#time to rewatch bones n all

[sacr1ficialang3l]

i need a boyfriend and i need to eat him

[gf2bellamy]

hello!

I sent a request some time ago but not sure if you saw it 💞could you do one where the reader is the one infected with anthrax instead of reid? maybe they are already a official couple? or not- whichever is fine. Fluffy at the end 💞bonus points for Hotch worried for both of them

Thanks love!

anthrax — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: reader is infected with anthrax , mention of being dizzy and exhausted , mention of fever, mention of nasal cannula, reader passing out , reader ends up in hospital a/n: hiii!!! i'm so sorry it took so long <3 also i rewatched the scenes on youtube ( instead of the entire ep ) so if i got something wrong i'm vv sorry !! hope you like this :)

Spencer frowned, mid-sentence, his words faltering. "What do—" He turned instinctively, expecting to see you beside him. But you weren’t there.

His stomach twisted as he spun in place, scanning the area. Derek was a few steps away on the sidewalk, wearing the same confused expression. You had been right there just moments ago.

Then Spencer's gaze snapped to the house. The front door was swinging shut.

He surged forward, reaching the door just as it latched shut. His hands pressed flat against the wood before he fumbled with the handle, rattling it frantically.

“Hey! What are you doing?” His voice wavered as he rattled the door handle, his hazel eyes wide with panic. He could see you clearly through the glass pane. 

Derek was right behind him now. “Open the door. What the hell are you doing?” His voice was demanding, but Spencer could hear the underlying fear laced in it. 

That’s when he saw it. 

The small, shattered vial on the floor. 

Tiny, glimmering shards of broken glass spread across the tile, barely catching the light. But Spencer didn't care about the glass—he cared about what had been inside of it. 

Anthrax. 

The realization hit him like a freight train. His mind, always so quick, always analyzing, now felt sluggish, as though he were processing everything in slow motion. 

The room you were in had been compromised. You had inhaled it. 

“No,” Spencer whispered, shaking his head in disbelief. 

His hands pressed against the cool surface of the glass, as if he could reach through it and pull you back to him. Derek muttered a curse under his breath, his jaw tightening, but even he knew—there was nothing either of them could do. Not right now. 

You swallowed hard, blinking up at Spencer. He could see the fear in your eyes, the resignation settling in. 

"I’m sorry," you murmured. 

A lump formed in his throat. His fingers curled into fists against the door. 

“Don’t. Don’t say that.” His voice cracked. “You’re going to be okay. We can fix this. We can—” 

Your lips trembled, and though you tried to smile, it faltered. 

Spencer had never felt so helpless in his entire life. His mind screamed at him to think, to find a solution, to do something.But for the first time, he had no answer. 

And that terrified him. 

You weren’t sure how much time had passed. Minutes? An hour? The room felt both too hot and too cold at the same time. Your head rested against the door, your body slumped slightly as exhaustion settled into your bones. You weren’t in pain, but you felt weak—like all the energy had slowly been draining out of you. 

Through the glass, Spencer was still there. 

He hadn’t moved an inch. 

Derek had tried—more than once—to get him to step away, but Spencer refused. His back was pressed against the door, his knees pulled up as he sat on the floor, staring at you like if he blinked, you might disappear entirely. 

“I’m not leaving,” he had said, voice quiet. And that was that. 

You exhaled softly, letting your fingers trace invisible patterns against the cool surface of the glass. Spencer noticed immediately. His gaze flickered to your hand, then back to your face. 

“You’re sweating,” he murmured, concern evident in every syllable. 

You gave a small, lopsided smile. “Yeah. I guess breathing in bioweapons does that to a person.” 

Spencer frowned. “That’s not funny.” 

“Little funny,” you teased, tilting your head to look at him. 

He sighed, but you could see the slight twitch of his lips, like he wanted to scold you and smile at the same time.

A comfortable silence settled between you two, despite the chaos unfolding around you.

“You’re okay,” he said suddenly, more to himself than to you. “Your symptoms aren’t progressing rapidly. That’s… that’s a good sign.” 

You raised a brow. “You’re diagnosing me through a glass door now, Doctor Reid?” 

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Actually, rapid-onset symptoms from inhalation of anthrax typically appear within a few hours. Since you’re only experiencing mild weakness and slight sweating, it’s possible that the exposure was minimal. And if that’s the case, early treatment should be highly effective—” 

“Spence,” you interrupted gently. 

He stopped rambling. 

Your voice was softer this time. “I know you’re scared.” 

His eyes darted away for a split second, but then he sighed and met your gaze again. “Of course I am,” he admitted. “I—” He hesitated, running a hand through his hair before resting his palm against the door, mirroring your position. “I can’t lose you.” 

Warmth spread through your chest, even as your body trembled slightly from exhaustion. 

“You won’t.” 

You weren’t sure if it was the truth or just something to comfort him, but you needed him to believe it. And maybe, just maybe, you needed to believe it, too. 

Spencer took a slow, shaky breath. “Just… keep talking to me, okay? Stay awake.” 

You smiled. “Only if you promise to stay with me.” 

His eyes softened, his fingers twitching slightly against the glass. 

“I promise.” 

Your body felt heavier now. The exhaustion was creeping in faster than before, and you could see the way Spencer’s expression kept shifting—his mind was racing, cataloging every symptom, analyzing every possible outcome. You knew what he was doing. He was trying to calculate how much time you had, how bad it would get. 

You couldn’t let him spiral. 

“Spence,” you said, voice softer than before. You blinked a few times, trying to focus, forcing yourself to sit up straighter. He immediately caught on, his hands pressing against the glass like he could hold you up through sheer willpower alone. 

“I’m here,” he reassured, but his voice was tight. 

You gave him a small, tired smile. “Do you remember our first date?” 

Spencer’s forehead creased. “Why—why are you bringing that up right now?” 

“Because I want to talk about something good,” you murmured, tilting your head slightly, “and because I want you to stop staring at me like I’m a math equation with a really bad solution.” 

Spencer’s lips parted like he wanted to argue, but then he let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “That’s not how I look at you.” 

“Little bit,” you teased. 

He sighed, but his shoulders relaxed—just a fraction. “Of course I remember our first date.” 

You smiled, waiting for him to continue. He shifted slightly, his eyes flickering over you, still scanning, still worried. But he played along, just like you wanted. 

“I was terrified,” he admitted after a beat. 

Your brows lifted. “You were terrified?” 

“More than you could ever imagine,” he said, his lips twitching at the memory. “I had wanted to ask you out for months, but every time I got close, I chickened out. Then one day, you just—” 

“I made the first move,” you finished for him, grinning. 

Spencer rolled his eyes but smiled despite himself. “You didn’t ask me out. You just—assumed we were going on a date.” 

You laughed, though it was weaker than usual. “Because I knew you wanted to. You weren’t exactly subtle.” 

“I thought I was,” Spencer muttered. 

“You were not.” 

His cheeks flushed slightly, and even though you felt awful, you still found the energy to appreciate how endearing he was. “Okay, fine. But that didn’t make the date any less nerve-wracking.” 

You hummed. “Yeah? What part was the worst?” 

Spencer barely hesitated. “When I spilled coffee all over my shirt before we even sat down.” 

You giggled, your fingers tapping lightly against the glass. “I remember that. You looked so horrified.” 

“I was mortified,” he corrected. “And then you just… laughed. Not at me, but—you laughed like it was the best thing that had happened all day.” 

You grinned. “Because it was adorable. You were so worried about being perfect, but I already liked you, Spence. The coffee disaster just made you even cuter.” 

Spencer exhaled a slow breath, his eyes studying you. The warmth of the memory had softened the tension in his face, but not entirely. “I didn’t think you could like me back,” he admitted quietly. “Not like that.” 

Your chest ached—not from the anthrax, but from him. 

You pressed your palm against the glass, mirroring his. “I always liked you. I was just waiting for you to catch up.” 

Spencer let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “God, I love you.” 

Your breath hitched, just slightly. Even though you’d heard those words before, they always felt brand new coming from him. You let them settle in your heart.

“Good,” you whispered, your eyelids growing heavier. “Because I really, really love you too.” 

Spencer noticed immediately. The slight droop in your posture, the way your blinks lasted just a second too long. His body tensed. 

“No, hey, stay with me,” he urged, his voice sharper now. “You have to stay awake.” 

You forced a smile, tilting your head against the door. “I’m still here, Spence. Just a little tired.” 

Spencer’s jaw clenched. He turned his head sharply toward the nearest agent. “Where the hell is the medical team?” 

“They’re almost here,” someone answered. 

“Not fast enough,” Spencer muttered under his breath before looking back at you. His fingers curled into fists against the glass. “You have to stay with me.” 

“I will,” you promised, though you weren’t entirely sure you had a say in it. 

Spencer sucked in a shaky breath, forcing himself to stay calm. “Tell me more about our first date.” 

You blinked up at him. “You remember it all.” 

“Tell me anyway.” His voice cracked. 

You swallowed, nodding slightly. “Okay,” you whispered, gripping onto his voice like a lifeline. “We got ice cream after coffee. You ordered vanilla.” 

Spencer exhaled a small laugh. “It was the safest option.” 

“And then I let you try mine, and you hated it.” 

“It was mango,” he scoffed. “It tasted like… tropical regret.” 

You giggled again, your body sagging just slightly more against the door. Spencer noticed. His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach through the glass and pull you up, hold you steady. 

“Keep going,” he urged desperately. 

You blinked. “We… we sat at the park for hours.” 

“Yeah?” 

You nodded sleepily. “You kept talking about stars.” 

Spencer swallowed thickly. “Because I wanted to impress you.” 

“You already had.” You smiled softly, the memory flickering in your mind like an old film reel.

"Do you remember the first time you told me you loved me?" 

Spencer's lips parted, his brows knitting together as he searched his mind. He was stalling. 

"You do," you teased, your voice barely above a whisper. "You just don’t want to admit how ridiculous it was." 

A faint blush crept up his neck. "It wasn’t ridiculous." 

You let out a weak chuckle. "Spence. You said it because you were delirious from a fever." 

Spencer groaned, tipping his head back against the door for a brief second before looking at you again. "It still counts," he muttered defensively. 

You grinned, the exhaustion pressing heavy on your limbs, but you fought to stay awake—if only to see the way his ears turned pink at the memory. 

"You were so stubborn," you mused. "You refused to admit you were sick, and then, the second I forced you to lay down, you grabbed my hand and just—" 

"I love you," Spencer murmured, finishing the sentence before you could. 

You blinked at him. 

"You didn’t even remember saying it the next morning," you reminded him, smiling despite the heaviness weighing down on you. 

Spencer huffed. "That part was unfortunate." 

"I don’t know," you teased. "I kind of liked getting to tell you that you'd confessed your love to me in the middle of a fever dream." 

Spencer let out a breathy laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. His fingers twitched against the glass, his entire body taut with barely restrained panic. 

