't see you. "You like be called pretty by your friends? Like be watched while I touch you like this?"

He gasps like a fish out of water, nodding and squirming, goosebumps breaking out across his skin. You roll a nipple between your fingers again, pushing the blanket down and off onto the floor, forgotten before grabbing the hem of his shirt, pulling it up his chest. Plain instinct takes over as he opens his mouth wide, allowing you to press the fabric into between his lips-red and swollen from being bitten for the last hour.

Part of you is possessive. Part of you wants to keep this pretty, blushing, begging boy to yourself, away from the hungry eyes of the others. His whimpers to your ears only though that's unlikely wherever you are given how loud your baby is.

Instead though, all you can think of is the fact that he's all your's, only your's and you now get to prove that. Make him cum his brains out in front of all of his friends that you pretend not to see looking him with gazes lingering for too long. Force them to see what they will only ever see all while you can play and tease and deny and overstimulate him as much as you want. All while they have no choice but to watch.

"Mommy please, it feels-feels so good!" His hands grasp at yours, pawing at your fingers with no real intent, only clawing at your wrists like his body has no idea what else to do with itself.

He's always been particularly sensitive but it's only been increased by the tenfold now. He's sure he could come from this and this alone, From your fingers and your lips and the weight of hungry eyes devouring the scene in front of them.

"Please Mommy, please don’t stop." His hips buck up into nothing and you place a hand there, pinning his pelvis down with surprising strength.

“Baby," your tongue laves attention over his jawline, voice dropping low. "Putting on a show. You look like a slut.”

Others murmur agreement and his entire body burns in white-hot shame, unable to help the way his hips thrust, trying against you until you pinch his hip, hissing for him to behave.

He wants you to say it again. More than he should.

To his delight, you do.

"Presenting yourself to the entire room like a cheap slut." you say it nonchalantly, so much so that it makes him feel dizzy. "Moaning like a pornstar, look at you. Why, you're practically a natural." Pursing your lips and continuing on, tilting your head like you're telling him the news, how the weather is. Talking as if you're not degrading him within an inch of his life and he's not about to cum from the words alone.

Like it’s normal conversation.

Like this is a normal occurrence.

“Yes! I-I'm” The word crumbles on his lips, voice cracking into a high pitched mewl when your mouth slots against the hollow spot of his collarbone, tongue dipping in before you suck his warm skin. "I-" he gasps, "I can't."

Your mouth moves higher, right beneath his ear. "You will."

And then you bite him-hard.

Right on a pretty little freckle, teeth digging into his neck in a way that feels so inexplicably good that Felix keens.

Too much.

Back arching away from you, mouth falling open in a silent scream as his eyes flutter open and closed for a few seconds before rolling back completely.

Too good.

With the eyes on him. With your fingers rolling his nipples between your fingers. With your teeth sunk into his skin and the way your tongue laves attention around it, soothing the bite, warm and wet.

He's so fucking pretty, is all you can think, is all you're sure anyone can think.

Especially now, like this. All open and vulnerable like he's being presented. It's a wonder that your fingers haven't danced their way down to his sweatpants where an obvious bulge makes itself apparent.

The reality hits him as his head spins, his breath a heave.

He just came in front of all of his friends.

And an even harder truth hits him when he realizes just how much he wants you to do it again.

Of just how much he wants you to now overstimulate him to hell and back. In front of all of them.

my taglist is open here, @hobihearteu, @lemonhongjoong, @laylasbunbunny, @d7dream, @abcdefgiwsmcty, @missrobyn81, @maru-matt, @hahagay,

#dom reader #stray kids smut #stray kids #stray kids x reader #sub stray kids #sub skz #lee felix x reader #felix x reader #felix smut #sub felix #sub lee felix #lee felix smut #sub kpop #sub idol #sub!stray kids #sub!felix #sub!kpop #sub!idol #sub!lee felix

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bluemantics · 3 months ago

Text

Tension rippled in the air as Lance stared at Keith in the flower field on his family farm. He clutched the juniberry flower he’d picked tightly, the sun beating down on the both of them as silence persisted. It was the first sunny day of the entire week.

Keith’s expression was contorted into one of sympathy, which stirred dormant fear and resentment inside of Lance all at once. His long black ponytail barely lifted with a slight breeze as he opened his mouth.

