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dcxdpdabbles · 6 months ago

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The Summoned Demon Part 4

#Holiday Requests I would love updates to Child Support, The Summoned Demon, and Passion For Fashion

Danny had no idea where he was.

No one around him could understand what he was saying, and he couldn't read anything either. After running through the suburbs, Danny had made his way on foot into the large city. There was nothing familiar about where the cults had summoned him to.

Everything looked wrong. The clothes, the cars, the street ads, and even the people. He stood on the side of a corner, attempting to make heads or tails of his surroundings, but people passed by him like water in a river.

It must have been the fact he was covered in dirt.

Thankfully, a group of teens had been willing to stop his frantic shouting. One girl had snapped her fingers, then waved rectangular screens at him- What was that thing?- speaking into it.

The rectangular screen spoke in what he thinks is a different language, but not anything Danny could understand. Her face fell but she seemed determined to get him to talk into her rectangle. When he did, it gave her soft buz like the ones that are played on game shows where a constant gets a wrong answer.

The girl had looked at her companions, utterly lost, until one of them stepped forward and started playing charades. There were a lot of vague hand motions and desperate gestures when he attempted to explain his situation, and the children were able to direct him to the police station.

No one on staff was able to translate what he was saying. However, they did seem mighty alarmed by how he was covered in dirt and speaking a foreign language. They had given him some water and a change of clothes and sat him in a room with a two-way mirror. Danny felt safe knowing the authorities were on his side, sipping his water at the little table while he waited.

Time moved slowly when more and more police officers entered, attempting to establish communication with him. They placed a list of writing in front of him, each line a different symbol, and he knew they were meant to be a language.

The aging man with white streaks, dusting his red hair, adjusted his glasses, then pointed to the first sentence on the list. He said something slowly, patting his chest with an open palm, then pointing more determinedly at the line.

"Is that your language?" Danny asks, scanning the lines and realizing he can't read one. He shakes his head "I'm sorry I don't understand."

The old man frowns and then stands. He places a chocolate bar on the table- or what Danny thinks is one, but he can't read what it says, and it's quickly becoming frustrating how much that's happening- before heading out of the room. A few more minutes go by when a man wearing one of the police uniforms but a long, more outdated one walks through the door.

Danny blinks up at him as the man carefully considers his face. He avoids looking at the bullet holes decorating the cop's chest. "Wow, you seem pretty young. Wonder what you did to get old Gordon to personally question you?"

Danny chances a look at the two-way mirror before muttering. "I didn't do anything, sir. I got kidnapped."

The man turns around, arms still folded over his chest, but the second he realizes the door has remained firmly shut, he whirls around, gawking at Danny. "You can see me?"

"Yes, sir. I'm half ghost on my mother's side." He jokes but still maintains a level of respect. The Fentons joked around often, but they always respected those in service until the person proved unworthy of the uniform.

"Holy shit!" The policeman laughs. "I don't think you can pass something like that down the family tree, kid."

Danny cracks a smile. "You be surpirse."

"Guess I am. Who knew I would be shocked twice after my death?!" The man's jolly laugh makes Danny relax just a little. He doesn't even mind that the ghost's heaving chest is splatting a few drops of red on the table. "Haven't laughed like that in years. By the way, kid, my name is Alex. Alex Anderson."

"I'm Danny Fenton." Danny smiles, offering his hand for a shake. Alex hesitates, reaching out only to have his face brighten when he makes solid contact and eagerly pumps their joint limbs up and down. "It's nice to meet you, sir."

"Pleasure is all mine." Alex claps his hands, settling- somewhat as he goes slightly through the metal- in the chair opposite Danny. He laces his fingers under his chin and offers another impish grin. "So what's this about a kidnapping?"

Danny straightens, rapidly recapping his last few days. Alex doesn't interrupt, listening with an intensity that tells Danny he's being taken seriously even if he's still smiling like there is nothing wrong in the world. When Danny is done, he has to take a breath and top off his drink as Alex considers his words.

"That's a rough couple of days, Kid," Alex says at the end, leaning more on his hands. Danny nods sadly, feeling utterly exhausted. He's not sure where the nice older man went, but no one had come to check up on him for a while, and he's starting to feel cagy.

Alex considers him a little longer before throwing his head back with a sigh. "Alright. I guess I need to help you escape. I feel too guilty if I just let Gordon hand you over."

"What?"

Alex stands, pretending to stretch his arms over his head. He nods to the two-way mirror, clicking his tongue at it. "Yeah, Gordon called Batman a while ago when they were trying to figure out your language. This place will be swarming with vigilantes and their magic users any minute now."

"Batman?" Danny repeats, rising to his feet. "What's Batman?"

"The guy who put you in that cave cage." Alarm fills Danny's veins as he realizes that this whole time, the police were setting him up to be returned to the cultist. Was the entire city in on this!? "Normally, I wouldn't be making deals with people Gordon deems unsafe, but given that you're half ghost, I've chosen to ignore my morals in solitary."

"But why?! Why would they give me back to them!?" He demands, rising to his feet and backing away until his back hits a wall.

"I was Gordon's first partner," Alex tells him, gesturing at his chest. "I died to make sure the idiot got back to his wife and kids. Ever since he's done everything he could to make Gotham safe. As much as Batman makes me uneasy, he is doing a good job cleaning this place up and doing what I can't do anymore. I'm trapped inside this building, but I've seen the bats plenty of times, so I know they are not dangerous. I also know they will shoot first or ask questions later; this is your only chance to get away until you can establish communication. Take it."

Alex gestures to the wall behind Danny. "Can you faze through?"

Danny lets himself sink through the stone just as the door is kicked up, and three cops rush in with raised guns. He ends up in another interrogation room- because that's where he was. They had not placed him somewhere safe; they had set him up for capture- where a man handcuffed to the table screams. Danny apologizes desperately, trying to get the guy to stop yelling, as Alex yanks him by the collar of his shirt.

"No time for manners, Kid! You have to get out of the building. Bat's just landed on the roof!" Danny races through the walls, ignoring the people who shout and scatter at his sight until Alex leads him straight out of the building. The ghost stops behind a window, where chains had manifested and wrapped around him, preventing him from going forward.

Alex doesn't seem to pay them any mind as he points in a direction. "Head that way until you see a giant clown. The Joker is currently in custody, but his old hideout has thousands of ghosts. Someone is bound to know what to do. If that fails, follow the road with the white bricks to Old Gotham. Lots of Magic is rooted there. Maybe you'll find something."

"How do you know that?"

"My mom was a professional card reader. I inherited some of her ability to sense the paranormal, and trust me when I say Old Gotham always felt cursed." Alex pauses before tilting his head. "If you ever get to talk to Gordon, tell him I forgive him. And the key to our treasure is at our old hideout. Tell him I still love him even if he picked her."

Danny's eyes fill with water. "I promise."

"Good." There was a loud thump as a man in a trench coat raced down the hallway, aiming his glowing hands at Danny. Alex threw himself before the bright yellow beam, spreading his arms wide as he made a shield. For a second, Danny's vision overlaps with a similar image of Alex blocking a young redhead man in the same position. "Now go, Kid!"

Danny shifts into Phantom, flying at his top speed without further comment. Behind him, he hears someone with a British accent swear, and Alex's cries of pain nearly cause him to forget to turn intangible when he flies through traffic.

There had to be some way he could find a living person who understood him

_____________________________________________________

"What happened?" Bruce demands as John pushes something in a jar. Since it looks like an impressive mime trick, he's fairly sure it's actually a ghost causing problems for the Brit.

"Bloody demon had help from a human soul," The blond grunted, grabbing at the air. "Stubborn one that seemed convinced it was helping a child."

"Why?"

"Hmm?"

Bruce feels his eyebrow twitch but remains impassive overall. Right now, he's Batman, and Batman does not let emotions cloud his mind. "Why would a ghost think it was helping a child? Demons can't hide their nature from paranormals. John, are we chasing a child?"

"Normally, I would say, yeah, the thing is a child, but this one isn't your average spook. It's powerful. You saw it, right? The demon shifted forms, and I couldn't even see its second form until the two bright rings of light. If it could fool me into thinking the human flesh suit was its real form, it can easily fool a ghost."

"If it's so powerful," Tim cuts in, walking towards the pair with a floating hologram from his wrist. The integration room security camera plays on it, displaying the demon calmly sipping water. "Then why didn't it escape before? All it did for three hours before Gordon was alerted was wait."

John frowns at the camera, sealing the jar with a wax melt. "That is odd. Normally, things on that power level do everything, but be calm."

Bruce didn't like this. They had lost something powerful in his city; it had evaded detection only to waltz right into custody, where it had just as easily escaped. They had also confirmed that the demon was visiting the children previously offered to him as sacrifice.

First, there was young Jack, then Molly, who had attempted to help him with a translation app. The girl didn't seem to consider otherworldly language was untransltable. She behaved as if the demon with its harsh, raspy voice and chilling presence was not there to harm her.

In fact, when Steph interviewed her, the teenager insisted that the demon seemed lost and frightened.

Which one was the truth? His experts of the supernatural or the signs that the possible demon was dropping. That it was just a lost child terrified out of his mind?

Bruce had too many questions and not nearly enough to get any kind of answers. They needed to capture the boy again.

#dcxdpdabbles #dcxdp crossover #the summoned demon #holiday requests #Part 4 #Bruce is starting to have doubts #Danny is actaully becoming scared #The Gotham Police are never on your side unless their gay #Gordon dead secert lover is still around #Danny guns it from the cops

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clementineinn · 10 days ago

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listen to the bookman!

abstract: two BAU agents find themselves caught in a different kind of tension — not the kind that cracks cases, but the kind that lingers in glances and slips between the lines of shared quotes.

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

genre: fluuuuuff

word count: 8.5k

note: i've been writing sm, but i haven't posted anything bc lowk i feel like my stories suck lol, but i'm just gonna pull the trigger and post this one. it is fluffy, which, sorry, i can't help myself, but i do have some angsty pieces in the works! enjoy!

The rain had started just after nine.