"Tell me more," he said suddenly. 

You blinked. "About what?" 

"Anything. Everything. Just keep talking." 

He was trying to keep you awake. 

You knew it. 

But you didn’t argue. 

You smiled softly and whispered, "Okay," before slipping into another story, your voice carrying through the glass like a lifeline. Spencer held onto every single word. 

At some point, though, Spencer had to move when the medical team came rushing in. You barely registered it—just the sound of frantic voices, the distant feeling of your body being dragged into motion. You were barely holding on, your eyes fluttering shut despite Spencer calling your name. 

Then— 

Water. Cold, drenching, shocking. 

You remembered that much. The hazmat team had hosed you down. There was vague, fleeting awareness—Spencer shouting at someone about being gentle with you, the sting of something against your skin, and then— 

You were drenched, clothes clinging to your frame, hair plastered to your face, looking equal parts miserable and very out of it. 

Then—nothing. 

When you woke up, everything felt… hazy. Heavy. Your body ached, your limbs stiff as if you’d been asleep for days. A nasal cannula rested under your nose, cool oxygen flowing through it, making each breath feel easier. 

You blinked slowly, adjusting to the hospital room. The beeping of monitors filled the space, and— 

Spencer. 

He was sitting in the chair beside your bed, staring into the air, his hands clasped together tightly. His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, his usually neat curls disheveled, his clothes wrinkled like he hadn’t moved in hours. 

“Spencer?” 

Your voice came out hoarse, barely more than a whisper, but the second it reached him, he jolted upright. His head snapped toward you, his breath catching in his throat as he stood so quickly the chair scraped against the floor. 

For a moment, he just stared down at you, his hazel eyes wide, disbelieving—like he wasn’t sure if you were real or if his mind was playing some cruel trick on him. 

Then, in a rush, his hand was on yours, gripping tightly, his fingers trembling slightly. 

“You’re awake,” he breathed, like he had been holding those words in his chest for hours. 

You tried to smile, but your lips barely moved. “Hey, Spence.” 

He let out a choked breath, his free hand pushing through his hair, trying to keep himself together. 

“You—God, you scared me,” he whispered, his voice raw. 

Your fingers twitched against his, a weak attempt to squeeze his hand. “Sorry.” 

Spencer let out something between a laugh and a sigh, shaking his head. “Don’t. Don’t apologize.” 

There was a beat of silence, and then you gestured vaguely toward the hospital bed. “So… can I get a hug, or are you just going to stand there looking like a lost puppy?”

Spencer hesitated, his eyes flickering to the monitors and wires surrounding you. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You rolled your eyes. “Spencer, I’m not made of glass. Hug me.”

That was all the encouragement he needed. He leaned down carefully, wrapping his arms around you in a gentle embrace. You sighed, melting into him, your face buried in the crook of his neck. He smelled like coffee and antiseptic, and his shirt was wrinkled beyond repair, but you didn’t care.

“I was so scared,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your hair.

You tightened your grip on him as much as your weakened body would allow. “I know. But I’m okay. Thanks to you.”

Spencer pulled back slightly, his brows furrowed. “Me? I didn’t do anything.”

“You stayed with me,” you said simply, your voice soft. “That’s not nothing.”

Spencer’s eyes softened, and he brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering for a moment. “I told you I wasn’t leaving.”

“And you didn’t,” you said, smiling up at him, though your smile wavered slightly as you noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the way his shoulders sagged with exhaustion.

You watched him carefully, taking in every little detail—the way his fingers curled tightly around yours, the lingering fear in his eyes, the exhaustion weighing down his entire body. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

“How long?” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Spencer swallowed hard, his gaze flickering away for a moment before meeting yours again. “20 hours.”

Your chest tightened. No wonder he looked like he hadn’t slept.

“You stayed?” you asked, though you already knew the answer.

He let out a soft, breathy laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Of course I did.”

You let his words settle over you, the warmth of them sinking into your skin. Slowly, you turned your hand, just enough to thread your fingers through his. His grip tightened instantly.

“I’m okay,” you murmured, your voice steady despite the fatigue pulling at you.

Spencer exhaled shakily, nodding, but his eyes betrayed him—he was still scared.

“Yeah,” he whispered, squeezing your hand like he needed to convince himself. “You are.” And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he finally let himself believe it.

The door creaked open, and both of you turned to see Hotch stepping into the room. His usual stoic expression softened slightly as his eyes landed on you.

“You’re awake,” he said, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of relief. “How are you feeling?”

You managed a small smile. “Like I got hit by a truck, but… I’ll live.”

Hotch nodded, his gaze flickering to Spencer for a moment before returning to you. “You gave us quite the scare.”

“Sorry about that,” you said, your tone light. “I’ll try to avoid inhaling bioweapons in the future.”

Hotch’s lips twitched, the closest thing to a smile you were likely to get from him. “I’d appreciate that.” He paused, his expression growing more serious. “The medical team said you’re responding well to treatment.”

You nodded, feeling a small weight lift off your chest. “That’s good to hear.”

Hotch glanced at Spencer again, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the young agent’s disheveled appearance. “Reid, when was the last time you slept?”

Spencer blinked, caught off guard by the question. “I, uh… I’m not sure.”

Hotch sighed. “Go home. Get some rest. I’ll stay with her.”

Spencer shook his head immediately, his grip on your hand tightening. “No. I’m not leaving.”

Hotch raised an eyebrow. “You’re no good to anyone if you collapse from exhaustion. Go home, shower, eat something, and then you can come back.”

Spencer opened his mouth to argue, but you cut him off.

“He’s right, Spence,” you said softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “You look like you’re about to fall over. Go take care of yourself. I’ll still be here when you get back.”

Spencer hesitated, his eyes searching yours for a moment before he finally relented with a sigh. “Fine. But I’m coming back as soon as I can.”

You smiled. “I’d expect nothing less.”

Hotch stepped aside as Spencer reluctantly stood, his movements slow and stiff. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before straightening up and heading for the door.

Once he was gone, Hotch moved closer to your bed. “He didn’t leave your side the entire time,” he said quietly. “Not even when the medical team told him to.”

You felt a lump form in your throat, but you swallowed it down, nodding. “I know.”

Hotch studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable. “You’re important to him. To all of us. Take care of yourself.”

You smiled faintly. “I will. Thanks, Hotch.”

He nodded once, his usual stoic demeanor returning. “Get some rest. I’ll be outside if you need anything.”

As he left the room, you leaned back against the pillows, letting out a long breath, as you fell asleep once again.

And when Spencer returned an hour later, looking significantly more put together and carrying a cup of coffee for you (decaf, because he insisted), you couldn’t help but smile.

“Miss me?” he asked, setting the coffee on the table beside your bed.

“Always,” you said, reaching for his hand.

[calicosturns]

tw/cw: p in v, sextape

⎯⎯⎯⎯

"lets put it riiiight there—," his voice hoarse as he looms over your frame, his arm stretchs out to put a digital camera on the side or your bed for a better angle, "cant hold it while fuckin' ya, can i?" matt smirks before he pulls you closer roughly, his lips crashing against yours as he claims your mouth in a dominant kiss, grinning into it faintly when a soft moan slips past your lips.

his hands quickly make their way to your hips, gripping your hip bones tightly and pressing you against his erection. brunette lets out a soft his from the contact of your body through the clothes, his head tilts back and necklace dangles, almost hitting your face, but you don't seem to mind it at all.

camera will capture this moment perfectly, it will become one of matt's favorite and he's gonna rewatch it almost every single day of his life. his big, calloused hands ripping off your underwear in a second, leaving you gasping for air from the sudden cold air hitting your heat. legs wrap instinctively around matt's waist, bringing him closer, if its even possible in your position.

"f—ck, did the camera turn ya on that bad?" matt speaks teasingly before sliding his own boxers down his legs and his erection presses against your slick lips, rubbing teasingly against them. you press against his body only more, a shaky sigh escapes your lips. your arms gripped his shoulders as you lean closer and captures your lips in a heating kiss. matt knows what does it mean; he always knows.

while he works with his tongue in your mouth, brunette, with a swift motion, slides inside you, causing you moan into your kiss as he swallows every sound you make with his lips against yours. his whole body is on fire as he thurts into you for the first time, letting you adjust to his size before escalating his pace and hitting the spot right where you need him the most.

loud, almost pathetic moans slip past your lips; matt grabs your jaw and turns your head to the digital camera on the bedside table, making you look right into the lens with the biggest smirk on his face while he slams into you with more force than before. his hands roughly, but not enough to hurt you, squeeze your cheeks and holds you in place as you become a babbling mess around his dick. and he knows he's gonna rewatch this video all over and over again, enjoying it like a damn sadist. because there's no better view than your face when he fucks you.

⎯⎯⎯⎯

a/n: not proofread. english isnt my first language. sorry this is too short, i'll make it up to yall later, promise <3

© calicosturn, 2025

[averagewriter-inthedark]

Kiss the Queen🃏 | Kaz Brekker blurb

Masterlist

Characters & Pairings: Kaz Brekker x crow!reader (romantic)

content warnings: profanity, sexual tension, fluff, banter, typical SOC themes, mentions of Kaz's aversion to touch | female!reader (she/her)| no use of Y/n | wc: 1.5k

Premise: After a long week Kaz Brekker still has paperwork to deal with before he can rest, but leave it to his wife, his Queen of the barrel, to remind him no king can rule a kingdom when he's exhausted his limit

note: I rewatched Shadow & Bone this weakened and gosh I just love (and miss) the Crows. Fuck Netflix for cancelling this show on a cliffhanger and scrapping the SOC spin off.

----------------------------------

“You look tense, my love,” her teasing voice penetrated the once silent room where Kaz was nose deep in paperwork and doing everything he can to not throw it in the fire just to not deal with it. A bottle of whiskey opened with a half drunk glass, a window open to let in the night breeze. Flames from the fire illuminating the space to fill in the gaps the dimmed lights were unable to reach.

It was past midnight. The club was at full capacity with patrons gambling their life savings and drinking until the sun rose. Kaz was exhausted, and her interruption did nothing to ease that.

“I’m always tense,” came his grumble, elbows perched on the desk to lean his head on his gloved hands. Though his eyes were closed, he could hear the shuffling of cards she held along with the echoed tap of her boots against the wooded floors. Approaching the desk to seat herself in the chair directly in front. 

“Those can wait till the morning you know.”

“And give the lawyers the satisfaction of charging me another day for not completing them on time?” He rebuts, lifting his head to glare at her amused expression, grabbing his glass to chug the rest of its contents. “I think not.” 

After pouring whiskey into the now empty glass, he reaches for another in his desk drawer reserved for her, filling it to the desired amount he knows she likes and slides it over. 

“Shouldn’t you be at your table?” He gestured to the deck in her hand. Flicking each card back and forth with precise accuracy. 

“Decided to take a break. You know what those are right?”