“Lance… that’s, well,” Keith started, jaw open and closing like he didn’t know how to respond. “I’m honored, really. I mean, you’re one of my best friends. You’re my best friend.”

Lance’s heart cracked. He stopped breathing. He waited, disbelieving, sure that he hadn’t been wrong.

“But I thought that you liked me,” he weakly protested, his voice thin. “All those years we spent, I was sure that I remembered something there. I was too blind to see it then! I wasn’t ready.” Keith’s answering smile was both delicate and nostalgic.

“I did like you then,” he agreed. “In all that time it took you to realize, though, I was trying to move on. Lance, you saw so much of what mattered, and that wasn’t me at the time. It’s okay. I just need you to let me go now.”

“No. This can’t be it. We were supposed to go out together, I know it. You know it too. We’re two halves, man, and we aren’t going to be the same alone. Please don’t punish me for not seeing it sooner, okay? I was so young. We all were.”

Keith turned away. “Thanks for inviting me to the farm Lance. This week was relaxing, it was fun, but I don’t think I should stay much longer.” He started to walk to the barn where his ship was hidden.

“Fine, Kogane, run away again,” Lance hissed at his retreating back. He reeled back as if he'd been slapped. “We’ll just end up here again and again. I can’t be late every time.”

Keith shrugged as he pushed open the door. “A broken clock is right twice a day, I guess.”

Lance scoffed. "I'm not broken."

"Do you know that?"

The barn door thudded shut.

#klance except what the fuck was i on when i wrote this #klance except you hate them #klance #lance mcclain #keith kogane #klance fic #angst #klance angst #klangst #so sorry guys myyyyy badddd (everyone throws tomatoes)

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pedriache · 9 months ago

Text

Sleeping at last — Pablo Gavi.

Pairing: Pablo Gavi x Fem!Reader

Summary: part two ! It’s been three months since you and Gavi had broken up. It’s been even longer since you’d had slept properly. Then, you receive a text from Aurora, informing you of Gavi’s injury, that he wanted to see you. And unfortunately you still loved and cared for him. When you arrived you’d expected it to be tense and awkward, but the way you both slipped back into your old ways… maybe everything would be okay.

Word count: 1.05k

Disclaimer/s: mentions of injury and pain. hurt/comfort ish sorr of idk

A/N: bye i HATED this but it’s alright. wtv. Hello my bonk btw

You’d just clocked out of work when your phone buzzed in your back pocket. Taking it out, your face contorts. What the hell? Opening the message you read it, your eyebrows furrowing in worry.

Aurora G: Pablo tore his ACL a few days ago, he’s been resting at home.. he keeps asking for you

Is there any chance you could come over? He’s getting on my nerves!!

Quickly typing out a response, you hesitate before clicking send. Only saying “I’m nearby. Be there in 15.” Hating the way even after he broke your heart, you still felt the need to be by his side.

You knew this was going to affect him not just physically, but mentally. And that thought was enough to influence how quickly you walked to your car.

Soon enough, you stood outside the door that lead to the place you never wanted to see again. The place that you’d gotten your heart shattered in.

Sucking in a long, calming breath of air, you knock twice. Repeating in your head that it would be alright. You could handle this… right?

The door swings open, a stressed out Aurora standing in the entry way. “Oh good! You’re here, okay. I have to go, thank you! Let me know before you leave!” She pauses, patting your shoulder, “I’ve missed you, good luck. He’s in the living room.”

Nodding your head, you bid the older sibling goodbye before you step inside. You make slow apprehensive steps toward where you knew he was. You pass by the kitchen, pain shooting straight to your heart as your eyes land on the familiar cedar table you’d sat at only months prior, having the worst conversation of your life.

Closing your eyes for a second, you let the pain wash from your face before you take the final steps into the living room.

You’re quiet as you round the couch, your gaze caught on the white wrap that surrounded his right knee and calf. Your lips tug into a noticeable frown before your eyes flutter up to that familiar face. One you once found comfort in.

“Hey, how’re you feeling?” You murmur, voice delicate, emanating every once of care Gavi knew he didn’t deserve.

Gavi frowns, watching as you shifting on your feet. You couldn’t figure out if you should sit or stand, you didn’t know what to do. In the home you’d lived in for two years, and it only took three months for you to feel like an outsider. Like you didn’t belong.

Shrugging, he pats the spot beside him. “Like shit.” He replies simply, quick to add, “about everything, by the way.”