Not with thunder, not with fanfare. No lightning stitched across the sky, no windswept leaves gathering like whispers in the gutter. Just the quiet insistence of it — that slow, silver curtain descending from nowhere in particular. It arrived without urgency, as if it had always meant to come, as if it had only been waiting for the world to quiet down enough to notice it. A soft percussion, delicate and steady, like fingers drumming idly along a windowsill — not to fill the silence, but to settle into it.

Each drop struck the windshield with the hush of intention, tiny cymbals against glass. They gathered at the edges of the wiper blades, collecting into trembling rivulets before slipping downward in uncertain paths, distorting the view beyond until the whole street looked underwater — houses sagging in reflection, lamplight warping into golden haze. Time itself seemed to slow beneath the weightless repetition of it. Not stopping. Just stretching, the way long nights tend to do when nothing moves and everything matters.

The wipers stirred only now and then, slow as breath, like they too had fallen under the spell of the storm. Each sweep was reluctant — a lazy gesture through the fogged glass that cleared a temporary view before the rain returned, gentler still, like it meant to stay. Outside, the town had curled into itself: porches darkened, curtains drawn, the world behind doors gone still. What little light remained flickered in warm, amber pools across wet pavement, refracted in puddles that looked deep enough to fall into and dream.

Inside the car, the rain made a kind of silence that had nothing to do with sound. A hush that lived beneath the noise, pressing in close, like a held breath waiting to be released.

Their SUV sat parked along a narrow, tree-lined street — the kind where the sidewalks cracked in quiet places and the air still carried the faint scent of cut grass and wet bark. The federal government plate gleamed dully beneath a film of rain and road grit, a muted badge among leaves clinging to the bumper like the last breath of autumn. The vehicle itself had become part of the scenery now: quiet, unmoving, patient.

The Bureau had been called in days earlier, summoned like a needle to thread together the frayed edge of a town unraveling. A string of disappearances — ordinary people, vanished in the soft blind spots of routine. No witnesses. No patterns that held. No certainty. Only shadows, and the kind of silence that pressed too close to the bone. And so tonight: surveillance. One house under suspicion. Two agents in the field. Spencer and Y/N, seated side by side in the long, slow hush of a stakeout that had yielded nothing but hours and the strange intimacy of shared breath.

It had been hours already — the kind of time that stopped meaning anything. The kind that crept into your bones and curled there.

Across the street, the suspect’s house sat inert, draped in a stillness that felt almost deliberate. Its windows were dim behind gauzy curtains, pale rectangles of nothing. No movement. No flicker of motion behind glass. Only a single porch light humming softly in the rain, casting its weak yellow glow over the sagging porch steps and the glint of wet shingles. A weathervane spun once above the roof — a slow, indecisive turn, more gesture than warning — then stilled again, as if it too had grown bored of waiting.

The rest of the neighborhood had long since folded into sleep. Porch lights clicked off, one by one. Televisions flickered behind drawn blinds, scenes playing to no one. Cars glistened in parked rows like resting beasts, their hoods wet and gleaming. Everything had gone hushed. Held.

At the far end of the block, a lone red bulb blinked on a motion sensor, pulsing faintly against the damp concrete of a driveway slick with rain. It flared, then dimmed, then flared again, like a slow heartbeat echoing down the empty street.

Somewhere deeper in the neighborhood — faint, almost imagined — a wind chime stirred. Not with wind, but with memory. A sound delicate and eerie in the stillness, like the echo of something forgotten.

It was the kind of street that, on nights like this, made even trained minds question what was real. The kind of quiet that softened the shape of fear. That made the air feel too gentle for anything to go wrong.

And yet.

They watched. Because danger never did ask permission. It simply waited, like they did now — cloaked in rain and silence, eyes fixed forward, hearts just a little louder in the quiet.

Inside the car, the air held the slow warmth of people who had stopped pretending they weren’t tired. It was the kind of warmth that built over hours — gathered from breath, from body heat, from shared silence that had nowhere else to go. It clung faintly to the glass, fogging in soft curves around the edges of the windshield, curling up along the side windows where no one had spoken for a while. The scent was a mix of things that didn’t quite belong together but somehow fit: the faint sharpness of old paper, the damp wool of Spencer’s sweater sleeves, and the thin, bitter ghost of gas station coffee steeping in the bottom of two stainless steel travel mugs in the console.

The dashboard lights glowed a dim green, casting soft geometric shadows over the interior — across the grain of the steering wheel, the uneven crease of Spencer’s slouched coat, the glint of rainwater still clinging to the doorframe. The SUV felt like its own small world now, floating somewhere just outside of real time.

Spencer sat in the driver’s seat, his posture relaxed in that very particular way of someone who never truly let his guard down. A worn paperback was open across his knee, its spine softened from too many readings, the corners curled. His fingers moved absently along the edge of the page, not turning it yet, just holding the weight of it. A pen was tucked behind his ear — not needed but always there. The sleeves of his cardigan were shoved to the crook of his elbows, revealing the pale, fine angles of his wrists, the delicate bones that made him look more scholar than federal agent. His coat was balled up behind him, crushed into the space between his seat and the door. It looked like insulation. Or a comfort he hadn’t realized he needed.

Y/N sat sideways in the passenger seat, curled toward the window like she’d grown into that shape — one leg folded beneath her, the other stretched lazily out, her socked foot resting against the center console in a quiet, unconscious nudge. Her boots were somewhere on the floor, long forgotten. The rhythm of her breath fogged the glass just slightly. Her head tilted, chin propped in her hand as she followed the rain across the windowpane — not watching the house, not really watching anything. Just letting the storm draw soft, meandering shapes down the glass, like an artist sketching something only she could see.

Outside, time moved on without them — steady, indifferent, marked by the soft blink of porch lights switching off and the deepening hush of a town folding itself into sleep. The world beyond the windshield turned in its usual way, unaware that anything was waiting.

Spencer turned a page.

The sound was nearly silent — just the faint rasp of paper moving against paper, the quietest breath of motion in a space that had forgotten what sound was. The overhead light remained off — too conspicuous, too artificial — but the dashboard cast a low, steady glow across his lap, enough for his eyes to follow the words without strain. In that dimness, he looked almost like a ghost of himself: all sharp planes and soft lines, caught somewhere between thought and presence.

He looked oddly comfortable for a man halfway through a ten-hour surveillance shift. But then again, Spencer Reid had never needed comfort to look at ease — only stillness. And this night, at least on the surface, had given him plenty of it.

Across from him, in the passenger seat, Y/N shifted.

It was the kind of movement that drew the eye without trying — slow, unhurried, the kind of stretch you made only when your body had started to mold itself into the shape of a seat. She drew her knees up onto the leather, curling into herself, not out of tension but out of familiarity. One hand rested lightly at the base of her neck; the other dangled off her knee, fingers relaxed, half-curled.

Her gaze still followed the long, translucent trails the rain carved down the glass — eyes tracking them like someone reading a foreign language slowly, line by line. Outside, the world blurred into shape and color: yellow porch light, dark trees, the soft distortion of reflections in wet pavement. But her eyes didn’t flinch from the blur. She just watched, quiet and still, like she might stay that way until morning.

They hadn’t spoken in some time.

But silence, here, was not a gap to be filled — it was a rhythm. A heartbeat. A third presence in the car, curling around them, holding everything that hadn’t been said.

Until—

“Any movement?” she asked, voice low — not tense, not expectant, just soft, like a thread being tugged out of habit more than hope.

Spencer didn’t answer right away. He glanced toward the house across the street, his gaze cutting through the layers of fog on the windshield and the distortion of raindrops sliding down the glass in lazy, luminous streaks.

Nothing.

No lights. No shift behind the curtains. No silhouettes pacing in backlit windows. Just the soft, constant hush of the storm and a porch that had grown too still to feel natural.

He shook his head, eyes drifting back to his page. “Nope. Not since the cat around eight-forty.”

That pulled a sound from her — not quite a laugh, more like a small, amused exhale. A puff of disbelief softened by affection. She turned toward him, one brow arched in gentle accusation.

“You logged the cat?”

Spencer didn’t look up. Just flipped a corner of the page with the back of his knuckle, as if this were the most obvious response in the world.

“He was orange. Limped on the right paw. Could be important.”

She smiled then — faint, but real. Not at the cat. Not even really at the joke.

At him.

At the way he said it with no trace of irony. At the way he watched the world like every detail might hold the thread that could unravel everything. At the way his voice had settled low for the night, mellow and worn like the spine of the book in his hands.

It was barely anything.

And still, she found herself holding on to it.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

But it wasn’t the kind of silence that demanded explanation. It wasn’t brittle or impatient. It simply stretched between them, soft and steady, the way old friends might fall into rhythm without needing to fill it with sound. The rain had become a background hum — steady, hypnotic — wrapping the SUV in a cocoon of warmth and fog. Every so often, the wipers traced a slow arc across the windshield, a half-hearted attempt at clarity.

Spencer flipped a page with the careful precision of someone who didn’t just read — someone who studied, who inhabited, who listened to the echo of every sentence long after it was gone. The movement was unhurried, like time didn’t touch him here.

Y/N leaned her head back against the seat, the curve of her neck exposed in the dashboard’s low green glow. Her eyes slipped closed, lashes brushing the skin beneath her brow. Not sleep. Just stillness. The kind that only found her when the storm outside was louder than the one inside her mind.

Then — a pause, a breath, a beat too long.

Her voice broke the hush like a pebble tossed into a still lake.

“What are you reading?”

Spencer didn’t glance up. Just lifted the book slightly, eyes still scanning the page.

“Persuasion. Austen.”

That made her lift her head again, brow raised, an amused spark catching behind her gaze.

“Seriously? I pegged you more as a Brontë man.”

“I like the Brontës,” he said easily. “But Austen’s prose is more psychologically nuanced. And Anne Elliot is arguably one of the most emotionally complex heroines in English literature.”

Y/N blinked once, slowly.

“Okay, but does she walk across moors dramatically in the rain?”

Spencer arched a brow at that, finally looking up, mouth twitching at the edge.

“You do know it’s raining right now, right?”