Kaz glared at her jest, “I don’t pay you to waste my labor hours by bothering me when I’ve got important work to do.” 

“You don’t pay me at all,” She smirked, tapping his glass with hers before bringing it to her lips. The alcohol burned her throat, but she welcomed it with a hum. “Not anymore that is,” Her eyes sparkled, and Kaz knew what was coming next. “Since you put my name on the deed.” 

His attention drew to the jewelry on her left ring finger. The black diamond encrusted with white ones and forged with a white gold band grinned at him. Sparkling under the flaming light, causing Kaz to match her smirk when she added, “or was it when you first realized you were going to marry me.”

“Rather presumptuous of you to assume, darling.” 

“Is it presumptuous of me when it’s true?” she challenged, setting her glass down slowly as she watched his eyes follow every movement. Lingering on the jewelry. When he didn’t answer her smirk widened to a full grin, resuming her shuffling of the cards as she leaned back in her chair to cross her legs. Again, he observed each motion. Particularly drawn to her legs which were exposed by the pinstripe skirt she wore along with his favorite pair of sheer stockings. 

“Kaz, you’re exhausted,” she turned serious, eyes filled with worry he’d tease her for but knew better than to attempt when she obviously was concerned about him. “You reek of it--what good would it be for the lawyers if you mess up the paperwork because you can’t process what you’re reading.”

Kaz groaned under his breath, turning away, “I don’t appreciate your lack of confidence in me.” All he received was a dramatic eye roll.

“Forgive me, dear husband, that your wife wishes for you to be at your best when making crucial decisions about our financial assets rather than risk an error.” Kaz couldn’t stop the smirk from forming at ‘dear husband’. 

Rising from his chair, Kaz grabbed his cane and approached the front of his desk. Putting himself in the middle between the furniture and his wife, who cheekily brushed her foot against the side of his leg. Careful not to touch him, but enough to rustle the fabric and make him blush

Bowing slightly, Kaz lowered his tone as they locked eyes, lips curling up when she visibly shuddered, “I don’t make errors.”

Her bottom lip went between her teeth. “You don’t make errors?” Her tone took a provocative edge causing heat to rise in Kaz’s veins. Filling his chest until it competed with the fire warming the room.  

“Never.” They’re eye contact remained as she slowly maneuvered her leg from its crossed position to lower on Kaz’s side, so he was basically standing in between her legs. Even when her skirt dragged upward, revealing more skin, his gaze never strayed. 

Her shuffling ceased, “You know I’m right.” 

“Never said you weren’t.”

“Will you take a break then?” She implored with a tilt of the head. 

“Will you get back to your table?”

“Only when I’m assured my husband won’t let his stubbornness override his wellbeing.” 

Kaz huffed, but it wasn’t full of irritation. Not with the way he smiled, causing her own to widen. “You really don’t let up, do you?” 

“Isn’t that why you married me?” She leaned forward; chin tilted up which sent a wave of arousal down Kaz’s spine considering it made her head level with his waist. “Because I never let up. Because I always get what I want.”

Kaz married her for a number of reasons and that certainly was one of them. Her beauty may have been captivating, but it was her mind that drew Kaz like a moth to a flame. Her relentlessness, her skills. The way she could render a man unconscious without blinking, and bring warmth to his once cold, cynical heart. 

Kaz never thought he could be capable of giving or receiving love after losing Jordie. That all changed when he met the woman who managed to tear down the double-bricked walls he built and become the beacon his heart pumped for. 

Her hands fiddled with the deck, until she found the card she was looking for. “You know what truly makes the king,” she flashed the king of hearts between her middle and pointer finger, “so powerful?” Kaz stayed quiet, wanting to hear what she had to say. “It’s because he has an even powerful queen,” with a sleight of hand the card went from the king to the queen, “standing beside him. To pick him up when he’s down. To draw him home when he feels lost.”

Standing to her full height, their chests are barely an inch apart, and Kaz’s breath hitches at the intensity of her stare. “The queen doesn’t let her king fall deep into a hole he cannot crawl out of.” Another flick of her wrist, and the queen is joined by the king. “Otherwise, they cannot rule over their kingdom efficiently.” 

Kaz smirked at the cards, “Lovely trick, dear wife. No wonder your tables are the ones bringing in the most coin. Who taught you that?” Her expression matched his, but there was some underlying annoyance at him trying to change the subject. She didn’t let him though.

“Please, Kaz,” she pleaded while placing the cards back in the deck, voice becoming soft that it made his heart skip. “We can afford one more day if it means you are well rested. You may not make any errors, but it was a hard week, and I’d feel better if you took time to recoup before diving headfirst into the next task we ought to deal with.” 

Kaz sighed, but it was him admitting defeat. Though he wasn’t really fighting to begin with. “I’ll give you four hours.” He’d sleep for four hours then get up right before dawn to finish the paperwork. 

“Five,” she stated with a knowing look he couldn’t fight. “Five hours. I’ll close up the club and count today’s earnings.”

Kaz licked his bottom lip, thinking about the offer. “Four and a half.” She simply narrowed her eyes, and he had to hold in a chuckle. She wasn’t letting up.

“Five.”

“Five it is,” he said with a dramatic huff. “You have a deal, Mrs. Brekker.” 

“Wonderful.” The woman waved her hand, and the queen of hearts reappeared, Kaz letting his chuckle escape as the theatric amused him. “Kiss the queen then, Mr. Brekker.” The card was placed on her mouth. Lips touching the side depicting a crow while the queen faced Kaz. 

Kaz hummed, leaning forward until his lips touched the smooth surface of the card. The thin material as their barrier, noses lightly touching but Kaz had come a long way to feel her touch and not have the waters consuming him. It was still a working progress, but there were moments like this he was grateful for. 

Reeling himself back, Kaz watched her place the queen on top of the deck, giving it a good shuffle before stepping away from him to head for the door. “Five hours, Kaz.”

He raised his glass, gulping the remaining liquid and smirked to her when she faced him with one hand on the doorknob. “Five hours, darling. Now go bring us some more money. Have to keep this kingdom flourishing if we want to maintain it.” 

Pulling open the door, the Queen of the Barrel sent him a wink with that dazzling smile he fell in love with. “Don’t worry, baby, there’s a reason I’m the best.” 

[bucketsorbueckers]

Wish you the best (in the worst way) 11

Paige x Azzi

Warning: Language

a/n: two post in one day. yall better enjoy. all fluff tbh. i love these gals damn. also before you ask, yes. the flashbacks were written from experience lmao

@BleacherReportWNBA 📸 REUNITED? Paige Bueckers and Azzi Fudd shared a moment at today’s All-Star Game — including their signature UConn handshake and a post-hug that had the crowd screaming.

No words were exchanged on mic, but fans caught a whisper and a laugh before the two slipped back into old rhythm like no time had passed. First public moment between the ex-UConn stars since the season opener…and let’s just say, the internet is losing it.

#WNBAAllStar #PaigeBueckers #AzziFudd #Pazzi #UConnLegends

📷: [Getty Images]

@pazzitruthers: 🚨🚨🚨THE HANDSHAKE. THE HUG. THE WHISPER. I AM NOT OKAY. I AM ON THE FLOOR. I AM IN THE WALLS. #pazzi #AllStarGame2025

@/buecknastybackup: me rewatching the clip like it’s a religious ritual. the smile. the LAUGH. the way Paige pulled her in like she never left 🫠

@/uconnalumniadmin: they brought back the UConn handshake. they brought it back. i am not crying. you are crying. we’re all crying.

@/respectfullydelusional: i’m not saying they’re in love but actually no i am saying that. they’re in love. someone sedate me.

@/bueckingunhinged: me watching paige smile like that for the first time all season while hugging azzi: 🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️

@/nikamuhl10: some of us been knew. some of us had to live through it in real time. godspeed to the rest of you 💋

Paige’s POV 

Many years ago

There was nothing remarkable about the moment.

Azzi was sitting cross-legged on the floor of their shared hotel room, a half-eaten banana balanced on her knee and a stats sheet crumpled in her lap. Her hoodie was too big—stolen from Paige’s bag and stretched at the sleeves. She was ranting, in that casually passionate way of hers, about how Paige couldn’t live on beef jerky and poptarts alone. 

And Paige, God help her, was smiling.

Not because it was funny. Not really. The joke had been stupid. Something about bananas being a “superfood,” and Azzi wielding her nutrition knowledge like a weapon.

But Paige was smiling anyway. Because Azzi’s hair was falling out of its ponytail, and she had a smear of peanut butter on her cheek, and she was the most radiant thing Paige had ever seen.

And all at once, something inside her cracked wide open. Her heart didn’t just skip, it stumbled. Rearranged itself. Like it had just remembered what it was built for.

Because this—Azzi in mismatched socks, ranting about potassium levels, laughing at her own dumb joke—this was it. The moment Paige knew.

I’m in love with her.

Not in a maybe way. Not in a passing-thought, what-if kind of way. But in the way that settled deep in her bones and said, Of course it’s her. It’s always been her.

Paige sat up ramrod straight. Like her spine had just remembered it had a job to do. Her heart was pounding in the base of her throat. Her hands—traitorous, tell-all things—trembled faintly in her lap, like the sheer realization had short-circuited her entire nervous system.

Azzi gave her a look. Brow raised, skeptical and a little amused. “You good?”

“Me?” Paige’s voice came out strangled. She cleared her throat. Tried again. “I’m great! Totally fine.”

Azzi squinted at her. “You’re being weird, Bueckers.”

Paige blinked. Swallowed. Her tongue felt like sandpaper and her entire brain was flashing one giant neon sign that read: you’re in love with your best friend.

“Define weird,” she said, with a smile so forced it almost creaked. “Because if defending my breakfast choices is weird, then I don’t want to be normal.”

Azzi tilted her head. “No one normal says things like that.”

Paige forced a laugh. “Guess I’m special, then.”

Azzi smirked and shook her head, but Paige couldn’t hear it anymore. Not really.

Because every atom in her body was screaming the truth now—loud, unmistakable, electric:

Oh no. It’s you. It’s always been you.

“You’re lucky I love you,” Azzi muttered, standing up and stretching her arms over her head.

It was casual. Offhand. The kind of thing they’d said a thousand times before.

But this time, Paige’s heart didn’t get the memo. It skidded in her chest, caught on the word love like a nail snagging thread.

She looked at the floor. Studied the hardwood like it had secrets. Anything to avoid the faint strip of skin Azzi’s hoodie had revealed. Anything to keep from giving herself away.

Her cheeks flushed anyway. Because Azzi Fudd had just said she loved her.

And maybe she hadn’t meant it the way Paige wanted. Maybe it was just friendship, history, routine.

But Paige’s body didn’t know the difference. Her heart didn’t either. And in that moment, it felt like everything in her—every dumb, hopeful, aching part—was standing up and answering: God, I love you too.