Now you really didn’t want to sit. If you did there would certainly be no going back.

You feel the soft white cushion melt beneath you as you sit down, grabbing a pillow and holding it to your chest as you face him. “How long will you be out?”

Gavi hums, glancing down at his leg with an ache in his heart. “The rest of the season for sure.”

Internally wincing, you lick your lips. “That’s a long time. When do you start physio?”

For the better part of an hour, your conversation flows through many different topics. He tells you about funny moments with his friends and family, moments you’d missed. You tell him about your job, different things you’d done, how living with Audrey has been.

Everything about your conversations felt like the ones you two had shared before everything went down. There was no tension, not anger, not hurt, just friendly talk between past lovers and a bit of something else you couldn’t quite place.

It’s not until you check your phone, realizing it was nearing midnight that you let out a weary yawn. “I should head home.”

Gavi, without thinking, speaks. “You could stay the night?”

Yeah that isn’t going to work.

“Gav..” You send him a knowing look, “you know that’s not a good idea.” Despite every part of you that wanted to accept, to give in, you knew logically you shouldn’t. Not after the hurt he’d caused.

Frowning, Gavi tilts his head to the side. “You shouldn’t drive while you’re tired. Please, i’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Yeah, not with that leg.” You roll your eyes sarcastically, “i’ll take the couch.” Of course you gave in, you were that weak.

Gavi shakes his head, “no, you get back pains when you sleep anywhere that isn’t a bed.”

“You’re the one with a serious injury?”

“Okay and?”

“Why are you being difficult?” You groan.

Feigning offense, Gavi presses a hand to his heart. “Rude?”

You laugh, for the first time in so long. You laugh, and you’re laughing with him. With the man you’d swore on your heart you hated, which Audrey had already clocked as a lie. You could never hate him, no matter how hard you tried.

“Fine, bed it is.” You sigh, standing up and reaching out your hands to assist Gavi in standing up.

His hands connect with yours and you feel tingles run up your arms. After a struggling walk back to the bedroom you’d once shared, he points you to the extra toothbrushes and you silently do your nightly routine together, something that filled you with bitter nostalgia.

Soon enough, he gets himself comfortably into bed but you hesitate, glancing down at your clothes. No way you were sleeping in jeans.

“Pajamas are still in the same drawer.” Gavi yawns, motioning mindlessly toward the dresser on the other side of the room.

it only takes you five minutes to change, exiting the bathroom with tired eyes. You climb into bed stiffly tossing and turning as you try to get comfortable. Nothing works. Tension fills your body.

He was so close, yet so far.

A soft sigh escapes Gavi’s lips, his hand reaching out before tugging you to his side. And just like that, your tension resolves, your body relaxing into his warmth.

“We do have to talk about it eventually, y’know.” You mumble into his chest, your eyes fighting sleep so you could look up at him.

“Tomorrow.” He agrees, his head dipping down to place a soft kiss to your forehead. “Goodnight.”

“‘Night.”

And for the first time in months, you are peacfully sleeping at last.

(DTS) @halfwayhearted <3.

#pablo gavi x you #angst with a happy ending #pablo gavi x reader #blurb #fanfic #pablo gavi #hurt/comfort #come home the kids miss you

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inbarfink · 2 years ago

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No, you see, one of the funniest things about Zim is that he’s not, like, 100% fully incompetent. Throughout the entire IZ Canon, Zim has occasionally demonstrated some moments of surprising competency in combat -

Infiltration -

Mechanical engineering and science -

Spaceship flying -

And Diabolical schemes -

Of course, all of these moments are contrasted with major scenes where he is very comically bad at all of those same things. But a lot of this can be attributed to his actual core flaws which are - his ego and his absolute inability to accurately assess threats.

(and obviously these two traits are extremely related. Zim falls into either underestimating genuine threats to his safety and goals due to his own overconfidence - or overestimating ‘threats’ and turning minor problems into anxiety spirals as a way to justify why he keeps failing).

And you can see how all of Zim’s other screw-ups kinda all stern from that one core Flaw. Zim is probably decent enough at hand-to-hand combat for a tiny little alien, but he’s totally unable to assess whether or not he’s punching above his weight. And so he ends up losing in horrible and embarrassing ways to guys much bigger and tougher than he is.