She smiled — wide this time, unguarded, the kind of smile that curled at the corners and didn’t rush away. She stretched her legs out, shifting in her seat until her sock-clad foot nudged his knee lightly — a small, familiar touch that didn’t feel like much until it did.

“Fine. Read me something.”

He hesitated, thumb holding his place on the page.

“From this?”

She gave him a look, dry and warm.

“No, from your weather log. Yes, from that.”

He didn’t ask why.

Didn’t smirk or prod or ask if she was serious. He just flipped back a few pages, slow and unhurried, his thumb dragging lightly over the paper as though reacquainting himself with the rhythm of the words before they even met the air. A quiet breath slipped past his lips — not a sigh, not nervous — something centered. Then he cleared his throat gently, and began to read.

“My idea of good company is the company of clever, well-informed people who have a great deal of conversation.”

His voice was softer when reading — less clinical, less tightly wound than usual. Like the cadence of someone telling a story they remembered too well. It slipped easily into the space between them, filling it with something light but tangible. Familiar. Almost fond.

She smiled again, but this time it was smaller — quieter. The kind of smile that tugged at one side of her mouth, just enough to mean something, just enough to give her away. It wasn’t for him, not fully. It was for the moment. For the sound of his voice. For the line.

“And is that why you’re stuck in a car with me?”

Spencer looked over at her, gaze steady, not blinking. Not teasing.

“It certainly doesn’t hurt.”

Y/N gave him a look — half-amused, half-skeptical, but undeniably warm — then turned back toward the window with a faint shake of her head, lips still curled. Her breath touched the cold glass in front of her, fogging it just enough to leave a small, crescent bloom where her exhale had landed.

For a while, the only sound was the rain — a steady hush against the roof, soft and constant. Like the sky had decided to whisper all night and had no plans of stopping.

Time passed like that — not fast, not particularly slow, but in that strange, viscous way time has when nothing moves and everything feels like it might. The kind of time that didn't announce itself, only lingered in the stillness, tucking itself into corners: the curve of a seatbelt, the soft click of a shifting jaw, the rhythmic sweep of wipers.

Outside, the street held its breath. Inside, the car did too.

Spencer had already read two chapters. Probably more, if she was being honest. His eyes flicked across the pages with that impossibly fast rhythm she’d grown used to, but still found quietly bewildering. He turned each one with the same reverent calm, the motion so habitual it was almost unconscious — as if his hands knew the story before his eyes did. Not a single sentence read aloud since the last one she’d asked for. But the air still felt full of his voice.

The silence had begun to thicken. Not unpleasantly. Just noticeably. The kind of quiet that made you suddenly aware of the sounds your own body made — the shallow pull of breath through your nose, the slow shift of fabric over your knee, the faint, traitorous beat of your pulse.

It was sometime past ten.

Y/N had already counted the porch lights on the block — seven, two dimmer than the rest. She’d played a mental guessing game with the silhouettes behind living room curtains: game show, drama, rerun of something laugh-tracked. She’d reorganized the snack bag in the backseat by color, then by noise level, then by expiration date. Her left sock was bunched and bothering her, but not enough to fix. Her boot had begun to tilt inward from where it sat abandoned under the dash.

Meanwhile, Spencer remained exactly as he’d been: spine straight, expression unreadable, a small vertical crease between his brows — not from stress, but from focus. That peculiar kind of stillness that only sharpened his edges.

And it was all just a little too much.

She couldn't take it anymore.

“Okay,” she said at last, her voice slicing softly through the quiet — not a jolt, but a ripple. Like a pebble skipping across still water, breaking the surface just enough to catch his attention. “Let’s play a game.”

Spencer glanced up from his book. The low green light from the dash slid across the lenses of his glasses, catching on the faint smudge of a fingerprint. His pen was still poised between his fingers, tucked neatly into the crease of the page like a placeholder he hadn’t meant to use. He blinked once, slow, thoughtful.

“What kind of game?”

Y/N turned toward him more fully now, folding her leg up beneath her, sock brushing the console. She narrowed her eyes with a mock-serious squint, the dramatic tension undercut by the small smirk that tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Quote battle. You read a line, I name the book, and vice versa.”

Spencer tilted his head — that precise, birdlike angle she’d come to recognize as curiosity. He looked at her as if analyzing the strategic value of her challenge, weighing outcomes and probabilities in real time.

“What do I get if I win?”

Her grin widened, sharp and playful, lighting her face like something just a little dangerous. “What do you want?”

He blinked once — visibly computing, as if she’d just asked him to solve something unexpectedly complex. His eyes darted slightly, then settled.

“Control of your iPod on the jet for a week.”

“Deal,” she said immediately, hand flicking outward like she was signing a contract in the air. “And if I win, you buy me coffee every morning until next Friday.”

Spencer considered this with the seriousness of a man preparing to enter diplomatic negotiations.

“So… eight days?”

Her brows arched, delighted. “You already did the math?”

His mouth twitched — just slightly. “You challenged me.”

She gestured toward the book in his lap, chin tilted like a dare.

“Go on then. Hit me.”

He flipped a few pages back, fingertips grazing the dog-eared edges with the ease of someone who had memorized the landscape of a book — its weight, its breath, the way the spine folded in his palm like it belonged there. His eyes moved fast, scanning the text like wind moving through leaves. Then he found it. He cleared his throat quietly, a low sound that somehow deepened the stillness between them, and read aloud:

“She had the kind of beauty that hurt to look at—sharp, aching, and likely fatal if mishandled.”

His voice dipped naturally into the rhythm of the line — not performative, not dramatic, just soft and sure, shaped by memory and admiration. The words seemed to hang in the warm air of the car long after he stopped speaking.

Y/N squinted, angling her head toward him like she was turning a puzzle over in her mind.

“That’s not Austen.”

“No,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, equal parts pleased and impressed. “It’s Tana French.”

She hummed, a low sound of appreciation, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

“Well played.”

“My turn?” she asked, already shifting her weight, her voice curling with anticipation.

He nodded once, resting the book lightly against his knee. “Hit me.”

She didn’t hesitate.

Her voice was steady, quiet, but carried the weight of something familiar — a line so worn it gleamed like glass:

“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.”

Spencer blinked. Once. Then again — not out of surprise, but recognition.

“Jane Eyre.”

“Too easy,” she sighed, the corners of her mouth twitching with mock disappointment. “Fine. You go.”

He thumbed through another page, slow and deliberate now, though his eyes still moved with that rapid, uncanny rhythm — like he wasn’t just reading but indexing, cataloging, selecting the perfect thread to pull. His fingers paused near the middle of a chapter, pressed gently to the margin like he needed to feel the weight of the words before he let them leave his mouth.

When he read, his voice was casual — too casual. That smooth, practiced kind of nonchalance that only ever meant someone was trying very hard not to reveal too much.

“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

The words drifted out into the warm hush of the car like smoke — slow and curling, heavy with implication. And for a beat, they just hung there. Not long. Not really.

But it pressed.

Pressed into the stillness. Pressed into her.

Y/N turned to look at him — slowly, like she already knew what she’d find. Her lips curved upward just enough, not a full smile but something sly and edged with disbelief.

“Are you quoting Pride and Prejudice at me right now?”

Spencer kept his gaze trained on the page in front of him, but the corner of his mouth twitched — a single, unspoken tell.

“Would it be weird if I was?”

“Only if you keep using Mr. Darcy’s lines on me.” She nudged his knee with her socked foot — not hard, just enough to feel him there, solid and warm beside her in the dark. “That man proposed like he was submitting a complaint to management.”

That did it.

Spencer finally looked up — really looked — and smiled in a way he rarely did. Wide, teeth showing, the kind of grin that cracked across his usually composed face like sunlight through drawn curtains. His dimples appeared, sharp and genuine, softening the angles of him until he looked startlingly young. He wasn’t trying to hide it. Not tonight. Not from her.

“And yet,” he said, tone rich with mock solemnity, “he’s one of the most beloved romantic heroes of all time.”

“Yeah, well,” she said, letting the words tumble out on a half-laugh, half-breath, “everyone loves a man who can’t express emotion without sounding like he’s about to faint.”

Spencer tilted his head, still smiling, eyes never leaving hers.

“That likely depends on whether you’re Elizabeth or Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”

She let out a laugh — not loud, not sharp, but quiet. Contained. The kind of sound that stayed close to the chest. The kind that wasn’t just amusement, but recognition. Affection. A small flare of something bright held carefully in her hands.

“You know,” she said, nudging his knee again — gentler this time — “this whole thing is starting to feel suspiciously like flirting.”

Spencer looked up slowly.

His smile stretched wider this time — all teeth and dimples, that rare, utterly unguarded kind of grin he only seemed to wear around her. It softened everything. His posture, his face, the ever-present weight between his brows. He looked… happy. Genuinely so. And that alone made the moment tip slightly, like the air around them had taken one breath too deep.

“Only suspiciously?”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing in exaggerated thoughtfulness.

“Well, if it is,” she said, her tone lilting with amusement, “you’re doing it very… academically.”

“That’s the only way I know how.”

“I figured.” Her lips quirked, but there was affection behind it now — warmer, quieter. She shifted in her seat again, drawing her knees back up beneath her, curling into the corner like she meant to stay there. Her shoulder bumped the inside of the door; the toe of her sock pressed softly to the edge of the console.

“Next quote, Doctor Reid.”

He turned another page, but this time his fingers slowed at the edge — like they were no longer moving just to move. His eyes flicked down the page, scanning, not quickly now, but deliberately. He stopped halfway down, and when he spoke, his voice was lower. Smoother.

“There could have been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison.”

The quote settled in the warm dark between them like smoke. Light, but dense. Fragrant with intention.

She didn’t guess this one.

Didn’t even try.

Instead, she watched him — not startled or shy, just there with him in the moment, fully. Her gaze held steady on his face for a second too long, her expression unreadable but soft, like she was seeing something she hadn’t let herself look at before. Then she turned her head slightly, eyes drifting out the windshield toward the still-dark house.

Her voice followed a moment later — quieter now, but not hesitant.

“You always pick the romantic ones when it’s just me.”

Spencer didn’t reply.

Didn’t have to.