Paige blinked, and Azzi was already there—like she always was—hand outstretched, palm open, steady.

It was just a hand. Just a moment. But Paige stared at it like it might split her in two. Because Azzi Fudd was offering to help her off the ground, and somehow it felt like more. Like a metaphor. Like a promise wrapped in something simple.

Paige didn’t take it right away.

Her fingers curled against the floor, like her body knew what her heart wouldn’t say out loud—If I take this, I’ll never come back from it.

Azzi’s brows drew together, just slightly. “Paige. Seriously. You okay?”

No. Not even a little. Paige’s heart was a pinball, ricocheting against her ribs. Her mouth opened, then closed. She nodded anyway.

Then, slowly, she reached up and took Azzi’s hand. Warm. Familiar. Terrifying.

And the second their skin touched, something shifted. Something small. Unspoken. But loud enough that Paige felt it all the way to her teeth.

And right there, in that hotel room, her whole life shifted—quietly, irrevocably—in the space between one heartbeat and the next.

Because maybe she’d always known, in that quiet, buried part of herself. But now? Now it was bright and terrifying and sitting just under her skin.

She loved Azzi Fudd. Not as a teammate. Not as a best friend. Not in the way that made sense to anyone else.

She loved her the way the tide loves the shore…always returning. Always pulled. Always, always hers.

And God, it was ridiculous. Because Azzi was perfect. Talented and focused and so stupidly pretty that Paige couldn’t look directly at her without feeling like her brain had short-circuited.

And what was Paige?

Just the girl who cracked too many jokes and tried too hard. The one who got loud when she didn’t know what to say. Who still couldn’t believe she’d annoyed Azzi Fudd enough times to end up as her best friend.

She’d never stood a chance. Not with someone like her.

But that didn’t stop her heart from choosing Azzi anyway.

Azzi’s POV

Many years ago. 

Paige was looking at her differently.

Not in a bad way. But in that specific, quiet way that made Azzi’s stomach drop and her heart thud like it was knocking on something fragile inside her—asking if she was sure. If she was really sure she could keep pretending.

Because maybe Paige had noticed. Maybe she’d seen the shift in Azzi, the hesitation in her touch, the way her laughter came a beat too late when Paige was near. Maybe she’d felt how everything had changed two weeks ago—when Paige had been laughing, too loud, too unbothered, too Paige, and it had hit Azzi like a punch to the chest.

She was in love with her best friend.

Not in the way people say when they’re trying to sound poetic. In the way that rearranges your whole concept of time. In the way that ruins you a little.

Azzi had smiled through it, pretended her lungs weren’t collapsing. Kept showing up to workouts and sleepovers and breakfast runs like she hadn’t just realized she would never, ever love anyone like this again.

But now Paige was looking at her. Like she knew.

And Azzi felt that same collapsing feeling inside her. Only this time, she couldn’t laugh it off. Couldn’t roll her eyes or change the subject. She was suddenly very aware of the space between them—too much, too little—and how Paige’s eyes softened when they landed on her.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” Azzi asked, trying to sound normal. Teasing, maybe. But it came out breathless.

Paige blinked. “Like what?”

And God, that smile. That stupid, soft smile. Azzi wanted to run and also never leave this spot.

She cleared her throat. “Like…I don’t know. That.”

Paige tilted her head, like she was about to say something dangerous. Azzi was trying to play it cool. She always tried around Paige. But her hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting, and her heart kept doing that thing, skipping like it hadn’t learned the right rhythm yet.

Because it was Paige. Of course it was.

Paige, who made people laugh without trying. Who could command a room without saying a word. Who’d already been on magazine covers while Azzi still struggled to answer interview questions without stammering.

Paige, who the whole world seemed to orbit around.

And Azzi? Azzi was just lucky to be close. Close enough to catch the jokes. To pass the ball. To sit shoulder to shoulder on long bus rides and pretend her pulse wasn’t going haywire.

She didn’t stand a chance, not really.

Not with someone like Paige. Not in that way.

“Are you done lecturing me about my eating habits?” Paige asked, a teasing glint in her eyes that never failed to disarm her.

Azzi licked her lips. Shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Apologies for wanting you to properly fuel your body.”

Paige smirked, and Azzi had to look away for a second. Because it was unfair. That smile. That face. The way she was always half-laughing, half-daring the world to get close enough to hurt her.

“I guess you’re right,” Paige said, voice softer now. “I am lucky you love me.”

Azzi froze. Just for a breath. Just long enough for her heart to hiccup.

She meant it as a joke. A soft jab, like always. But when Paige grinned—really grinned, that uneven thing that always made Azzi’s chest pull tight—something shifted.

And Azzi could handle that. She could handle anything if Paige was looking at her like that. Paige looked at her like she was important. Like she was worth her time.

And Azzi could handle that. She could handle anything if Paige was looking at her like that.

“I guess you’re right,” Paige said quietly. “I am lucky you love me.”

Azzi’s smile didn’t falter, but her breath hitched—barely. Not enough for Paige to notice. She could handle this. She had been handling it. For weeks now. Ever since something changed and she realized love could mean more than inside jokes and hotel rooms and shared playlists.

Because she did love her.

In all the ways that mattered. In all the ways she maybe shouldn’t.

So she just shrugged and said, “Yeah, well. Don’t make it weird.”

But god, wasn’t it already?

Paige’s POV

Five years ago. 

Azzi sat on her bed, cross-legged, sleeves of Paige’s old Huskies hoodie covering her hands. She was talking about something for class—econ, maybe?—but Paige couldn’t hear a word.

She kept nodding along like she was listening, but the truth was: all she could focus on was the shape of Azzi in that sweatshirt. How it looked right on her. Better, even. Like it belonged to her now.

It had become a quiet obsession. Azzi Fudd in her clothes.  Paige had started offering them more often—too often. "It’s cold, here—take this." "You don’t have to give it back yet."

She’d practically had to double her laundry just to ensure she still had clothes to give. 

Because it meant Azzi was carrying a piece of her. Because it meant maybe someone out there would see her walking across campus and think, just for a second: Who’s sweatshirt is that?

And maybe Azzi would say her name. 

And that night, Paige couldn’t stop staring at her. At how the hoodie hung off her shoulder. At the way her nose scrunched when she got too into whatever point she was making.

And that was the moment Paige knew—really knew—that she was in trouble.

Because she wasn’t thinking like a best friend anymore.  She was thinking like someone who wanted to pull her close by the strings of that hoodie and kiss her breathless. And once she knew that, she couldn’t un-know it.

“Earth to Bueckers?” Azzi said, arching a brow. “Are you even listening?”

“Yeah!” Paige said quickly, too quickly. Her voice pitched up like it was wearing a disguise. “Totally. You were saying something about… inflation?”

She winced the second the word left her mouth.

Azzi blinked. “I was talking about my group project on the Reconstruction Amendments.”

“Right. Yes. Obviously.”

Azzi squinted at her, suspicious now. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Paige croaked. Then cleared her throat and tried again. “Just… tired.”

But she wasn’t tired.  She was spiraling.  Because Azzi was sitting there in her hoodie, sleeves covering her hands like she always did, head tilted with just enough concern to make Paige want to scream.

God, she was doomed.

Azzi Fudd—smart, beautiful, maddening Azzi Fudd—was her best friend. Her teammate. The girl who’d known her since they were sixteen. The girl who said things like you’re lucky I love you with a laugh, not realizing she was splitting Paige down the middle.

And now she was sitting on Paige’s bed like she’d always belonged there. Like this wasn’t slowly becoming unbearable.

Paige shifted, fingers twitching against her thigh.  Because she wasn’t fine. She was in love. And like an idiot in love, she hopped up on the bed beside her. 

“You have my full attention,” She said, turning to face her. 

But it was a mistake. Because up close, Azzi was too much.

The way her lashes cast shadows against her cheeks. The way her mouth curved when she was explaining something she cared about. The faint smell of her shampoo, like citrus and something warm, something that made Paige think of summer even in the middle of winter.

Azzi glanced at her, mid-sentence, and smiled.

Paige’s breath caught. It just—stopped.

Because it was too much. All of it. The softness. The nearness. The goddamn smile.

Paige had always thought love would feel bigger. Louder. Like a fire alarm or a car crash or something you couldn’t miss. But this was quieter. Slower. Like a secret blooming behind her ribs.

And Azzi didn’t know. She couldn’t. She was just sitting there, laughing at her own story, knuckles brushing Paige’s comforter like it wasn’t sending sparks up her spine.

Paige exhaled, shallow. Her chest tight.

She didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to ruin anything. But she couldn’t stop thinking it:

You’re it. You’ve always been it. How am I supposed to love anyone else when I know you? 

Azzi leaned over to grab a water bottle from the nightstand, the hem of the sweatshirt riding up just a little. Paige’s eyes snapped to the ceiling like that might save her.

It didn’t.

Azzi laughed again, soft and unbothered. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m always weird,” Paige said. Her voice didn’t crack. Small miracle.

Azzi shrugged. “Yeah, but you’re, like, extra weird tonight.”

Paige ran her tongue over her teeth, trying to bite back the words climbing up her throat like ivy—wild, fast-growing, impossible to ignore. She didn’t want to ruin anything. But doing nothing had never been her strong suit. And this? This had been years in the making. Quiet wanting. Careful hiding.

Then Azzi reached out—soft, a little uncertain—and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Paige’s ear.

And that was it.

That one small touch short-circuited the part of her brain responsible for caution. For logic. For self-preservation.

“Azzi,” she said.

But it came out differently. Lower. Warmer. Heavier.

Azzi noticed. Paige felt her still.

And in the thick quiet that followed, her heart pounded so loud it could’ve counted as a confession all on its own.

They’d recovered from everything before. Every awkward moment, every sidelong glance, every too-long silence. They always found their way back. Maybe they’d recover from this too. Maybe they wouldn’t.

But Paige Bueckers had never been the kind of girl to flinch, and God, if she was going to leap, it was going to be for Azzi Fudd.

Azzi’s POV

It was the way Paige said her name.

Not sharp or teasing, not the way she usually threw it across a gym or muttered it into a pillow during late-night movie marathons. This was quieter. Careful. Like the word had weight now.

Azzi stilled.

Because it was nothing. Probably. Just a weird slip of the tongue. Just Paige being Paige.

Except it didn’t feel like nothing. It felt like a ripple—like something shifting between them that Azzi wasn’t ready for, even though she’d been secretly waiting on it forever.

Her heart beat louder.

Don’t be stupid, she told herself. Paige didn’t look at her like that. Paige was golden and brave and bright in all the ways Azzi had never been. Paige had people fall in love with her on accident. She wasn’t supposed to fall for the best friend who never even noticed.

So Azzi did what she always did when things got too close to the truth.

She smiled. Light. Casual. Like she hadn’t just felt the earth tilt under her feet.

“What?” she said, soft and deflective. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

But Paige didn’t answer right away.