He’s a pretty impressive scientist and inventor - but his inability to see his own limitations and flaws means he can’t notice when his project is too ambitious for his abilities or even just when he makes some error that he could’ve probably fixed before test-running but.. well… he doesn't and he didn’t, so…

And all of his plans overlook serious problems, while focusing far too much on minor threats. Even when his inventions work well and he comes up with something legitimately cunning, they are wasted on Literal Petty Schoolyard Drama.

Threat assessment is the one thing Zim is Legitimately Bad at. Pretty much the only times he identifies danger correctly are explicitly a ‘even broken clock is right twice a day’ situations (see: ‘Plague of Babies’).

And that is so funny.

Because while it seems like the Irken Empire sees an Invader actually conquering the plant on their own as, like, a Good Bonus Assignment to do on the side and Zim, ever the overachiever, has basically decided that it’s his duty.

The actual main role of an Invader - as stated in the first episode is - quite simply

The job of an Invader is to assess threats.

Zim is not quite as incompetent as people see him, but he is an utter failure at the one thing he’s supposed to be doing.

#invader zim #zim #iz #zim iz #iz zim #zim invader zim #irken zim #zim irken #the nightmare begins

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artist-issues · 5 months ago

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saw a post that said "pay close attention to what your body is saying because it doesn't know how to lie to you. pay very little attention to the mind because it lies all the time."

that is the dumbest thing.

your body lies all the time.

your body will make you think you need 5 more minutes of sleep—as if that's going to do absolutely anything to improve your energy levels all day. your body will tell you that you're in imminent danger of death if you take a step off a zip line platform; your knees will lock up, your hands will go numb, your heart will accelerate, your muscles will jitter, your breathing will shallow. but the whole time you're strapped into a device that's been tested over and over, keeping you from falling even if you wanted to. Speaking of panic attacks, your body will tell you you're in danger when absolutely nothing is wrong, the sun is shining, you're healthy and safe. But it'll clench your hands and jackhammer your heart rate and bottom out your oxygen levels anyway.

people all throughout history have suddenly recovered from years of dementia, or debilitating energy-robbing diseases, gotten up, spoken and achieved clarity for the first time in ages—and it's right before their bodies completely fail them and they die. Seems like they're getting better; actually, they've never been closer to death.

Your body lies to you constantly. It responds to stimuli in all the wrong ways just as often as it does the right thing.

"For I delight in the law of God, in my inner being, but I see in my members another law waging war against the law of my mind and making me captive to the law of sin that dwells in my members. Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord! So then, I myself serve the law of God with my mind, but with my flesh I serve the law of sin."

We're creatures with bodies, souls (which includes the mind), and spirits, and they're all supposed to work together—so sometimes they get it right. But they're broken—and even a broken clock gets it right twice a day. The bottom line is, they're not trustworthy. None of them.

Only Christ offers the fix and the re-connection of body, soul, spirit. Together. He makes up for the broken parts. He provides correction for the mental, spiritual, and even (eventually) physical scoliosis we humans suffer from.

Don't give me any pretend-holistic tripe about how I should "listen to my body." Everything in here is lying. Only one Voice out There is trustworthy.

#your body lies to you #your feelings lie to you #your own head lies to you too #they're all compromised; biased; corrupted #YOU are the last person you should trust #Christianity #life #holistic

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paper-mario-wiki · 8 months ago

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i need input on this. it's an intro to a song im maybe writing. or maybe it'll just stay as this short little poem.

i feel like my writing is becoming too, like, informationally dense. im worried about cramming in multiple double/triple/quadruple entendres but i feel as though the way that im doing it comes across as inelegant. like, im going for "thoughtful" and coming off as "pretentious".

can you tell, like, what im saying in this song? additionally, do the things with multiple meanings come across properly? like, can you pick out all the puns and stuff? or is it just kind of nonsense?

line-by-line translation under the cut:

1. Bitter melancholy twice a day like I invested in a broken crop

Bitter melancholy/bitter melon. twice a day/broken clock. a break crop (alluding to the bitter melon) is a staggered or inconsistent crop. This is me lamenting time I feel I've wasted on something I still consider inadequate by comparing it to an investment in a broken clock, which is only right twice a day.

2. I spit disappointing like a ticker for a pocket stock

Spitting/stock ticker tape, but also ticker like a clock. Continuing the disappointing investment motif. Pocket stock means a stock that plummets suddenly or abruptly. This is a personal statement about how I feel about my current ability to write lyrics.