The words didn’t need answering. They weren’t a question. They were something else entirely — a thread unspooling gently in the hush between them, tying things together she hadn’t named until now.

They hung in the air — not heavy, not awkward, just suspended. Like a truth neither of them had to rush to touch.

And still, it pulsed there. Quiet. Unspoken. Real.

Outside, the rain picked up.

Not all at once. Not with drama or force. Just a slow thickening — a soft insistence in the air, the kind of weight that settled gently over rooftops and sidewalks until the world seemed wrapped in water. The drops came heavier now, tracing long, uninterrupted streaks down the windshield like tears that didn’t know they’d fallen. The rhythm changed — not frantic, but full. A lullaby in another room, low and constant, the sound of the earth exhaling.

Thunder murmured somewhere in the distance, too far to startle, too soft to fear. It rolled low and wide, more suggestion than presence — a storm that circled like a thought you couldn’t quite finish.

Inside the car, the change was quieter still.

But it was there — the kind of shift you felt more than saw. In the way her hands stilled completely in her lap. In the way his thumb lingered on the edge of a page, but never turned it. In the way he closed the book softly, without ceremony, and let it rest across his thigh like something that had given him all it could for the night.

The space between them wasn’t wide. It hadn’t been for hours. But now it felt different — a kind of nearness that didn’t ask for attention, only acknowledgment. A quiet hum building beneath the sound of rain, shaped like something waiting to be named.

Y/N stretched again, slow and languid, like the warmth of the car had melted into her bones. Her jacket was folded between her seat and the door, a makeshift pillow that carried the faint scent of wet wool and worn leather. One leg tucked beneath her, the other lazily extended until her knee nudged against Spencer’s on the console — light, casual, but not accidental.

“You look comfortable,” he said, voice low and edged with something that wasn’t quite a smile, but close. The corner of his mouth tilted up, that soft glint in his eyes reserved only for her.

She shrugged, gaze still half on the glass, where the rain stitched silver threads across the surface.

“We’ve been here for hours. I’m adapting. Survival of the fittest and all that.”

Spencer glanced toward the house again, letting the moment breathe.

Still no movement.

“It’s not like you to go stir-crazy,” he said, voice soft, shaped around the edge of a smile.

Y/N turned her head toward him, slow and deliberate, the overhead glow catching the curve of her cheek. Her voice was quieter now, touched with teasing, but threaded through with something gentler.

“Yeah, well,” she murmured, mouth curving, “you’ve been reading Austen aloud like it’s bedtime, and frankly, I’m beginning to feel a little wooed.”

Spencer blinked, caught somewhere between amusement and mild academic protest.

“Austen is statistically one of the most romantic authors in the Western canon.”

She grinned, shifting her weight just enough for her knee to bump against the console again — light and unthinking, like contact was instinct by now.

“That’s what I’m saying. I feel like I should be fanning myself.”

He turned slightly in his seat, angling toward her without seeming to think about it — the space between them closing in degrees, subtle and slow. His hands rested in his lap, but his focus was fully hers now.

“Would you prefer I quote something less romantic?” he asked. “Something clinical?”

She narrowed her eyes, the corner of her mouth twitching as she stared him down.

“If you quote a math theorem at me, I’m getting out of the car.”

“In this weather?” he deadpanned, glancing meaningfully toward the rain-streaked glass.

“Dramatic exits don’t wait for ideal conditions.”

That pulled another smile from him — unguarded, his dimples deepening as his features softened in the glow of it. He looked younger that way. Brighter. Like someone who had just been handed permission to be seen.

And then, quieter:

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Her brows pulled together immediately, the shift in tone catching her with something almost like concern.

“You didn’t.”

Spencer looked down briefly, then back up, his voice a little steadier now — like it mattered to say it right.

“I just… wasn’t sure if the quoting thing was crossing a line.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, eyes still on his face, watching him with the kind of attention that always made him feel like she saw more than he said. The light from the dashboard cut softly across his features — caught the edge of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the almost imperceptible movement as he swallowed.

And still, her gaze didn’t waver.

She caught the flicker in his eyes — the way his gaze dropped for a beat too long, as if a thought had slipped loose before he could catch it. Just a brief shift, but enough. Enough to feel the weight behind the silence. Enough to see that he was second-guessing something, maybe everything.

So she leaned in. Not dramatically, not to close a distance, just slightly. The kind of movement you made when you didn’t want to startle a bird. Her voice was low when it came, warm and unhurried — teasing in that familiar, sideways way that made space instead of closing it.

“Relax, Romeo,” she murmured, the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth easy, natural, hers. “If I didn’t like it, I would’ve made you switch to case reports an hour ago.”

That earned his attention.

Spencer glanced over at her — and this time, he didn’t just look. He saw. Really saw her. Not as the agent beside him. Not as the person he’d been sitting with for hours. But as something else. Something specific.

It was the kind of gaze he usually reserved for the rare things — uncrackable ciphers, strange celestial maps, pages too dense for most to decipher. But it was softer now. Focused. Unflinching.

And all of it was hers.

Y/N held his gaze, still smiling, still pretending — barely — that her heart wasn’t crashing against her ribs like it had just realized it had skin to break through. She didn’t drop her eyes. Didn’t tease further. Just let the quiet bloom around them.

And then, a little quieter, more honest than before:

“You don’t do it with anyone else. Just me.”

The pause that followed wasn’t long.

But it held.

Not because he didn’t have something to say — but because she’d already said enough.

Then she huffed a breath and leaned back again, her body folding into the curve of the seat like she was trying to retreat from the tension she’d just sewn into the air. She reached for levity — not to deflect, but to steady the moment, to give it room to breathe. Her voice dropped just enough to sound offhanded, even as something more trembled just beneath the surface.

“You’re going to make someone very confused one day, Spencer. Using Austen as a flirtation tactic is very dangerous.”

He turned to her fully now, one brow arching with exaggerated skepticism, the edge of his mouth fighting a smile.

“Dangerous?”

“Highly.” She waved a hand vaguely in the space between them, her tone mock-serious, but her gaze held steady on his face. “All this charm and intellect and emotional repression—it’s a lot.”

Spencer laughed — really laughed. The sound burst out of him light and breathless, and it startled even him a little. He tipped his head back, shoulders shaking for a beat, that rare, beautiful sound filling the car like light through fogged glass.

“That’s… an interesting interpretation.”

She smiled too, lopsided and knowing. A little crooked, a little fond. The kind of smile that came from watching someone unravel gently, willingly.

“I’m just saying,” she said, voice softer now but still playfully edged, “if you keep quoting Persuasion at girls in the dark, someone’s gonna fall in love with you.”

This time, he didn’t laugh.

But the smile lingered — soft and shaped with something quieter. Something he didn’t need to dress up in humor or hide behind logic. It tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth like a secret wanting out.

He just looked at her.

And said, voice barely above a whisper:

“You say that like it hasn’t already happened.”

That was when the air changed.

Not in a loud, crashing way — but in the way the atmosphere does before a storm rolls in. The kind of shift you feel before you see. Pressure dropping. Something pulling low and deep in your chest. The hush before lightning splits the sky.

Her heart stuttered once — a quiet, startled rhythm behind her ribs.

But she didn’t move.

Neither did he.

They just sat there.

Knees brushing. Shoulders angled slightly toward each other. Breath held just below the surface. The thunder rolled again, low and blooming in the distance, but it felt closer now — not in the sky, but in the space between them.

And the silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was brimming with everything they hadn’t said. Everything they almost had.

They didn’t speak for a while after that.

Not because there was nothing left to say — but because whatever had just passed between them was still in the room, still in the air, like dust lit by a headlight beam. It hovered. It clung. It needed space to settle.

And when the quiet returned, it wasn’t the same as before. It wasn’t companionable or easy. It was charged. Dense with possibility. Like a radio dial turned just off-center — all static and hum, vibrating with the shape of words that hadn’t been spoken but still somehow filled the space.

Neither of them moved.

Not at first.

The rain whispered steadily against the windows, carving glass into trembling river lines. The cabin of the SUV had grown warmer, breath-fog softening the edges of the world beyond it. The outside was blurred. The inside was bright with everything they weren’t saying.

Eventually, Y/N shifted — slowly, like she didn’t want to startle the moment. Like she was wading through it. A deer through tall grass.

She stretched her legs down from the seat, her sock brushing the base of the console as she moved. Not restless — just closer. Her spine curved slightly inward, instinctive, unconsciously tilted in his direction. Her hand dropped into her lap, fingers tapping out a rhythm that didn’t match the rain, didn’t match anything at all — except maybe the quick, uneven beat of her pulse.

She glanced sideways, not quite meeting his eyes, her voice soft — but edged with mischief, like a spark under velvet.

“So,” she said, drawing the word out like a thread between her fingers, the kind that unraveled slowly just to see where it led, “how long have you been using Regency-era romance as a seduction technique?”

Spencer blinked — once, then again, as though her question had short-circuited some internal circuit he’d previously thought infallible.

“Excuse me?”

She smirked, lips curling with the satisfaction of someone who’d just set off a particularly elegant trap. Her gaze slid sideways, head tilted, playful but precise — like she was enjoying watching him squirm just a little.

“You heard me. You’re weaponizing Austen, Reid.”

“I’m not—” He stopped, mid-breath, brows drawing together in a furrow of genuine confusion. His tone shifted, caught somewhere between defense and self-doubt, like he was suddenly evaluating all his life choices. “I’m not weaponizing anything.”

“You say that,” she murmured, voice softer now, eyes narrowing with mock scrutiny. She leaned in just enough to make it feel like a secret. “But you’ve been sitting over there all night quoting Anne Elliot like it’s nothing.”

Spencer’s hands lifted slightly, as if ready to explain himself with a logical breakdown and supporting footnotes.

“It was relevant to our conversation.”

“Mhm. Sure.” She nodded, slowly, exaggerating the motion like she was humoring him. “Totally casual. Just a normal thing you do with coworkers during a federal surveillance op.”