And Azzi knew, in the hollow space between heartbeats, that this might be the moment she remembered for the rest of her life. The almost. The could-have.

Because some part of her—buried deep—had always believed: Paige Bueckers was a little too good to be hers.

Paige blinked. 

“I have to tell you something.”

Azzi bit down on her lip, tilted her head. Her heart was a snare drum now—steady, frantic, loud enough she was sure Paige could hear it.

“You have to promise you won’t get mad.”

Azzi exhaled, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, trying not to show how nervous she suddenly was. “What did you do?”

Paige didn’t smile. Didn’t deflect.

Instead, she leaned in slightly, knees bumping Azzi’s on the bed. Her fingers twisted in the hem of her own sweatshirt and she looked up like it physically hurt to say what came next.

“I think I’m in love with you,” Paige said, barely louder than a breath. “And not in the way I’m supposed to be.”

The words came out rough, like they’d been clawing at her throat for years—fighting for a way out.

“I know this probably ruins everything,” she went on, voice trembling. “But I couldn’t keep pretending. Not when it’s been true for so long I don’t even remember what it feels like not to love you.”

Azzi went still.

Not because she didn’t feel the same.

But because some impossible part of her had spent years building a quiet little world where Paige Bueckers couldn’t love her like that. Not really. Not like this.

“I—” Azzi tried, but the words caught. Lodged somewhere between disbelief and the heartbreakingly hopeful thing cracking open in her chest.

And Paige—God, Paige—was still looking at her like she’d just peeled herself back layer by layer and offered up her heart, still pulsing, still breakable.

“I’m sorry,” Paige said quickly, her voice catching. “I know this is a lot. I know I probably just made things weird. I just—” she exhaled, eyes shining, “I’ve been holding it in for so long, and I didn’t know how to keep pretending I wasn’t.”

She started to say more—because Paige always said more when she got scared—but Azzi reached for her hand. Held it. Firm and trembling all at once.

“Paige,” she said, steady now.

And Paige went silent. Like the world had gone still just for them.

Azzi’s fingers tightened around Paige’s.

“Don’t apologize,” she said, her voice soft but sure. “Please don’t.”

Paige looked at her, eyes wide and wet, like she didn’t dare believe it yet.

And Azzi didn’t know how to say it all. Didn’t know how to explain the years of burying it, of pretending the feelings didn’t curl around her ribs every time Paige smiled like that. Every time she made her laugh. Every time she wore her hoodie and left toothpaste in the sink and made Azzi feel like maybe the world wasn’t such a heavy place after all.

So instead, Azzi stepped forward. Just one breath between them now.

“Say it again,” she whispered.

Paige blinked, caught off guard. “I’m sorry?”

“No, idiot,” Azzi said, eyes shining. “Not that. The other thing.”

Paige’s smile twitched up, soft and crooked like she didn’t quite trust this was real. But she didn’t hesitate.

“I love you,” she said. “I love you, Azzi Fudd.”

And it wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t polished. But it cracked something open in Azzi, something she’d been holding shut for years. Her face crumpled as she laughed, as she cried, as she finally let it all rush out.

“I love you too,” she said, the words tumbling from her chest like they’d been waiting for a home.

And for the first time in a long time, she felt like she’d found it.

“Are you just playing a prank on me?” Paige asked, still grinning, even as something nervous flickered behind her eyes. “Like when you lied about committing to UConn?”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but her heart was pounding. “That was one time.”

Paige opened her mouth to argue again and Azzi didn’t think, she just moved.

She surged forward, too fast, too clumsy, and their lips collided—more like a collision than a kiss, teeth knocking, noses bumping, and Azzi immediately pulled back, eyes wide. “Oh my god. Sorry. That was—”

But Paige was already laughing. Laughing and grabbing fistfuls of Azzi’s hoodie and pulling her back in.

“Don’t apologize,” she said, breathless against Azzi’s mouth. “Try again.”

And this time, they slowed down. Let it land softer. Let it feel like what it was: years of buildup finally spilling over. A little messy. A little magical. And completely them. 

Paige’s POV

Current day 

Azzi stood in the soft light of the hotel bathroom, her back to Paige, the zipper of her dress just barely out of reach.

“I can’t get it,” she said, turning slightly, her voice quiet. Almost shy.

Paige stepped in without saying anything. She raised a hand, rested it gently against Azzi’s spine like a question. Azzi nodded once.

The zipper glided down slowly, the sound too loud in the hush of the room. Paige’s fingers brushed the warmth of Azzi’s skin as it was revealed, inch by inch, soft and freckled and familiar. Her hand trembled slightly—not with nerves, but reverence.

Azzi didn’t move.

Paige let her palm rest between her shoulder blades for a second too long before she slid the fabric off Azzi’s shoulders. The dress fell, catching at her hips before it pooled at her feet, and Azzi stepped out of it, unhurried. Unbothered.

Paige kept her eyes to herself, feeling suddenly shy, and handed Azzi an old t-shirt. When she finally looked back, what she saw nearly stopped her dead. 

Azzi. Barefoot in Paige’s old Huskies t-shirt, makeup still smudged beneath her eyes. Paige’s heart ached at the sight of her. 

“You still do that thing,” Paige said softly, retrieving the cotton pad and make up remove from the sink. “Where your eyeliner smudges just here.”

She touched the spot gently, dabbing beneath Azzi’s lower lashes.

Azzi smiled faintly, eyes closed. She knew what was coming next. 

Paige worked slowly. Carefully. Wiping away the day like it had no right to linger. Her thumb brushed Azzi’s cheekbone, her knuckles warm against her skin. She turned Azzi’s face slightly with two fingers under her chin, like handling something fragile.

“Still smells like vanilla,” she murmured, half to herself.

Azzi opened her eyes, and they were glassy but not sad. Just full. Full of knowing, of feeling, of everything they’d let themselves want again.

Paige paused when she was done, her hands cupping Azzi’s face. “You’re so—” Her voice cracked. She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to.

Azzi leaned forward until their foreheads touched. Paige let herself breathe there, just for a second. In that space. In that quiet.

No crowd noise. No performance. Just Azzi, warm and tired and here.

“You okay?” Paige whispered.

Azzi nodded. “I’ve never been more.”

They moved to the bed slowly. Like a ritual. Azzi curled into Paige’s side, her fingers curling into the hem of Paige’s shirt like it anchored her. Paige’s hand found her waist, her thumb grazing bare skin without expectation.

It would’ve been easy—so easy—to slip into the old rhythm. To kiss her hard. To chase the heat and pretend it was healing. That’s how they’d always done it. How they’d tried to fix what broke between them—mouths before words, touch before truth.

But Paige didn’t move.

She wanted to. God, she wanted to. But more than that, she wanted this to last. Wanted to be better. Wanted them to stop mistaking closeness for repair.

So she stayed still. Let her breathing slow. Matched it to Azzi’s.

Neither of them spoke for a long while. They didn’t have to. There was something holy in it. Not in the grand confessions or sweeping declarations. Just in the small things.

The careful hands. The shared silence. The way Azzi exhaled when Paige kissed her temple and whispered, “You’re safe.”

Azzi shifted just slightly, like she was afraid to move too much. Like if she broke the stillness, the moment would slip through her fingers.

Paige felt it too. That ache that lived beneath the skin, beneath the years. The weight of everything they hadn’t said, everything they’d tried to forget and never could.

Her hand drifted from Azzi’s waist to the curve of her hip, not in a way that asked for anything, just in a way that said I’m here. I’m staying.

Azzi’s voice was barely a whisper. “You always knew how to make me feel safe.”

Paige let her lips brush Azzi’s temple again, slower this time. “Because you were always home.”

Azzi turned in her arms, curling closer, her leg slipping between Paige’s. They fit together like something that had been apart too long and forgot how to unlearn it.

Their noses brushed. And then Azzi kissed her.

Soft.

Barely there.

A breath more than a touch, like she didn’t want to overwhelm the moment, like she wanted Paige to know she could still change her mind.

But Paige didn’t. Couldn’t.

She kissed her back with the kind of gentleness that made Azzi shiver. Careful, reverent. Like every part of her had waited for this. Had survived for this.

Azzi’s hands moved. One resting over Paige’s heart like she could feel it stuttering beneath her ribs, the other cradling her jaw, thumb stroking once beneath her eye like a promise.

When they broke apart, Paige didn’t let go. She kept her arms around Azzi, her fingers tracing circles along her spine. The room was quiet, the kind of quiet that only came when two people knew they didn’t have to pretend anymore.

She kissed her forehead first.

Just a press of lips to skin, quiet and reverent. Like a benediction. Like she was thanking whatever thread of the universe had tied them back together.

Then her temple. The shell of her ear. Her jaw.

Azzi shivered beneath her but didn’t move. Just breathed, slow and shaky, as if she couldn’t quite believe she was allowed to be touched like this—like she was precious.

Paige didn’t rush. There was no urgency in her hands, no fire behind her mouth. Just slow movement, like she was learning the map of someone she’d always known by heart.

She dragged her lips along Azzi’s cheekbone, down the slope of her neck, across the soft curve of her shoulder. Her hands never stopped moving—thumb brushing over her wrist, palm cradling the dip of her waist, the kind of touch that says I see you. I still love you exactly as you are.

Azzi let out the quietest sound, not a moan, not even a whimper. Just breath leaving her in a way that said I’ve been waiting for this.

Paige smiled against her collarbone. “You’re so beautiful,” she whispered, not for effect, not even entirely on purpose. Just because it was true, and her body didn’t know how to hold the words in anymore.

Azzi’s hand found her cheek then, fingers gentle as they tucked a strand of hair behind Paige’s ear.

“I didn’t think we’d ever get here,” she said, voice caught between a laugh and something like wonder. “But I always hoped.”

And Paige kissed her again—not on the mouth, not yet—but the dip of her shoulder, the soft skin just above her heart. Again and again and again.

Not to take.

Not to own.

But to say: I remember everything. And I never stopped loving you for a second.

—-

Paige woke with a start—soft, but sharp enough that her breath caught.

It was the light that got her first. The kind of gentle morning gray that usually meant someone had already left. Slipped out before the sun had fully risen. Before they had to answer for anything.

Her chest tightened instinctively. Old muscle memory.

For a second, she didn’t dare move. Just stared at the ceiling and listened—to the hum of the air conditioner, the muffled traffic below, the sound of her own heart doing something awful in her chest.

Then she felt it.

The weight of a leg thrown over hers. Warm. Familiar. A hand curled under her shirt. Not searching. Just there. And Paige turned her head.

Azzi was still there.

Still tangled in the sheets beside her. Still wearing Paige’s old T-shirt, the one with the faded logo and the stretched-out collar she used to claim was “objectively hideous.” Still breathing slow and steady, mouth slightly open, her lashes dark against her cheeks.