3. People in the bleachers asking me if I could really drop

Bleachers/drop like a basketball game, but also dropping like dropping music, but also also dropping like the pocket stock from the previous line. Referring to the people who are very kindly encouraging me whenever i post my music.

4. Peacefully inform them if I make it then I'd rather stop

(This line I feel I could do better on) "If I make it" like making a basketball shot, continuing the basketball motif. This is about how I'd prefer not to make a career out of music.

5. Scared that I can't offer more than practice I could never top

Straightforwardly continuing the basketball/writing skill motif, and making a statement about how I'm worried that I've already put my best work out somehow, in the form of the silly stuff i write.

6. This is just a vessel for my motivation

Short, poetic way of saying "but im gonna keep doin it anyway cuz it's fun and i want to" by referring to the song itself as a vessel for the motivation i have to make something, good or bad.

#video

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crownofgildedlilies · 1 year ago

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feelin' like an absolute fool about it -> cool about it [1]

in which: a son of jupiter can't remember the life he lost to time and circumstance. or the daughter of mercury he lost, too.

pairing: jason grace x daughter of mercury!roman!reader

warnings: angst, angst, and angst. oh and cursing.

word count: 3.3k

a/n: this is a four part fic and im so obsessed with this idea. Jason Grace the man that you are. oh and this follows a nonlinear plot so be warned. lmk if you want to be added to a taglist or wtv!

[one] two three four

"If I have to sit through one more meeting with you making kiss me eyes at the praetor, I'm going to run myself through with my own lance."

"Good morning to you, too, Dakota." You grunted, half amused, half still pissy from the horror show that had been your previous night. "I slept like shit, thanks for asking."

"You're welcome," He didn't miss a beat, pouring more kool-aid than was probably healthy into his cup to drink with breakfast. "Now, man up."

"Real inspiring."

Dakota leveled you with a flat look, and you fought the urge to roll your own eyes. But you knew he would twist the action into your admitting defeat in your impromptu staring contest.

And you were nothing if not a sore loser.

"Admit you want to date the praetor." Dakota demanded, trying to push the conversation along.

On instinct, your gaze darted throughout the dining pavilion, looking for a certain head of blond hair that had yet to make an appearance that morning. And it was then that you knew Dakota meant business, because he didn’t call you out for looking away first.

"Reyna's pretty. Not my type, though." You deflected, stabbing a fork into your breakfast with what was probably more force than necessary. Dakota's eyes widened at the action, briefly, before narrowing at you in suspicion.

"Moving past that comment," He waved his hand in front of him, as if to physically move the conversation along. "Does your current attitude have anything to do with last night's freak thunderstorm?"

Maybe, you would have said, if your mouth didn't suddenly taste so bitter. Still, you winced, and you knew that was enough of an answer for him.

"Oh, come on!" Dakota groaned, pausing only to sip greedily on his kool-aid. You looked on in near amusement, cheek propped up on your fist, waiting for his dramatics to pass. "I finally get my speech all prepared to get you to confess your unending love to Praetor Grace, and you two get in an argument the night before?"

"Pity," You replied dryly, hoping the way you exaggeratedly poked out your bottom lip and knitted your brows together masked the ache in your chest.

"Centurion," Dakota whined, and you wondered how you had gotten so lucky to be promoted to lead the Fifth Cohort alongside him. "What happened?"

Your eyes flashed, shooting him a glare that made him snap his mouth shut.

"Oh-kay." He whistled, sipping his kool-aid some more. Seriously, you needed to figure out how to trick the poor guy into drinking water. "My point still stands. One argument does not change the fact that you guys are in love with each other."

You scoffed, shoveling pancakes in your mouth to avoid answering, head ducked.

Dakota slammed his open palms down on the top of the table so forcefully, almost every head in the pavilion snapped towards him.

"So you admit it!" He accused, grinning wickedly and showing off the red-stained mustache his drink of choice left. You grimaced, swallowing your breakfast to avoid choking. "You do love him!"

"Keep your voice down or I will shove Octavian's entire teddy bear collection down your—"

"Okay!" Dakota interrupted, grinning proudly, as if he hadn't just been threatened. "No need for violence. I was right."

"So is a broken clock twice a day. You're not special." You rolled your eyes, settling stiffly back into your seat. Risking another glance around the mess hall, you still found no sight of the world's most irritating, kind-hearted, moron of a praetor.