Spencer opened his mouth to respond, then shut it again — the movement small but visible, the rhythm of a man realizing too late that he’d walked right into a thesis statement he hadn’t prepared for. He looked at her, a little wide-eyed, somewhere between horrified and completely disarmed.

And she was still smiling.

That same knowing smile that always made him feel like she could see straight through him — not in a threatening way, but like a flashlight through fog.

She leaned forward slightly, elbow resting on the console between them like she was settling into a chess match she already knew she was winning. The space narrowed — not dramatically, just enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him, see the faintest shift in his expression as she moved closer.

Her voice dropped, teasing and low, her words brushed with deliberate mischief.

“Be honest—do you quote Virginia Woolf to Hotch when you’re trying to butter him up?”

Spencer blinked at her, visibly startled — then gave her a look so affronted, so utterly scandalized, it made her laugh under her breath. It was the kind of expression he reserved for things like inaccurate statistics or poorly alphabetized books.

“Absolutely not.”

“Okay,” she said, pressing now, enjoying the way the tips of his ears turned just a shade darker in the dim light. “So what’s my category?”

Her eyes gleamed as she listed them off, slow and deliberate, watching the way he tried not to react.

“Austen? Brontë? Bit of Plath if I’m cranky?”

He was trying not to smile. She could see it — the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the fight behind his eyes, the way his shoulders tensed ever so slightly like holding in laughter required muscle.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m being thorough,” she corrected, tapping the side of her temple like it was all part of a formal diagnostic process. “Profiling, remember?”

He shook his head once, but it was hopeless now — the shape of his mouth gave him away. That soft, helpless curve he only wore when it was her.

And then, quieter. So quiet she almost missed it, but not quite:

“You say that like it’s a theory,” he murmured, “but it sounds a lot like hope.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

Not loudly. Not visibly. But it caught — sharp and low in her chest — and her whole body stilled for just a fraction too long, like something delicate had been named.

The space between them had grown impossibly small.

Inches. Maybe less. The console between their seats felt like a formality now — a boundary that had once meant something, back when lines were clearer. But those lines had smudged hours ago, and now the air between them pulsed with everything that had risen in the silence.

Every glance. Every quote. Every moment of not looking away.

Y/N blinked — just once — suddenly uncertain of her footing, like the room had tilted and she wasn’t quite sure what her next step would do. So she did what she always did when the ground started to shift beneath her.

She reached for levity.

“Alright, then. If you were going to write me a love letter, would it be annotated?”

Spencer huffed out a breath — something between a laugh and a sigh of relief, like she’d just let the air back in.

“Only lightly,” he said, the corners of his mouth curving again. “A few citations. Footnotes. Maybe a reference table.”

“Oh, good,” she breathed, the smile tugging at her lips returning with a softness that hadn’t been there before. “I love when romance comes with appendices.”

He turned toward her fully now — not just his head, but his whole body, his knees brushing hers again, their shoulders angled like a conversation only they could hear.

“You joke,” he said, voice lower now, intimate in a way that made the walls of the SUV feel smaller, closer, “but I could quote you half a dozen passages from 19th century literature that remind me of you.”

She blinked once. Quick. Like her breath had caught behind her ribs.

“…Name one.”

But he didn’t.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t reach for the book. Didn’t chase the question back with logic or wit.

He just looked at her.

And the look was a thing unto itself — unguarded and direct, like a thought that had lived too long in the dark and was finally stepping into the light. His mouth parted slightly, like he might speak, but no words came. His fingers curled tighter around the edge of his seat, as if he needed something solid to hold onto.

The silence between them swelled, not awkward, not unsure — just full. Brimming. Close enough to touch.

And neither of them moved.

Because if they did — if even one of them leaned closer — it wouldn’t be silence anymore.

It would be everything.

Because the truth of it—that aching, unnamed thing that had stretched and shimmered between them all night—was louder than anything he could have quoted.

It hung in the air now, full and real, vibrating like a string pulled too tight.

The windows had begun to fog.

Not completely. Just at the corners, where their breath mingled in the air, warm and quiet. The edges of the world blurred out, as if even the SUV had started to breathe slower. Everything inside the car felt thick with weight—with them—their bodies no longer separated by anything that mattered.

Outside, the street was still. No footsteps. No shadows in the house across the way. Just the hush of rain, soft and constant, and the low purr of the engine like a heartbeat they’d both forgotten to hear.

It was too much. Too quiet. Too full.

So Y/N broke it—because she had to. Because it was either that, or let it swallow her whole.

“So,” she said lightly, trying for teasing but not quite reaching it, the word catching slightly at the edges, “was that the part where you were going to kiss me or just emotionally devastate me with more well-placed metaphors?”

Spencer turned his head.

Slowly.

Like he’d been waiting for permission.

Like he’d been still all this time not out of hesitation, but out of reverence—like he knew this wasn’t something you rushed.

“You talk a lot when you’re nervous,” he said, so softly it nearly dissolved into the air between them.

She blinked.

“I’m not—” she started, but her voice caught—right on the edge of certainty. She cleared her throat and tried again, masking the tremble with a crooked smile. “I’m not nervous. I just didn’t want to ruin your perfectly curated quote-to-eye-contact ratio.”

Spencer’s lips twitched.

But the look in his eyes didn’t shift.

It stayed steady. Bare. The kind of gaze that didn’t flinch from the truth anymore. It held her without demand, like he was showing her the most vulnerable part of himself and trusting her not to look away.

And she didn’t.

Couldn’t.

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t dodge. Didn’t retreat into metaphor or distraction or some clever turn of phrase.

He just looked at her.

The kind of look that reached deeper than words. The kind that unraveled things. The kind that said I see you — and always have.

“I’ve been in love with you,” he said, quiet as a breath, “since your first case.”

No dramatic pause. No swelling music. Just a soft truth offered in the smallest of spaces. No less earth-shaking for its gentleness.

Outside, the rain kept falling — slow and constant, threading silver down the windshield like time deciding not to move.

The windows continued to fog, blurring the world beyond them until it was gone entirely. Only the inside remained now. Only this space. Only them.

Inside the car, the world stilled.

Y/N felt it in her chest first — a quiet catch of breath that slipped beneath her ribs and stayed there, trembling. Something had shifted — tectonic, deep beneath the surface — and everything realigned around it.

Her pulse fluttered. Her fingers curled in her lap, grounding her in the fabric of her jeans, the grain of the seat beneath her. But she didn’t pull away. Didn’t look down.

She didn’t ask if he meant it.

She didn’t joke. Didn’t tease.

She just looked at him.

And the silence between them wasn’t silence anymore.

It was something whole.

She moved towards him, unhurried and certain, as though the moment had long since been ordained. There was no fanfare in the gesture, no trembling flourish — only the quiet conviction of a woman who had made up her mind. Her hand came to rest at his neck, her fingers light and reverent, and then — with the gentleness of breath and the steadiness of affection long harboured — her lips found his.

It was not a kiss of passion unbridled, nor of haste or vanity. It was a confession, tender and unspoken, offered in the only language she could summon. And he received it as such — returning the kiss with the astonishment of a man long denied happiness, scarcely daring to trust that it had come at last.

When they parted — for breath, for sense, for the sweet necessity of drawing nearer still — her hand lingered at his jaw, thumb brushing the fine curve of it with something very near reverence.

His eyes opened slowly, as though waking from some long, aching dream.

“I wasn’t planning on saying it like that,” he whispered, breathless.

A smile touched her lips — quiet, wry, and altogether disarming. “How were you planning to say it?”

He shrugged slightly. “I was… maybe going to write it in the margin of a book and pretend you found it by accident.”

Her laugh then was soft and genuine, surprised by joy. It caught in the air like a lark in morning light.

“You still can,” she said. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear it. For dramatic effect.”

They remained there, foreheads pressed together in the hush that follows great change — the kind of silence that no longer feels empty, but earned. Rain murmured against the glass. The world around them faded to stillness.

And though neither dared to say more in that moment, it was understood between them — wholly and without embellishment — that the waiting was over.

And then — through the fogged glass, through the hush that had wrapped itself around them like a secret — a light blinked on across the street.

They both turned, instinct kicking in hard and fast, muscle memory overriding everything else. Adrenaline over romance. Duty over daydream.

Spencer reached for the binoculars. Y/N grabbed the radio. Their movements overlapped — smooth, practiced, nearly synchronized.

It was like slipping back into step. The rhythm of a thousand stakeouts before. The urgency. The protocol. The clarity of purpose. Familiar. Rehearsed.

But when her shoulder brushed his—

when her fingers lingered just a moment too long on the gear shift—

when he looked at her and couldn’t help the way his smile pulled, unbidden, real—

It wasn’t the same.

Not even close.

The rain had finally let up by the time they made it back to the precinct.

It was early — the kind of early that belonged more to the night than the day, sky still a gray-blue smear above the rooftops, low and hesitant. The pavement glistened, slick with the memory of rain, and steam curled in lazy tendrils from the sewer grates. Every surface gleamed like it had just woken up. So had they.

Y/N still felt the ghost of his lips on hers.

They walked side by side, steps in quiet sync. A little too close.

Their shoulders bumped once. Neither of them moved away.

She glanced up at him, trying — and failing — to bite down a smile. “You’re being weird.”

Spencer blinked, eyes wide in theatrical offense. “I’m being weird?”

“You keep doing that soft smile thing.”

“I always smile.”

“You smile in footnotes. This is new.”

He tried to school his face into something neutral. Failed miserably.

“Okay,” he admitted, voice low. “I don’t know how to do this yet.”

“Me neither.”

And then, grinning: “It’s kind of fun watching you short-circuit.”

He opened the precinct door for her with a small shake of his head, but his cheeks were unmistakably pink.

Inside, the station was half-asleep. Fluorescent lights hummed low. Agents drifted through the bullpen like ghosts with paperwork — coffee in hand, conversations murmured over case files, the scrape of chairs against tile. It smelled like burnt espresso and printer toner.

Emily looked up from her laptop as they stepped in, her brow immediately furrowing.

“You two look… suspiciously chipper for a stakeout,” she said slowly, tone sharp with amusement.

From behind her, Morgan appeared with a mug in hand. “Right? You catch the unsub or just catch up on some really good conversation?”