Paige let out a breath. Quiet. Shaky. Almost embarrassed. Because some part of her, no matter how good last night had felt—how right it had felt—had still been waiting to wake up alone.

To find a note. A silence. A version of Azzi that vanished with the light. But she hadn’t left.

Paige blinked hard, staring at her like she couldn’t quite believe it. Like if she looked away too fast, she’d disappear.

Azzi stirred, barely. Her fingers flexed at Paige’s side. Her nose scrunched the way it always did when the pillowcase wasn’t soft enough. And then, without opening her eyes, she mumbled, “Stop staring. You’re making it weird.”

Paige laughed. Quiet and cracked and real.

Azzi peeked one eye open. “Hi.”

Paige nodded, too full to speak.

She reached for her slowly, like the space between them still didn’t quite believe they could do this. But Azzi didn’t flinch. She just leaned in and pressed their foreheads together, whispering, “I’m still here.”

The morning light poured in more confidently now, catching on the curve of Azzi’s cheek, the way her lashes tangled from sleep. Paige wanted to memorize it. All of it. She wanted to bottle the way this felt—quiet and soft and utterly undeserved.

She pressed a kiss to Azzi’s knuckles, one by one, like an apology and a prayer. Azzi shifted closer until they were nose to nose. “I’m not going anywhere, Paige.” 

And Paige believed her.

Not because the ache had disappeared. Not because the past didn’t still live under their skin. But because Azzi was still here. Wrapped up in her shirt. In her sheets. In the soft, aching morning that didn’t ask for more than this moment.

And Paige, for the first time in what felt like years, didn’t flinch at the idea of being loved this gently.

Azzi’s POV

Paige looked terrified for only a second—just the flicker of it—but it cracked something open in Azzi like a fault line giving way.

Because it wasn’t just fear in her eyes. It was something older. Something Azzi recognized because she’d carried it too.

That silent, gnawing doubt that said: You’re easy to leave.

Azzi reached for her instinctively, fingers brushing the inside of Paige’s wrist, grounding them both.

“Hey,” she whispered, voice soft like she was trying not to scare a bird from her palm. “I’m still here.”

Paige’s eyes met hers, wide and raw. Azzi didn’t look away.

“I’m not going anywhere, Paige.”

And she meant it. Not as a promise sealed in dramatic declarations or tied up with a bow, but as something steadier. Something like: I woke up and wanted to stay. And I’ll keep waking up and wanting to stay.

She tucked a piece of Paige’s hair behind her ear.

“I know I hurt you,” Azzi said. “I know we both did. But I never stopped loving you. I couldn't. I tried."

Paige blinked hard, her throat working.

“And I’ll spend as long as it takes proving I’m not going anywhere. Okay?”

Paige didn’t speak. She just nodded. One small, shaky nod like her chest couldn’t hold anything bigger yet. Azzi leaned in, pressing her forehead to Paige’s, their noses brushing.

“I love you,” she murmured. “Still. Always.”

“Always,” Paige replied.

Azzi wrapped her arms around her without hesitation, pulling her close like she’d never let go again.

Paige’s face pressed into her collarbone, quiet and small in a way Azzi hadn’t seen in years. Like the armor had finally dropped. Like she’d been holding her breath for far too long and now, she could finally exhale.

Azzi stroked slow circles along her spine. Said nothing more. Just held her.

—----------

Eventually, what they were in New York for arrived. The All-Star Game.

It came in a blur of flashing lights and camera crews, of names echoing through the arena and jerseys with bright stars stitched across the chest. There were interviews, meet-and-greets, and locker rooms full of familiar faces from seasons past. Azzi kept catching glimpses of Paige—laughing with teammates, tossing warm-up passes, head tilted like she was listening but eyes always scanning.

But when their paths crossed in the tunnel before tipoff, Paige let her hand brush Azzi’s. Just once. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of moment. But Azzi felt it everywhere.

They jogged out. Different uniforms. Different sides. But the distance was different this time. Not so much a valley they couldn’t cross—more like a river they’d decided to wade through together. Still running, still separate, but always glancing back. Always within reach.

Azzi glanced over once during introductions, caught Paige already looking.

Paige winked.

Azzi rolled her eyes and mouthed, grow up, but she was smiling.

The tipoff lineup had that specific kind of chaos only an All-Star game could pull off—camera crews jostling, music pumping, players greeting each other like summer camp reunions with half-hugs and playful trash talk.

Azzi had barely made it to the circle before she felt it—that buzz at the base of her spine that always meant Paige Bueckers was close.

They’d spent the whole season pretending the other didn’t exist—or nearly shoulder-checking each other into the hardwood. No interviews, no eye contact, no nothing. Just tension and trash talk and way too many people speculating.

But today?

Today they broke the narrative. 

Azzi stuck out her hand like it was nothing. Like her heart wasn’t slamming into her ribs. Like she hadn’t imagined this exact moment all these years, hoping maybe one day they’d get back here. 

Paige blinked. Then smiled, crooked and slow. And she took it.

Their hands fit the way they always had.

Paige leaned in, whispered something only Azzi could hear.

Azzi laughed, a real one. Then, because they were ridiculous, and because they could, they slipped into the handshake. The dumb one from UConn. Muscle memory. Soul memory. It ended with that same awkward shoulder tap they'd made up freshman year, the one no one else ever got quite right no matter how many times they tried.

Someone behind them whooped. The crowd caught on. A camera swung their way just in time for the hug.

Because of course they hugged.

Azzi didn’t even think about it—just stepped forward, arms looping around Paige’s neck like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like no time had passed. Like love could be muscle memory too. Paige didn’t hesitate. Her hands found the small of Azzi’s back, easy, certain. Their bodies fit together like they were always meant to. Like some part of them had been waiting for this.

“Go easy on me, baby,” Paige murmured.

The words didn’t just land—they settled. In her spine. Her ribs. The softest parts of her. She pulled back just enough to meet Paige’s eyes, and smiled. Slow. Dangerous.

“Not a chance,” she said.

The game moved fast. Too fast, honestly.

It was all no-look passes and logo threes, the kind of night where the basketball gods smiled and everything dropped. The crowd roared. Flashbulbs burst. It was messy and beautiful and fun in a way games hadn’t felt in a long time.

They crossed paths more than once.

On a switch. On a rebound. On a loose ball where their hands collided, and Paige smirked without looking at her. Azzi tried not to melt on the spot.

She didn’t play badly. Actually, she was on fire in the third.

But Paige? Paige was untouchable.

She hit her stepback. Picked a pocket clean on a fast break and finished it with that same casual flair. The one that made the whole arena hold its breath.

And when the final buzzer sounded, Paige’s team had the lead, easily. 

She was swarmed before Azzi could even blink. Teammates yelling, hugging her tight, coaches grinning like they’d known all along. 

MVP.

Azzi clapped with the rest of them. Even smiled.

Because sure, she’d wanted the win. Always had. The hunger was stitched into her DNA, humming beneath her skin since she was a kid. Second place had never tasted sweet.

But then there was Paige. Grinning at her, through the chaos, through the sea of hands and cameras and noise. And somehow, even in the mess of it, it felt like the win still belonged to them both.

Because maybe there were people you’d settle for second place with. People who made the loss feel less like losing.

And Azzi, she’d never admit it out loud, but seeing Paige like this, golden and grinning and still somehow looking for her in the crowd, well....

It felt like winning anyway.

[stinkysam]

Choi Subong “Thanos” - One heart.

Warning : suicidal thoughts, drug use

Genre : fluff

Synopsis : “Please do another part of the 'one-sided' love with Choi su-bong” - anon

Reader : male (you/yours)

A/N : pt.1 TWO HEARTS // English is in bold // I think Thanos mostly won the ddakji game because we didn’t see him get slapped, unlike all the other characters (?)

Thanos was having a bad night, staying up late, rewatching MG Coin’s latest video.

He had lost 500 million won in crypto currency because of that asshole.

“Put it all in, trust me.” He said, repeating what the YouTuber had said. “Fucking bitch.” He was now indebted to a total of 1.19 billion won. How was he supposed to repay all that ?

He wanted to call you. He had grabbed his phone and typed in your name, but as you popped up, he decided against it, throwing it back on the bed.

It was really late and he knew you struggled with sleep, not wanting to stop you from resting.

So he walked out with his vape and his subway card in his pockets, his cross around his neck.

The more he walked, and the more he felt his sanity lose him, agonizing over all the lost money, failed love attempt and his failed rap career.

He didn’t know how to get rid of his debt, and he couldn’t even ask you, you just had enough money to live somewhat comfortably thanks to your part time job.

Thanos took a hit of his vape as he walked, frustration growing heavier and heavier to the point of hitting his head several times with the small device, not caring about the weird stare from the people around.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why did he say to go all in ? Did he do that on purpose ?!” He yelled, angry at both the YouTuber and himself for trusting him.

“What are you looking at ?” He asked angrily at someone passing nearby who side eyed him.

When he stopped walking, he was in the middle of a bridge. He looked to the side, watching the dark water. He could still see the waves, reflecting the moonlight.

For a moment he considered jumping. What’s stopping him ?

You’d probably cry over him a bit, like his other friends, but then you’d all move on. And then you’d forget about him.

He won’t even have a funeral worth remembering, whether they find his body in the water or not. Maybe with his greenish/yellowish shirt people would find him ? Maybe he should’ve put on a darker shirt ?

He took another drag of his vape, letting the smoke out with a sigh. He leaned closer to the border, looking at how high the bridge was.

Would it hurt if he jumped, would he really die ? Would his bones just break at the contact of the water ?

He opened his cross, taking a pill and swallowing it before letting out another sigh and pulling away, walking back. The drug quickly relaxing him.

As he waited for the subway, a man approached him.

“Excuse me, sir.” A voice called from behind. Thanos barely turned around, waving him away.

“Don’t need your help.” He said quietly.

“I must insist, I want to talk to you about a great opportunity.”

Thanos finally turned around, barely giving the guy a glance.

“What do you want ?”

“I’m sure it will interest you.” The man said, showing his suitcase before opening it. It had two pieces of paper, folded into squares, one red, one blue, and a large amount of cash.

Thanos looked at him then at the money and at him once more with raised eyebrows, pointing at it.

“What if I told you you could win money by playing a game with me ?” The man said with a gentle smile. Thanos looked at him, interested.

“What ?”

“A game of ddakji. I flip the card, you give me 100 000 won. You flip the card, I give you 100 000 won. Okay ?”

Thanos looked at him for a second before nodding.

“So which color do you want to play as ?” The man asked, taking the two pieces of paper.

“Red.” Thanos replied, pointing at it before taking a hit of his vape.

The man gave it to him, placing the blue one on the floor and placing himself a few feet to the side, giving Thanos space.

Thanos looked at the red card, quickly trying to study it to know how to throw it to win, nothing came to him. He approached the blue one, glanced at the man once before focusing back on the game, and then threw it right on the blue card who was sent in the air before falling on its other side.