Also known as Jason Grace, your best friend.

And as Dakota had just so eloquently uncovered, the guy you've been in love with for years without ever uttering a word about it to him.

"Put me out of my misery, please, and just go talk to the guy, will you?" He begged, like he truly was the one suffering. You glared at him again, but you knew it wasn't fair.

Dakota hadn't been there last night, when you had tried telling Jason how you felt. But the boy was as emotionally oblivious as he was pretty, which was saying a lot.

"Wait," Dakota wiped at his mouth, but the kool-aid stains remained behind. "Did you already—?"

"Centurions," Harper from the Second Cohort appeared at your side, slightly out of breath and eyes wide. You had only ever really spoken to her during Senate meetings, but you were friendly enough.

So you were more than a little confused when she looked at you and took a step back, like she was afraid.

"Everything alright, Harper?" You asked, turning slightly in your seat, mind already running through a million different scenarios of horrible things that could have happened and dragged such a reaction out of Harper.

You had seen the girl take on four sons of Mars before. She wasn't exactly afraid of much.

"He's gone," The words tumbled past her lips before she winced, taking a second step away from you. Face twisted in confusion, you tried to make sense of the vague explanation. "Jason, I mean. He's just—"

Gone.

You were out of your seat before she could finish talking, breakfast long forgotten. The few bites you had managed to swallow felt like lead in the pit of your stomach, weighing you down and making you feel like you were barely moving, even as you raced so fast through camp that even the Lares barely had time to get out of your way.

There was no way Harper was right. Jason couldn't just be—be gone. He was everything a Roman aspired to be; strong, resilient, dedicated.

And maybe you had gotten into an argument, but Broken Clock Dakota was right for the second time that day. One argument didn't mean you stopped loving him.

You have never been so thankful that your father was the god of travelers as your feet pounded on the dirt roads. Sprinting towards the bunk houses, you utilized every ounce of Mercury-blessed speed. Jason had to be there. Or maybe he had snuck off to New Rome to buy you apology flowers, like he had the one time he missed your birthday—you had forgive him easily, as he had been off on a quest he nearly died during.

Heart in your throat, you skidded to a halt outside the small, private bedrooms given to the praetors. You had always teased Jason that his looked like a prison cell, considering his only decorations were books on war strategies used throughout centuries.

But then he had taped up that one gods-awful photo of you and him, both squinting against the sun shining in your faces, and it hadn't seemed so desolate.

"Jason!" You shouted with relief, voice choked up, because the door to his room was open. He never kept his door open, unless you were inside, because he claimed it stopped the other campers from making assumptions about what the two of you were getting up to in his bedroom, alone.

And then you would ask him to explain what he meant by that, trying to hide your grin for as long as you could while he stammered over his words with a blush.

"Jase, they're saying—" You pushed open the door to his room further, voice almost shuddering, and stopped cold when you saw the room's only occupant.

Because it wasn't your blond haired love leaning over the small desk in the corner of the room.

"He didn't show up to our praetor meeting this morning." Reyna's voice was flat, giving you only the facts. You were glad, because if she had spoken with pity, you were certain you would have thrown up.

Jason would be nice about it, but you didn't want to vomit on his carpet.

"That's not like him," You stated dumbly, fingertips vibrating with anxious nerves. Reyna shook her head, and it was then that you realized she had been sifting through the stacks of papers on his desk.

It felt like an intrusion of his privacy, even if it was a necessary precaution. There might have been clues to his whereabouts in those papers. Instead, you were certain they were only his to-do lists, scribbled in his neat handwriting you so adored.

And when she spoke next, you wish you could have plugged your ears and ignored her.

"Centurion, Jason Grace is missing."

Six months, one week, four days, nine hours.

And thirty-six minutes.

Jason had been gone for six months, one week, four days, nine hours, and thirty-six minutes.

In total, you had slept probably a total of nineteen consecutive hours. Octavian had tried calling for your removal from role of Centurion five times. Reyna had offered you the open position of Praetor twice, behind closed doors.

"It's not available," You had snapped. Fear and exhaustion had turned you bitter. "Jason's coming back."

Six months, one week, four days, nine hours, and thirty-seven minutes.

"You know," Dakota's voice was slightly slurred, already gone on the kool-aid on such a bright summer afternoon. He had found you on the steps of the forum, searching through dozens of letters from retired legionnaires all claiming to not have heard any word about Jason but would keep scouting, and suggested you join him for a walk. "I bet he's out there, fighting for his life to get back here to you."