Y/N paused mid-step. Spencer made a sound that could only be described as an intellectual cough.

“We—uh,” he started, eyes darting toward the coffee station like it might offer rescue.

“Read Austen,” Y/N said quickly, deadpan. “He read. I listened. Riveting stuff.”

Emily narrowed her eyes.

Morgan lifted a brow. “Austen, huh?”

Spencer nodded. “She likes the metaphors.”

Y/N shrugged. “They hold up.”

There was a beat of silence, heavy with implication.

JJ passed them on her way to the coffee pot, casting a glance sharp enough to cut paper.

“Cute,” she murmured, just loud enough to be heard — and kept walking.

Spencer looked like he might spontaneously combust. Y/N just smiled, hands in her pockets, a quiet glow still tucked behind her eyes.

Maybe they were terrible at hiding it.

Maybe they never really stood a chance.

But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t want to hide anything at all.

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

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starrygazers · 3 months ago

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the in-betweens: studies and alchemy.

˖ ࣪⭑ ⸱ hi I've been reading isekai romance manhwas with the dukes and I cannot for the life of me stop thinking about duke anaxa. here have this.

˖ ࣪⭑ ⸱ tags : royalty au, love rectangle???

˖ ࣪⭑ ⸱ featuring : DUKE! Anaxa, PRINCE! Mydei, KNIGHT! Phainon.

This story is best read after you've read my previous ROYALTY! AU featuring PRINCE! Mydei and KNIGHT! Phainon.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Duke ANAXA is one of the most notorious aristocrats in the Kingdom of Amphoreus, or so you’ve been told by Royal Advisor Aglaea in more than one of your tea sessions. She warns you of the man who resides in Grove of Epiphany, the scholars’ city – to avoid him unless you want your ears chewed off about his latest mad scientist research. After hearing what Aglaea had to say about the man, you plan on steering clear of him. Unfortunately, fate has twisted plans for you.

MYDEIMOS is the one to break the news to you; the elders in the council aren’t satisfied with the future king getting married to someone who barely knows the history of Amphoreus. Alas, they’ve made the decision to send you to the Grove of Epiphany to study.

MYDEIMOS assures you that it’s not your fault, that you aren’t less qualified to be his betrothed just because you’re of foreign royalty. Should you wish to not leave, he will find a way to make you stay. He gives you time to make the decision.

PHAINON almost drops his cup when you tell him that you agree to study at The Grove. He asks you if you’re sure, but he’s witnessed firsthand your thirst for knowledge, and he also knows that you’d rather inconvenience yourself than MYDEIMOS. PHAINON looks sullen for the rest of the day.

MYDEIMOS tells you that you’ll be studying only for a few months. He’s arranged for your stay in Duke ANAXA’s estate, much to your anxiousness. MYDEIMOS tells you that should Duke be a thorn on your side, he will swiftly take you back to Okhema.

The first time you step into the Murmuring Woods, you are greeted by the large tree that stands out in the middle of the forest. Duke ANAXA is waiting for you as you exit the carriage, and he introduces himself as ANAXAGORAS.

PHAINON, your escort for the journey, is still a Chrysos Knight stationed in Okhema and cannot stay with you, much to his dismay. Despite that, he tells you to write often, and that he’ll be anticipating your return; the Palace will be much lonelier without you.

Contrary to your expectations of the cold Duke, he is surprisingly welcoming in his own aloof way. ANAXAGORAS gives you a tour around his estate; his great library, his off-limits laboratory, and his Luminary Garden. You can tell that despite his huffs and puffs of having to “take care of the council’s whims”, he always accepts those who are eager to learn — a true scholar’s spirit.

The Duke is pleasantly surprised when you call him Duke ANAXAGORAS instead of his shortened name. You say it along with your gratitude for the welcome, and a promise that you’ll study hard during your stay. He brushes off the small smile threatening to pull on his face.

Days with Duke ANAXAGORAS are slow; when you wake up, ANAXAGORAS has left to Nousporist before you, and when you return, he’s locked himself in his lab. There are rare moments where you catch him walking out of his lab, and you invite him to eat dinner together. He wants to refuse, but remembers that you’re MYDEIMOS’ betrothed, and grumbles under his breath before accepting your invitation.

Dinners are a little awkward. He brushes off your attempts of small talk, trying to eat quickly so he can return to his research. Despite this, you still make an effort to talk about what subjects have been interesting you (he doesn’t care, he knows all the things taught in The Grove by heart) and ask him about his research (he says that you’re aeons too early to understand, no offense to your intelligence). Finally, you brave yourself to say that it’s less lonely to eat with ANAXAGORAS than eating alone.

This is what catches ANAXAGORAS off guard; he runs calculations in his mind all the time, tasks to assign the maids, classmates, and professors for your best comfort, but has never once taken into account of how lonely you might feel being in such an unfamiliar place. He clears his throat, but you notice he snaps back at you less.

The next morning, you find ANAXAGORAS by the estate doors, looking bored. When he sees you, he clicks his tongue, quipping about how you’ll be late if you’d taken just another second. Nevertheless, he walks with you to Nousporist.

On the way, he tells you that he cannot walk home with you, but to knock on his laboratory door once it’s dinnertime. ANAXAGORAS swears he’s never seen someone sporting a brighter smile when you nod excitedly, telling him that you’ll be looking forward to dinner.

ANAXAGORAS slowly opens up to you about his own bank of knowledge, and is surprised to find out about your interest in learning alchemy. You’d learned from your peers that ANAXAGORAS is the most skilled alchemist, and you tell him that you want to learn from the best.

This is how ANAXAGORAS ends up staying up with you late into the nights, practicing basic alchemy in the Luminary Garden. He scoffs when you get excited after learning a basic transmutation, taking his hands in yours and jumping around giddily, but he can’t deny you a small smile and a pat on the head.

With your little time in The Grove, you work hard to finish your studies. ANAXAGORAS have always liked diligent students, but he’s especially fond of you, offering small praises whenever you ace a quiz. Though it’ll be a backhanded compliment most of the time, you can feel the sincerity of it.

One day, MYDEIMOS and PHAINON drops by for a diplomatic visit. You greet both the Prince and the Knight with a hug before running your mouth about the great time you’ve had thus far as a student. Amidst the catch-up, you miss how Duke ANAXAGORAS’ face scrunches ever so slightly. It doesn’t take a genius to see how smitten the Prince is, as well as how clingy the Knight seems to be around you.

When you tell MYDEIMOS and PHAINON about how the Duke’s been taking good care of you, ANAXAGORAS can’t help the smirk that creeps on his face, especially seeing the glare that MYDEIMOS shoots him and the way PHAINON’s smile drops.

But what can they do? In The Grove, Duke ANAXAGORAS is more respected than the Prince, nevermind the Knights. As long as you’re still on his turf, MYDEIMOS and PHAINON can do nothing but await your return. And Duke ANAXAGORAS will make sure to take great care of you, for as long as you’re around.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

check out my other royalty au works on my masterlist!

˖ ࣪⭑ ⸱ if you liked this, consider buying me a ko-fi! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ

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simdertalia · 2 years ago

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🎍 ACNH Harmonious Set 🌺

Sims 4, Base game compatible | 55 items

Type “ACNH Harmonious” into the search query in build mode to find quickly. You can always find items like this, just begin typing the title and it will appear.

Use the scale up & down feature on your keyboard to make the items larger or smaller to your liking. If you have a non-US keyboard, it may be different keys depending on which alphabet it uses.

I hope you enjoy!

Build: -Moss Brick Wall | 1 swatch

📁 Download all or pick & choose (SFS, No Ads): HERE

📁 Alt Mega Download (still no ads): HERE

📁 Download on Patreon

Will be public on November 28th, 2023

Happy Simming! ✨ Some of my sets will be early access from now on. If you like my work, please consider supporting me:

★ Patreon 🎉 ❤️ |★ Ko-Fi ☕️ ❤️ ★ Instagram📷

Thank you for reblogging ❤️ ❤️ ❤️

@sssvitlanz @maxismatchccworld @mmoutfitters @coffee-cc-finds @itsjessicaccfinds @gamommypeach @stargazer-sims-finds @khelga68 @suricringe @vaporwavesims @mystictrance15 @public-ccfinds

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frommybookbook · 2 years ago

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Tonight I went into Barbara Hale's back catalog and watched West of the Pecos. This is the only screenshot Amazon let me take, for some reason, but I really wish I could have captured pretty much the entire movie.

Ostensibly, the movie is a Zane Grey western (which makes me wonder why I never saw it as a kid with my dad, I'll ask him next time I talk to him) but really it's a romcom just with a western setting. It was so funny and so cute and Barbara Hale and Robert Mitchum had such great chemistry! Plus knowing the backstory that this movie is really how Barbara Hale got together with her husband of 30+ years after asking the director to expand his role so he'd be on set more just made it that much greater.

12/10 would recommend, go watch it.

#barbara hale #west of the pecos #i'm really starting to love robert mitchum too #he's no raymond burr #but he's some kind of sexy rectangle #there's no way my dad hasn't watched this movie #i guarantee he's read the book #he's read every zane grey #multiple times #the apple doesn't fall far from the tree #it's me #i'm the apple

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emmetverse · 3 months ago

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*A small light appears, and colorful mist begins to swirl out of it. It swirls into a humanoid shape, before releasing the form inside. As it dissipates it lingers around the woman in the center. I open my eyes and look around, trying to orient myself to my surroundings.*

Whew! That...was an incredibly long traversal period! My skies above! *sigh* ...Now where the heck am I? I should be close to Em..........

Avi found herself in the kitchen of a small house. Things were mismatched. It didn't seem like there was a matching set of anything, and a lot of it looked as if it had needed fixing before use. One of the saucepans had an entirely different handle stuck on to it.

There was warmth coming from the oven. Inside was what smelled like a loaf of bread. It was otherwise completely clean. Across the island was a small sitting room - largely empty bookshelves, old tv - designed for multiple people, but it looked pristine other than one spot on the top bunk. There were stairs leading up and out of view.