Wide eyed, Thanos looked at the man, holding one hand out, ready to get the money.

“The round is not over.” The man said with a smile, before signaling Thanos to move to the side. He took the blue card, leaving the red one on the ground before powerfully and confidently throwing it down, the red card successfully flipping over.

Thanos groaned, cursing under his breath. He had no money on himself, but he could still pay back with the money earned in the game, right ?

They played a total of 10 rounds, 6 of which Thanos won. Winning him 600 000 won, but having lost four rounds made him lose 400 000, so a total of 200 000 won earned in the end.

The man took a large sum of money, counting it before giving it to Thanos who took a drag of his vape before taking the money.

“Sir.” The man said, closing his suitcase as Thanos counted the money before giving it a kiss. “You can make big money playing games like this for a few days. Would you like to give it a try ?”

Thanos looked at him, confused. This had to be a scam.

That’s when the man called him by his real name, taking him off guard as he said his age, the schools he went to, what year he left, to whom he owes money and how much, the small jobs he had and when he started his rap career and how he failed it. Finishing by mentioning his dad and his failed relationship attempt with you.

“What is it ? Who are you ?” Thanos asked, approaching the man, ready to fight. “You stalking me ?”

But the man didn’t answer, instead taking out a small card, unbothered.

“We have a few spots left.” He smiled as Thanos took the card, briefly looking at it. “Give me a call.”

Then he walked away with his suitcase, disappearing into the subway as Thanos stayed there, considering ripping off the small piece of paper.

“What the fuck ?” He looked around, trying to see if there really was someone following him.

“A few games like this, huh ?” Thanos said, finally looking back at the card, placing it in his pocket with the money.

Thinking, he began to move his lower jaw repeatedly along with his fingers, waiting for the next train.

When it finally arrived, he sat down inside, jaw still in action, head moving up and down to the rhythm of some song, hands flying in the air.

Not a lot of people were on the train at this hour, though he earned a few stares from the most sober ones. The drunks were barely conscious or too focused on themselves and their friends, talking and laughing loudly.

He almost missed his stop, listening too intently to a discussion nearby. His jaw moved faster the more he focused on them.

Walking out of the subway, Thanos thought about getting his phone out to send you a picture of the money but he remembered he had left it on his bed.

“Shit.” His head dropped down.

He continued his way back home, soon noticing a man sitting on the stairs by his door, face down.

“Is that bastard sleeping ?” He asked quietly. He wanted to give them a kick but moved past him to unlock his door instead, hearing a faint music coming from him. Thanos guessed he wasn’t asleep as the man began to hum quietly. “Fucking bitch, taking my stairs for a public bench.”

As he searched for his keys, he recognized the song. ‘Ego’ by BigBang, the song you kept listening to recently. And it was also your voice humming it.

“Fucking… [Name] ?” He asked, turning around. You didn’t respond, still humming. He gave you a kick to the side, making you jump and rip off your earphones.

“What the- Oh ! T !” You smiled, standing up. “What the fuck did you hit me for ?” You added with a frown, pausing your music.

“I thought you were some drunkard ! Why were you waiting like that !” He pointed at you, angry, stomping.

“How did you want me to wait ?!” You pointed at him in return. “I called your phone but you didn’t answer, so I knocked at your door but nothing ! Who sleeps like a fucking log, huh ?! So I thought you were out and I could wait for you.”

He stared at you, before squeezing the bridge of his nose, calming down. He didn’t know why you were here but it would be a lie to say he wasn’t happy to see you.

“How are you not asleep ?”

“You’re… not either ?” You pointed out.

“Yeah but you have sleeping troubles.”

“Yeah, exactly, that’s why I’m up, dumbass.” You said with a laugh. “Are you letting us in or do you prefer to have this conversation outside ?”

He stared at you before rolling his eyes and unlocking the door, keeping it open for you to get in.

“Why did you go through all the trouble to get here ?” He asked with a smile as you walked past him.

“I have something to tell you.” You replied, looking away.

“Me too, you’ll never believe what happened.” He said, closing the door behind himself and following you to his room.

“What ?”

“I got 200 000 won just by playing a children’s game.”

“Nice. Are you sure this wasn’t a scam ?” You asked, laying on his bed, grabbing his phone and giving it to him. He unlocked it, seeing all the texts you had sent him. He would freak out about them, but you’re here, so he can’t.

He sat next to you, grabbing his pillow and giving it to you. You took it, giving a quick ‘thanks’ as you rested your head on it.

“The guy even gave me his card to play more games. Said I could win a lot more.” He took out the card and the cash, showing them to you.

You said nothing, studying the money. Was it stolen ? Was there a way to know ? You took out your phone and asked Naver.

“He uh- he also knew a shit tons of things about me. Like, crazy level.” He grimaced, lips in a pout.

“Huh ?!” You raised your head, letting your phone drop from your hands. “Throw that card away, don’t call them !”

“I won’t !”

“Yeah you’re just thinking about it ! I know you.” You sat up, placing a hand on his. He looked at it. “There’s no such thing as easy money, unless you’re already rich. This is so obviously a trap.”

He sighed, slightly upset you weren’t as excited about it as he was.

“I could pay my debts !”

“Or die ? Maybe they’re gonna take all your organs, your fucking eyes ?” You squeezed his hand, trying to make your point across. His heart skipped a beat.

“He said they were games, like the one we played.”

“And you trust him because he gave you 200 000 won ?”

“It was ddakji.”

You pulled your hand away with a sigh, feeling defeated, but he grabbed it back.

“Nothing bad is going to happen. Trust me.”

“No, I’m not gonna trust him for you. Throw that card away, don’t call them.” You pulled away, grabbing the card and throwing it to the floor. “I don’t want to find you dead, or have you disappear and never see your body because some asshole got you with money.”

He looked at you, he knew you cared about him, you had made that clear before, but he didn’t know you worried like that. He could feel his heart flutter in his chest.

“I… lost 500 million won more...” He said quietly, looking away, biting his lips.

“During the ddakji game ?!” You looked at him, wide eyed.

“No, earlier. Because of fucking MG Coin. That’s why I was out.”

You sighed, placing your head in your hands. You had like, 9% of what he just lost on your account. That wouldn’t even help him. Fuck.

“If I play the games-”

“Oh my god you’re so fucking stubborn ! No !”

“10 rounds, I won 6 of them !” He said, trying to make you understand.

“And what ? That makes you lucky ? Then why weren’t you lucky earlier and not lose 500 billion won ?”

“It doesn’t rely on luck.”

“Yes it does ? Not entirely but it does, I watch his videos too.” You looked at him again. “If you lose one of their games, whatever that is, what do you think is gonna happen ? Which organ are they gonna harvest from you first ? How many organs are you gonna lose for you to understand it’s a stupid idea ?”

“Alright, alright, calm down.” He got off the bed, grabbing the card and throwing it in the trash before regaining his place next to you. “You’re stressing me out with your organ talk.”

“I fucking hope so ? This whole situation is stressful. You said he knew shit about you ? How ?” You laid back down, searching Thanos on Naver to see how much information about him would pop up.

“I don’t know.” He replied, his back resting against the headboard as he slowly slid down, now laying next to you.

You were lost in your thoughts, eyes moving quickly on the screen, as Thanos observed you, knowing you were probably already thinking about how to help or what you could tell the cops.

God, he really wanted to kiss you, watching as your fingers pulled nervously at the skin of your lips.

“What did you want to tell me ?” He finally asked, hands waving between you and your phone.

“I don’t think it’s the right time for that.” You replied still lost in your own head, grabbing his hands to stop them from interfering with your thoughts.

He stayed like this, his hands in yours for a few seconds before talking again.

“I almost ended it.”

Your eyes slowly looked at him, thinking about his words, not understanding.

“I was on a bridge. Looked so damn fine.” He said before looking at you, seeing you slowly realize. The more your eyes grew in size, the more anxiety he felt.

“What ?!” You pulled on his hands, leaning closer.

“Stop freaking out, I didn’t jump.” He said with a nervous laugh.

“Why didn’t you call me ?”

“Because I wanted you to sleep.”

“Oh fuck you.” You hit his shoulder. “Since when do you care about my sleep ? You’re always…” You let out a frustrated groan, planting your face in the sheets.

“What ?” He laughed. “I’m always what ? I don’t send you texts at night so you can sleep, remember ?”

“Well, maybe you should, because it’s fucking boring.” You said, glaring at him.

“Text me, I’ll text you back !”

“But you’re the one with a rather not shitty sleep schedule, I’m the one who doesn't want to wake you up.”

“How many times will I have to tell you ? Mh ?” He placed his index under your chin.

You looked at him, confused.

“I” He pointed at himself, “Love” making a heart with his fingers, “You.” and then pointing at you, tapping your chest. “So I don’t care if you wake me up at 3-”

You planted your lips on his, one hand gently holding his face while the other held the one still pointing at your chest. Your eyes were closed shut as he looked at you in surprise, lips following you when you pulled away.

He didn’t wait for an explanation, instantly kissing you again, a kiss less restrained than yours. Hands crawling to your face, holding you close. Kissing you again and again.

Thanos had no idea what was going on, did you change your mind ? But he wasn’t going to drop any crumbs.

He felt you climb on top of him, your lips kissing all his face. His heart could explode, but not before he made a thousand raps about it.

“What’s- happening ? I’m so fucking confused, man.” He said with a smile, chuckling once you two had calmed down.

You hugged him tightly, resting against him, face hidden in the crook of his neck.

“Your plan to be fucking annoying and win me over worked.” You said quietly, embarrassed.

“Hah ! When did you know ?” He asked, his hand caressing your back.

“I realized a long time ago. But I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want you to be right.”

“Asshole ! And I’m the one who’s stubborn ?” He pinched your sides, making you squirm.

“Exactly- Stop it- Why do you think we’re in this situation ?” You sighed.

He smiled, before letting out a small scream, shaking you violently.

“I’m so fucking happy !” He said, kissing you again, looking at you with a huge smile, tightly holding you. You laughed, kissing his neck. You stayed like this for a moment, enjoying each other’s warmth as you slowly felt sleep creep on you. But before it could arrive you moved.

“Promise me you won’t call them.” You said, pulling away, sitting on him with a yawn.

“Alright, I promise. Anything.” He smiled, raising his hand to make a pinky promise.

“Good !” You said with a big voice, quickly closing the distance to plant another kiss on his lips. Before moving down slightly and planting your face against his chest.

You frowned, feeling his cross against you, so with one hand you reached under his shirt through his collar to grab it and pushed it away, making him chuckle.

“If you wanted to put your hands in my shirt so bad you could just do it.”

“Shut up.” You closed your eyes, before actually taking him up on the offer, gliding your hands under his shirt and resting them on his sides.

You could hear his heart pound faster as he wrapped his arms around you, letting out a pleased sigh.

“I love you.” You said quietly, smiling to yourself when his heart picked up speed again. “Good night.”