You shot a glare at Dakota, but kept your mouth shut. Lately, he was the only one of your old friends that could stomach being around you. No one else wanted to subject themselves to your attitude. You were glad to have a friend, even if you didn't act like it.

But you wished Dakota wouldn't talk about Jason fighting for his life.

"Brenda said I could take another eagle out searching today," Your voice had a rasp to it. Rarely used, but never rested. For the first three weeks following Jason's disappearance, you spent each night crying in your bunk, murmuring desperate pleas that your golden boy be returned to you.

And maybe he had never truly been your Jason, but it had felt pretty close.

Finally, Reyna had slipped a key into your palm, disguised as a handshake. The silver key, the one that unlocked Jason's empty praetor room, currently sat on a chain around your neck.

You slept there, now.

No one mentioned your nightly disappearance. You figured everyone was just thankful they didn't have to hear your crying anymore.

"Are you sure you should be flying?" Dakota looked you over with unease, the Little Tiber coming into view on the horizon. You were certain you looked a mess, but what did it matter? You only cared about what Jason thought of you, and Jason never cared about what you wore.

Still, the dark bags of exhaustion under your eyes probably were cause for concern.

"Says you," You countered dismissively, waving a hand towards the flask of kool-aid attached to his belt.

"That's not what I mean," He huffed, defensive. "When's the last time you slept—"

The shouting from the Little Tiber interrupted your conversation. You squinted in the direction of the sound, both surprised and startled to find two massive fists of water raised in the air, a gorgon in each.

At the bank was Hazel Levesque, submerged up to his knees was Frank Zhang, and... controlling the water-fists was a boy you had never seen before.

Without warning Dakota, you took off in a sprint towards the edge of the Little Tiber. You reached the bank just as Frank shot two incredibly well placed arrows at each of the gorgons, turning them to dust and swallowing them downstream.

"Centurion!" Hazel gasped, spotting you approach. Dakota was slowly closing in, muttering curses about children of Mercury and their swiftness. "We found him by the front gates. He was carrying, well, a goddess, so we figured we should let him in."

By the time Hazel finished rambling, both the new boy and Frank had made it ashore. Frank, with his probatio tablet swinging around his neck avoided meeting your eye.

Most people did, lately.

But the newcomer met your stare head on, confidently, if not a little confused. Pursing your lips, something about him set off alarms in your mind.

"What's your name?" You asked, still frowning. You hated being so angry all the time. You missed smiling. You missed your reason for smiling, too, but you had other things to worry about, somehow.

Like the son of Neptune who showed up on your front door.

The boy shifted on his feet, a bronze sword clenched in his tired hands. He looked far worse than you had realized at first, and his voice was exhausted when he answered you.

"Percy Jackson."

"Jason Grace!"

"Careful," He grinned, pointing his sword lazily at you. Your laughter echoed throughout the room, setting the world around the two you singing. "People might think your form is getting sloppy."

"Then they'll think you're a shitty coach," You teased, twirling your own sword as you danced throughout the room, always light on your feet. Jason chuckled, and if you could have bottled up the sound to keep forever, you would have in a heartbeat.

Your favorite moments were when it was just you and Jason, in the training center alone. With curfew fast approaching, everyone else was taking advantage of the two short, sweet free hours before lights out.

"Water break," Jason ordered, flipping his sword gracefully back into the golden coin he always kept in his pocket. You obliged him, slipping wordlessly over to your water bottle on the edge of the mat. "I was serious, earlier. You're dropping your elbows."

"And you're more stiff than a flagpole," You countered, raising a pointed brow at him. Jason gave you a look that screamed 'I don't think so', which was practically an invitation for you to mess with him. "Seriously, Jase, you gotta loosen up."

"I'm loose." He argued, and you let out another loud laugh, the kind that had your head tipping back with the force of your joy. Crossing the room to stand before him, you lifted your chin so that you had a chance at meeting his eye.

I'm loose, he claimed. The thought made you snort, again, as you took in his rigid posture, how even just standing, his arms were crossed over his broad chest.

"Jase," You crooned innocently, settling your left hand on his shoulder, fingers smoothing over the muscle. His reaction was instant, to your excitement. Flush coating his cheeks, his eyes tracking the movement of your hand against him.