The window above the sink was slightly ajar to let a sweet breeze through. A small plantpot sat neatly in front of it; the plant was a dark, vivid magenta, with small and thick leaves like a succulent.

It fitted in well with the forest beyond. Deep, singing, dark, bluish wood. The trees towered far above in a canopy of large, saucer-like leaves. Neon vines swung gently in the wind. Sunlight filtered through into the clearing where this little house sat, but the treeline cut off into what was almost night. There was no grass, but rather a china pink moss that thrived in the semidark.

Small orange sprouts enjoyed where the sunlight hit the dirt. They poked up between roots and moss-covered rocks. It seemed like they had spread further once, but their growth had been stopped by small plots of farmland. The rectangles of moss turfed up and set aside to compost, the plants pruned back to where they could flourish without disrupting the crops.

There was a small thunk from a shed outside, accompanied by a bunch of tools falling over from where they had been previously propped up. Either the occupant wasn't close enough to notice, or they just didn't care.

#answered ic #enthusiasticaviator

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solarmorrigan · 2 years ago

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hallo! I saw the angsty prompt list thing, and the “don’t trust me.” One kind of stood out to me. You don’t have to write it, but you’re one of my favorite writers on here so I thought it might be cool :)

Hullo! So I did fill this prompt once already, but I'd had a bunch of ideas for it and I was in the mood for something a little softer, so I did another! Thanks for giving me the opening to write it (and for the compliment, you're so kind?? 😭)

[General warning for mention of Steve's shitty parents and their generally shitty parenting technique]

Angsty-ish Prompt List

“Why am I the one doing this?” Steve grouses, straining slightly as he struggles with the full box on the top shelf. “Instead of, y’know, you?”

“You’re stronger than me,” Eddie replies readily.

“Bullshit, I’ve seen you lugging amps and shit around during your shows,” Steve shoots back, grumbling as he works the box free from the high shelf.

“You got me.” Eddie grins, though Steve’s back is turned to him. “I just like watching you work, sweetheart.”

From the depths of the storage closet, Steve gives an audible snort of laughter, but he also stops arguing. Then, with a little noise of triumph, Steve finally manages to tug the box free, holding it aloft long enough to back out of the closet and then heaving it down onto the floor, where it lands in a clatter of plastic and jingling bells.

“Excellent.” Eddie falls upon the box, rubbing his hands together in anticipation before tugging at the tucked flaps. “There’s one more box, would you mind? It’s on the floor; long rectangle.”

“You said there was one box,” Steve says, eyes narrowed.

“Whoops, miscounted,” Eddie says breezily, smiling up at Steve with as much innocence as he can muster. “You know how bad I am at all that academic shit.”

“Says the guy who plays a math game for fun,” Steve drawls.

For the sake of time, Eddie leaves the bait where it is, instead batting his eyelashes up at Steve. “Pretty please, pretty boy? It’s definitely the last one.”

Steve holds out for exactly five more seconds before retreating into the closet with a roll of his eyes. “If you suddenly remember one more after this, I’m suddenly gonna remember something I have to do back at my house and leave you to do all the decorating on your own,” he calls back, muffled from behind the coats Eddie can hear him shoving aside to find the last box.

Eddie’s at least eighty percent sure he’s bluffing, but it’s no matter – he hadn’t been lying. Most of what he needs is in the box in front of him: strands of garland, wrapped tangles of lights, and the same ugly pinecone wreath with the world’s most annoying string of jingle bells attached that Wayne’s been hanging since Eddie was a kid. Everything else—the ornaments, more lights, and, of course, the tree—is in the hefty, rectangular box Steve is currently hauling out into the entryway.

Normally, Wayne would be there to help, but his and Eddie’s work schedules have fallen out of sync in the hectic holiday rush of extra shifts; if one has the day off, the other is too tired by the time they get home to entertain anything as energy-consuming as getting up on a ladder to hang lights. Eddie and Steve, however (somehow; miraculously), share at least one day off a week, which has seen Steve recruited as Eddie’s backup decorating partner.

“That it?” Steve breathes as releases the box and stands straight, tugging his sweater down from where it’s ridden up (Eddie can’t believe he’s dating someone who unironically wears ugly Christmas sweaters. He can’t believe Steve makes them look good).

“That’s it,” Eddie promises. He plucks two balled-up strings of lights from the box in front of him and stands up, one under each arm. “So here’s what I’m thinking: I’ll get started on the outside, while you,” Eddie puts a boot to the tree box and shoves it towards Steve with a grunt; even across the laminate flooring it doesn’t slide easy, practically cocooned in layers of packing tape from so many years of opening and resealing, “get the tree going.”

Already halfway wrapped up in how he’s going to string the lights (he’d always loved decorating the outside of the trailer, and now he gets to figure out a new configuration for the tiny porch on his and Wayne’s equally tiny new house; it ain’t much, as they say, but it’s home – or, at least, it’s starting to feel like it), Eddie nearly misses the look of confusion that crosses Steve’s face.

“Uh… how do you want it set up?” Steve asks.

Eddie cocks an eyebrow at him. “Stand goes on the floor, pointy end goes up. I have faith in you, Steve.”

Steve rolls his eyes again, but with his frown in place he looks like he might actually be irritated. “I mean, you have to tell me how you want it, like, decorated and shit. Where it’s supposed to go, that sort of thing.”

“I’m pretty sure you’ve decorated a tree before, man,” Eddie says. “I know I saw one at your house last time I was there.”

“Yeah, but that’s my house. This is yours. You have to tell me how you want it,” Steve says.

Once again for the sake of time, Eddie leaves the obvious opening for a joke where it lies. “Steve, it’s – y’know, lights, garland, ornaments, it’s not rocket science. I trust you to do a good job.”

“No, don’t trust me, just tell me how you want it decorated,” Steve insists. “If you don’t tell me, I’m going to do it wrong.”

“It’s… a Christmas tree, sweetheart,” Eddie says slowly. “You can’t do it wrong.”

“Oh, I assure you, I can,” Steve says with a laugh. “Seriously, like – people are super particular about how their trees are set up, I think. My mom always has been. I remember when I was, like, ten, she and my dad had been away for a while, and we were coming up on Christmas pretty fast, and none of the decorations were up, so I figured I’d at least put the tree up. Surprise them when they got home, right? Except my mom lost her shit when they got home and saw it.”

“Noooot in a good way, I take it,” Eddie hazards.

“Nah, I did it all wrong. The tinsel wasn’t spread out right, and there’s only supposed to be a certain number of ornaments on each branch, and she wanted the angel on top, not the star, so she made me take the whole thing down.” Steve shrugs. “So, seriously, even if you don’t think you have a certain way you want it done, I’ll probably manage to find the exact way you don’t want it, so you should just tell me.”

“Steve, I promise, that tree is, like, older than I am; you can’t make it worse. As long as you don’t set it on fire, I’ll be happy with it,” Eddie says.

“That’s not–” Steve cuts himself off, running one hand through his hair with a strained little laugh. “I don’t understand why you won’t just tell me how you want it done.”

Eddie shakes his head, dropping the bundles of lights back into their box; he hates when this happens – hates when he stumbles over some mundane thing that Steve’s parents have fucked up for him that Eddie only manages to poke like a kid with a sharp stick at a beehive because he didn’t even realize it could be an issue. Who the fuck gives their kid a complex over how the Christmas tree is decorated? Who does that?

(Then again, Eddie’s pretty sure it’s about more than just their expectations for the tree.)

“Okay, I need you to listen to me,” Eddie says, voice firm but hands gentle as he reaches for Steve’s own. “I swear I’m not trying to set you up for failure. I’m really not. The tree isn’t supposed to look perfect. It’s supposed to be kinda crooked and covered in dumb ornaments you can’t even remember the stories behind and only have, like, half a string of popcorn around it because you ate most of it when your uncle wasn’t looking and didn’t leave enough for the tree.”

Steve stares at him, brows furrowed, like he’s trying to piece what Eddie’s telling him into what he already knows about the world, like he needs both things to be true, even though they don’t fit together.

“Actually…” Eddie says slowly, deciding that it may be best to change tack, “come to think of it, there’s one thing about decorating the tree that I should’ve told you. Most important thing, really. Can’t believe I forgot.”

“What?” Steve asks, halfway between wary and eager for the instruction.

“You’re supposed to do it together. That’s what makes it good.” Eddie lets go of one of Steve’s hands to smack the heel of his own to the side of his forehead. “Duh. Silly me.”

Steve shakes his head, letting it hang forward with a little huff of a laugh as some of the tension leeches from his shoulders. “You’re such a dork, do you know that?”

“Mhm,” Eddie hums, grabbing Steve by the front of that stupid, ugly sweater (it has reindeer on it, how does it not look awful on him?) and pulling him up for a quick kiss. “So how about you help me do the outside lights, and then we’ll come back inside and do the tree together?”

One last flicker of uncertainty crosses Steve’s face. “What about Wayne?”

A flutter of fondness rolls through Eddie’s chest, the same as it always does when Steve doesn’t just consider Eddie, but the things and people important to him. “His favorite part is stringing the popcorn. We can do that when he gets home.”

“Oh.” Steve nods, as though he is considering this very seriously, then smirks at Eddie. “Should we make some to eat before he gets back, so you leave enough for the tree?”

Eddie smacks him on the shoulder, holding back a laugh. “Alright, Harrington, just for that, you’re the one untangling the lights.”

“What, like it’s a punishment?” Steve asks. “I’m great at untangling Christmas lights.”

“Oh, baby,” Eddie presses a hand to his heart and pretends to swoon over the box of decorations, “when you say things like that, it makes me want to keep you forever.”

And Steve’s answering grin at that is far brighter than anything they’re going to decorate with today, Eddie is certain.