Just as you had hoped.

"Baby," You taunted, and he actually choked, burning a bright red as you stepped closer to him, smirk on your lips. "If you're going to talk shit about my elbows, you better get ready to fight back."

Grinning wickedly, you held up the magical golden coin you had lifted from Jason's pocket while he was distracted.

"Give me that," He huffed, eyes rolling and catching your wrist before you could get away. Your laughter fell from you in echoing shrieks, trying to escape Jason as he tried to snatch the coin back.

You stuck out your arm in the opposite direction, trying to hold out as long as you could against him. How rare it was you ever were able to outsmart the great Jason Grace.

He simply pulled you closer, his longer arms stretching out over your body to try and get his coin back. Knees knocking together, your laughters mixed in the air.

By the time his fingers finally wrapped around the golden coin, you could barely breathe. Smiles spread wide over both your faces, you grinned up at him, cheeks albeit a bit flushed.

His arm was wrapped around your middle, holding you flush against his front. And even as he stuffed his coin back into his pocket, he kept his arm wrapped around you tightly.

You weren't going to complain, either, your own hands settling on the tops of his shoulders, toying with the collar of his purple camp shirt.

Gods, you were so in love with him, you felt it in your bones. How was it fair that the powers that be put him in your life, just out of arms reach? And how could Venus despise you so much that she would give you Jason Grace, let him hold you and smile at you, and not have him fall in love with you, too?

He was blinding, golden sunlight, and you just needed to be caught in his rays, however briefly.

"Why do you train so much?" You weren't exactly sure where the question came from, but you were certain it was an important one as you studied the emotions swirling in his sky blue eyes. Confusion, mostly, but also a hint of something so similar to admiration it made your skin feel flushed.

"We're soldiers." He reasoned, ever the level-headed Roman. And you loved him for it, really, but you loved him more than the Roman traits.

"Do we have to be, all the time?" You hated how desperate your voice sounded, and you hated Jason for making you ask.

"What else is there for us?" His counter argument was like he hit the panic button in your mind. And maybe if you had more time to think about how to best react, you would have slowed down and talked him through a life beyond the military prowess he had been practically conditioned to think was the only life for him.

But you didn't have time, and you could barely think, so all you did was pull away from his hold.

"Forget it." You mumbled, not entirely sure if you intended for him to hear. It wasn't his fault, you distantly reasoned, he didn't know any better. Raised by wolves then sent to Camp Jupiter? He had no chance at seeing any sort of life beyond battlefield glory.

But you weren't the daughter of reason. Your father was the god of thieves, and your emotions stole the moment from your fingertips.

"Hold on," Jason urged, taking a step towards you as you backed away, mumbling some excuse about needing more water. "Did I do something wrong?"

"Never, Jase." You nodded solemnly, your frown never once leaving your lips as you twisted back around to face him. "And maybe that's the problem."

I want you to break regulation and kiss the daylights out of me, you wanted to scream.

"I don't understand." He shook his head, open palms splayed up towards the sky, like he was pleading with you or the gods to explain to him.

You laughed once more, but this time, it echoed coldly in the empty training room. Gone was the sunshine smiled you wore, as if it had fallen behind the horizon as the real sun set over your head.

Bitterness twisted your heart, firing unfamiliar cruelty through your gaze, pinned on Jason. He almost flinched at the look on your face.

I don't understand, he had claimed. He didn't understand just how much you ached for him, praetor or not. Roman or mortal, you wanted him.

But he was a soldier, first. And maybe he was a soldier, only.

"Maybe that's the problem."

He called your name, but you were already out the door, letting the metal slam shut behind you.

You weren't enough of a fool to pretend to not see the lightning strike the roof of the training center, ruining the perfectly clear skies from only moments before. The only proof of Jason's frustration he would let the world see, you knew.

The only proof that maybe he ached the same way as you.

That night, you didn't sleep. Your poor bunkmates, listening to you twist and turn and try and get comfortable when it felt like knives were piercing your insides. Acid burned your tongue, cursing the appendage for ever trying to broach the subject about being more than soldiers to the other with Jason.

The next morning, you walked into breakfast, determined to avoid talking to Jason for at least a few hours.

Oh, what a mistake that wish was.

#jason grace #jason grace x reader #jason grace x you #jason grace x y/n #jason grace fanfic #pjo #rays of sun #sunnie writes

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