#finntheehumaneater #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #eddiesteve #I also wanted to write something a little holiday-related!#so I'll be honest this is a little schmoopy but like. that happens sometimes yanno?#solar wrote #answers from solar

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partyluvr · 1 month ago

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MULIEBRITY, mark lee

in which mark lee falls in love with his bisexual bestfriend.

downbad!mark x fem!reader

status: on going

chapter vii. let’s eat!

prev | next

☆*:.｡.｡.:*☆

if there’s any unspoken tradition between mark and you, it would be eating homemade meals. you cook, mark would linger around the kitchen and occasionally help here and there, you both eat, and mark then do the dishes. it’s so domestic, if he thinks about it. it’s a very traditional gender roles and though mark believes assigning roles to a specific gender is stupid, he does appreciate that he can live out these domestic fantasies with you.

mark loves your cooking. he remembered when the both of you started hanging out you insist you’re only good at cooking for yourself. you don’t like to measure, you don’t really like to experiment, you just play it safe by cooking what you like. the first time you cooked for mark, or rather, the first time mark tried your cooking was when he came over to yours with a huge hangover. it was so bad he was surprised he could drive himself to yours without crashing into a tree. you had made yourself some chicken broth soup the day before, some leftover were in the fridge by the time mark arrived. he remembered you heating it up before scooping some warm rice in a bowl for him. he ate the entire thing like a starved child.

he wasn’t into you romantically then—or maybe he was, he just wasn’t aware of it yet—so he didn’t think of it as anything more than you caring for him as a friend. looking back at it now his heart would skip a beat just reminiscing it. what a sweet memory. he remembered in his foggy hungover state he complimented your dish, he remembered asking why are you okay with eating chicken broth as a vegetarian, he remembered you laughing and explaining to him that your vegetarian diet has always been weird, that the primary cause of it was because of your weird relationship with food. mark thinks very fondly of that day.

slowly tapping his fingers against your kitchen counter, mark silently watch as you maneuver around. sweatpants, a black t-shirt, and an apron. if he could give you a kiss just for looking so good he would. oh, he would do that and more.

“can you grab some carrots from the fridge, please?” your voice snapped him out of his trance.

“sure.” he muttered a reply before walling over to the fridge. opening the door, he was greeted by the cool air blowing out his face. he scanned the fridge for a bit. he has grown familiar with how you organize your fridge. it’s not neatly clean, but it’s organized to your liking. ice and some leftover gelato in the freezer, cream cheese and jams on the top, tortillas and some cans of redbull in the middle, veggies and onions at the bottom, milk and some leftover coffee ok the inside of the door. mark grabbed two carrots. “two okay?”

“mhmm.” he could feel his dick twitched at the reply.

he closed the fridge and walked over to where you were standing. it took everything in him to not hug you from behind and rest his chin on your shoulder. he would give you a kiss on the cheek and make small talk while holding you close as you cook. later, he thinks. soon.

“can you peel them and cut them into like, long squares, please?”

of course i can, my dear, he wanted to say. but he settled with, “for sure.” he paused before chuckling. “long squares, you mean like, rectangles?”

mark saw you grinned and rolled your eyes. “long squares, rectangles, whatever.”

he laughed and went to work. he rolled the sleeve of his crewneck, silently cursing himself for not wearing a t-shirt. not until he swore he could’ve seen you peeking at his arm as he rolled up his sleeve.

mark was many things, but he wasn’t delusional. he knew what he saw. he just could never trust himself of his judgement about everything regarding you. he would over analyze things and make a big deal out of nothing. knowing so, mark decided to push it all aside and went to work.

“so,” he began. at this point it seemed like mark is allergic to just being silent with you. he had to say something.

you hummed in response, still immersed in cutting tofu into squares. mark felt hot all of a sudden, since when did you humming make him react this way?

“am i doing this right?” he picked up a piece of carrot he just cut.

you turned to him briefly and replied with a nod and smile. “yes, that’s perfect.”

mark felt satisfied with your praise. he smiled to himself before shifting his gaze from you to the carrots in front of him.

“so,” he began again, not knowing where he’s even going with this.

you once again hummed in reply, making him shiver.

the reply that came out of his mouth was so stupid he wanted to take the knife in his grip and stab it deep into his own guts. “how’s hana?”

you didn’t even glance at him or stop what you were doing. “i don’t wanna talk about her right now.”

“oh.”

you turned to him and scrunched your nose, an action mark finds endearing. “it’s fine.“

he couldn’t shake off the feeling that this could be good news to him. why wouldn’t you talk about her? what happened that makes you adamant about the topic? is this an opportunity for him?

countless of scenarios started flooding his head. sometimes mark wonder why does his brain works so fast and so well if it has anything to do with you. he should be able to write romance novels with the t of daydreaming he does.

your voice broke him off his trance per usual.

“damn, did they glue this shit on or something?” you grunted as you struggle to open the jar in your hand. you wiped your hands a few times before trying again but to no avail.

this is it! as corny as this is, this is his time to shine!

“let me,” he swiftly put down his knife to reach out to you. but instead of taking the jar from your hand, mark grasped onto your hand and tightened his grip on it, essentially holding the jar with your hand beneath it. he got nervous the moment your skin touched his, but there’s no way he backing down now.

he prayed in his head to be granted the strength to open this jar. it would be embarrassing if he failed. the grip of his hand above yours got firmer as he grab the cap and twisted it. with enough force, the cap opened with a loud pop! as mark immediately loosened his grip, afraid to be hurting you. his hand lingered for a millisecond before he retrieved it, freeing you from his grasp.

“thank youuu.” you were quick to go back to your cooking, not even sparing him a glance, as if nothing happened.

mark sucked in his breath and shifted his gaze downwards, not wanting to look at you any longer. he got into his head again. if he decided to go through with plan of his to get out of the friend zone, he needs to toughen up and stop acting like a school boy. he needs to get used to touching you, be needs to get bolder, he needs to take more risks.

that was a good one. he’s on the right track and he just needs to keep this up.

“do you want to go out this weekend?” he tried to maintain his cool, making sure he never looks up to her direction.

you straightened your posture and turned to him, thinking. “i can’t, i’m seeing my therapist on saturday and psychiatrist on sunday.”

“oh?” mark took this opportunity to stop minding the carrots and turned his attention fully to you. “do you want me to drive you?”

you shook your head. “you have class on saturday, remember?”

“oh, shit. yeah, you’re right.” mark now has fully turned his body to face you. “i can drive you sunday.”

you chuckled. “i’ll let you know.”

he nodded, satisfied at himself for being somewhat attentive. if you wanted him to skip class this saturday to drive you to therapy, he would. oh, he would, in a heartbeat.

“once you’re done with the carrots, can you help me fry these tofu?” you chimed. “i’m gonna make the sauce.”

“sure, babe.”

mark stopped dead in his track, trying so hard to not slap his mouth shut with his hand. that slipped, but there’s no way he’s gonna make it look like an accident. he needs to make it not look like a big deal, maybe that way he can work his way up to calling you more affectionate pet names.

you, to mark’s luck, did not react at all. mark liked to think you were too busy to catch what he was saying.

“is this heat okay?” mark moved his body aside to give you space to look at the stove.

you hummed in response.

mark put some cubes of tofu into the pan, sizzling noise filled the kitchen. he made sure the heat was low one last time before shifting his attention to you.

slowly, he walked towards your figure and stood just behind you. he was only slightly taller than you, so he wasn’t towering over you, but tall enough that he can peek through your shoulder. he braced himself for what he was about to do.

chin slightly hovering your shoulder, he leaned his head a bit further into your neck, just enough to make his presence known.

“what are you making?” he asked, voice low because being this close to you means he can just whisper and you would hear.

to his surprise, you didn’t react at all. is this the green light he’s been looking for? does that mean it’s okay for him to go further?

“the sauce for the tofu.” you answered.

“what is that?” he pointed to a bottle, hand so close to your figure it was as if he was about to hug you.

“sesame oil.”

“what’s that?”

“that’s oregano.”

“that?”

“msg.”

“what about that?”

you cranked your neck to face him. with furrowed eyebrow, you snickered. “that’s ketchup, dummy.”

mark sheepishly grinned. your face was so close to him, so close that if he just move slightly forward with enough force his lips would land onto yours. so close that he could grab your waist. so close that he’s having a hard time controlling himself.

you nudged him with your hip, playfully shoving him out of your way. a teasing smile on your lips, you spoke. “move, you’re in my way.”

flustered, he took a step back while holding back a grin. today is going so well for him.

sizzling sound from the pan as you poured in the sauce brought him back to reality, preventing him from daydreaming.

“do you want it spicy?” you asked.

still holding back a grin, he answered. “a little.”

you scoop a spoon of chilli oil and put it in the pan, stirring the sauce briefly before turning to him once more. “you think that’s enough?”

he laughed. “how am i supposed to know?”

“right, my bad.” you replied back with a laugh. you scoop some sauce with a spatula, blew on it, put it on your palm and licked it.

mark gulped, feeling so riled up and on edge.

“it’s spicy enough for me. wait,” you went back and repeated what you did before. scooped some sauce, blew on it, this time you put it on the back of your hand just near your thumb joint. you extended your hand out towards him, tipping your chin.

he blinked and froze for a second before bringing his body forward. he took your hand in his, guiding it near his mouth. still maintaining eye contact with you, he put his mouth on the back of your hand, slowly sucking and licking the very little sauce you had put on there. the spicy sensation prickled on his taste buds but he paid no mind to it. he swore he never intended it to be as sensual as it is in his head, he couldn’t help it, how could he make it casual when he can taste your skin on his tongue?

“good?” you shook him out of his trance.

mark straightened his posture and cleared his throat, clearly giving up on acting unbothered. he nodded firmly before scratching the back of his head. “yea, no, yea. that’s, uh, that’s good enough for me.”

you turned around to finish your cooking. mark stood where he was, still shaken from how much was happening in a span of an hour. this is good. this is what he wants.

he saw you turned off the stove and grabbed a plate. mark was about to walked towards you to help, but he decided to just stood there. he watched as you plate your dish and putting the dirty pan on the sink. mark took a note to rinse it with water before eating so it’d be easier for him to wash it later. you undid your apron, folded it and put it on the kitchen counter.

turning to mark, you chimed with a smile on your face. “let’s eat!”

☆*:.｡.｡.:*☆

taglist: @spiderm444rk

im so excited for the next chapter

#lee minhyung #mark #mark is down bad #mark lee #mark x reader #nct #nct 127

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