[gyllenhaalstuff]

I will actually do ANYTHING for another adam bell orr maybe anthony claire…. fanfic since when u wrote him it was SOOO GOOD and there is not enough fanfics for him!!!!! I just rewatched Enemy and hes saur fine and im just craving to write another fanfic of him / them and especially by you

Adam Bell is one of his hottest characters idc. Also… I was ovulating when writing this. This is filthy.

After class

- Adam Bell x student!reader

Summary: Your professor asks you to stay behind after class. Wink.

Warnings: Dom!Adam, age gap!!, size kink if you squint, “sir”, he’s basically using you but you’re too in love to see it, mutual masturbation, fingering, piv sex, unprotected sex.

Word count: 1909

Notes: I am going insane (ovulating) sorry about the pervy pet names xx.

· · ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── · ·

Everyone struggles in university. The stakes are high, and the classes are too long to pay attention. But in Bell’s class, you couldn’t pay any attention at all. Not to the subject, at least. Your eyes would fall to your professor's hands, the bulge in his slacks, and his tongue when he licked his lips in between sentences.

With time he managed to make himself at home in your thoughts. Every waking hour you would fantasize about being bent over his desk or kneeling under it. You couldn’t catch a break, even in your sleep. This took a toll on you, as well as your studies.

“That’s all for today. Make sure to get to page 250 in the Iliad,” Adam reminded as the students packed up their things. “Oh, and y/n, could I have a word with you?” You froze in your tracks. You hadn’t done anything wrong or failed an exam; sure, your mind was elsewhere, but that was your own problem, not his. You trotted up to his desk, laptop under your arm. “Is everything alright?”

He gave you a reassuring nod, “No need to worry, sweetheart. Sit down for a second, will you?” You grabbed the closest chair and placed it in front of his desk. You twirled nervously with the hem of your skirt. You had never been this close to him, never been able to see the gray in his beard or pick up on his cologne. It was intoxicating.

“You seem a bit tired. Your studies are fine; I just want to make sure everything is alright,” Adam explained. Maybe it was just your imagination running wild, but he seemed nervous too. “Oh yeah, I haven’t been sleeping very well, that’s all,” you stuttered, feeling your cheeks heat as he studied you. He rubbed his tired eyes, making you notice the veins on his hand. “I understand. Insomnia?” Either he was actually oblivious to your attraction (spoiler alert, he wasn’t) or he tried his best to ignore it. “Weird dreams,” you corrected. You were stuck between wanting to jump his bones and running as far away as possible. Adam suddenly looked intrigued. “What kind of dreams?” He pushed, curious about his pretty young student. You stayed quiet at his question, unable to be truthful and unable to lie.

He chuckled at your nervous expression, “Now I see.” You blushed and squirmed in his chair. Could there be anything more embarrassing? “About who?” He asked and fiddled with his pen. He knew he crossed a line; he shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t even want to know. But he did. And when he was met with silence again, he smiled to himself. “It’s me,” he sighed, a statement and not a question. You nodded. This was torture.

“Poor thing. You know that’s not possible.” You felt like crying. Not only was your secret out, but you were being rejected. You looked down at your clammy hands; you wanted out. Especially since your body went against your judgment, making you clench your thighs and your underwear damp. “I’m sorry, sir,” you mumbled.

Adam thanked God for being behind the desk; you seeing his erection would make his whole game collapse. “Look, if I were in charge, you wouldn’t have to suffer like this. But it’s not up to me now, is it?” His eyes were kind and nonjudgmental. You sniffled and forced a smile, “Yeah, I get it.” He leaned back in his chair, looking at the ceiling as if solving a problem. “However, if it never gets out…” He hummed, keeping you on your toes. Your heart lightened a bit, daring to get hopeful.

“Come here, honey,” Adam then said and scooted out his chair, making room for you to come stand in front of him. You put the laptop on his desk and walked towards him. He looked you up and down, slouched in his chair with his legs spread. Two strong hands grabbed your thighs from behind and pulled you closer. “I won’t bite.” He smiled and stroked you with his thumbs.

You were sure you had gone insane and were hallucinating the whole scenario. But his stern grip on you felt much too realistic. “You’re my favorite student, you know,” he began, with his eyes stuck to his hands on you, “You’re ambitious, smart, and pretty.” If your shame had died with your integrity, you would’ve moaned at his praise. Instead, you swallowed it down.

“You wouldn’t mind stripping for your professor now, would you?” His voice was so sweet, contrasting with his lust. You finally dared to look at him. Your doubts melted when you saw the tent in his pants. He wanted you too. Your hands began pulling up the hem of your shirt, all while your eyes were set on his crotch. Adam hummed at your lace bra. “Do you always wear pretty things like this to my classes?” One of his hands grazed your breast through the fabric, making your nipple peak. A pathetic “mhm” escaped your throat as you nodded at his question. “Should’ve found out sooner.”

Adam guided you to his desk, lifting you up on it, and stood between your legs. He cradled your warm face, adorned with glassy eyes. And when he kissed you, you thought you’d die. He was so gentle with it, maybe because of his ulterior motives, but it still made your heart melt. His lips moved slowly against yours, teasing you with his tongue, which finally entered when he wrapped an arm around your back. A shaky breath left you, and you involuntarily bucked your hips against his. He let out a laugh, muffled by your mouth.

He broke the kiss and commanded against your lips, “Take your skirt off.”You wiggled out of it, leaving you in your panties. Your nicest ones that you always wore to his lessons, not that you thought he’d ever know. Adam cupped his hand against your damp underwear, grinning to himself. “My poor girl.” He loosened his tie and began unbuckling his pants.

Your breath hitched at the sound of metal clanging. The amount of times that sound had echoed in your imagination was more than you could count. You sat perched on your arms, lending you a view of him undressing. When he untucked his shirt, his happy trail made your stomach swirl. You followed it down to the hem of his exposed underwear. His cock was straining against the fabric, eager to use you.

He pulled it out of its restraints. His hand wrapped around it, stroking himself. Sadly, your eyes were too focused on the movements of his hands that you didn’t notice how his eyes flickered between your needy expression and the damp spot on your panties. He had thought of this too, more times than he’d admit to himself. Dreamed about having his student squirming for him, needing him to take care of her.

“Show me what you do when you’re thinking about me,” he panted, “show me how you touch yourself.” In any normal situation, you would be way too embarrassed to do it. But for him, you would do whatever he asked. You pulled off your panties, exposing your soaked cunt before snaking one of your hands down to your clit. Your legs spasmed at the first touch; you had never been this turned on in your life. Adam watched intently as you massaged your clit, watching as your body tensed with each circling motion. You fought to keep your eyes open, to keep looking at his cock, finally revealed to you. You never thought you’d see it, let alone see him with his hand wrapped around it.

You paused for a second, not wanting to cum now and embarrass yourself. The pause was cut short by two callused fingertips taking your place. The surprise finally had you moan; Adam reveled in the sound. He let go of his cock, focusing solely on making you feel good.

He dipped his fingers down, running them over your slit. You had given up on sitting and were now lying down, sprawled across the dark wood. You clenched when his fingers entered you. If you didn’t know, you’d think it was his cock, based on the stretch compared to your own fingers. A tinge of jealousy hit you when he hit your spot with ease; he must’ve been with many women before you.

Adam’s mouth watered at your walls clenching around his digits. He pulled them out of you. You whined at the sudden emptiness. “Shh, don’t get all whiny now,” he shushed and grabbed his cock again. This time, he placed it against your clit, letting his tip press against it. “Next time, I’m gonna bury my face in you.”

Your hips jerked against him. His words went in one ear and out the other. You just needed him inside you. “Please, sir,” you whined. Adam huffed in response, “Hm? What?” He wasn’t gonna let you win this easily. “You want to be fucked?” The condescension in his voice was enough to make your thighs flex. “Yes, sir,” you nodded eagerly, “I want you inside me; it’s all I’ve been thinking about.” He scoffed at your rambling, pleased with your desperation.

He entered you slowly, making you stop your pathetic cries. He groaned at you enveloping him, squeezing his cock. “I could’ve told your age just from how tight you are,” he huffed, “my pretty little girl.” His strong hands hugged your waist, pulling you onto his cock. You swore internally to never be with a guy your age again. The stretch made your mind go quiet and your mouth loud. You moaned with each thrust, painfully slow but deliciously stretching and hard.

Adam watched his cock disappear into your, in his opinion, perfectly young cunt. He upped his pace once your body stopped fighting his length, stuffing you fully when he swiftly entered you. You cried out at the sudden change and kept at it as he continued with his relentless pace. You wrapped your legs around his hips; somehow you couldn’t get enough despite the painful intrusion.

Adam lowered his torso down over you, capturing your lips in a messy kiss. His beard scratched your chin as his tongue clashed with yours. His cock kept hitting your G-spot over and over, pushing you closer to the edge. “I’m close,” you whined against his beard, furrowing your brows in pleasure. “Go on, baby, make a mess on my cock.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair as the pressure rose, scratching his scalp. He was nearing his climax too; his jaw hung open as he panted against your skin. His strained noises pushed you over the edge, making your legs tremble around his tall frame. Your cries echoed through the lecture room. And soon his grunts did too. If you could, you’d play the sound on repeat forever.

He slumped over you, breathing heavily once his cum had filled you up. “I can’t believe you want me,” he mumbled, making your heart skip a beat. You couldn’t believe you finally slept with him, let alone having him even talk to you. “You’re gonna have to stay behind a lot from now on.”

You didn’t sleep any better that night. You were busy replaying the afternoon behind closed eyes, adding a third finger to resemble his two, staining your pristine sheets with need and the remainder of your professor's cum.

[voidsaez]

◞ ྀི◟ ͜ ׁ ˙ ◞ ྀི◟ ͜ ◞ ྀི◟ ͜ ׁ ˙ ◞ ྀི◟ ͜ ◞ ྀི◟ ͜ ׁ ˙ ◞ ྀི◟ ͜ ◞ ྀི ◞

— for eternity. ( gally tmr x reader ) abuse !!

a/n : monthly post coz i never use tumblr lol, anyways i rewatched the first tmr movie n i realized hes lowkey insane

summary : after thomas found a way out, you’ve been clung to his every word. your boyfriend, isn’t happy.

There was nothing more Gally could ever ask for. You, him, and the rest of the Glade living in peace—a perfect harmony.

For months now, everything had been great. The two of you became a rare constant in a world filled with uncertainty.

He’d never felt more secure, more alive, than with you by his side. That was, until Thomas arrived.

In less than a week, the newcomer had somehow found a way out—an escape. You were overjoyed at the prospect of freedom.

Gally? Not so much.

-

“We don’t need to leave!” His voice cracked with urgency as he cupped your face, trembling thumbs pressing into your skin.

“Isn’t this enough? You have me—we can stay here. Forever.” His words came out rushed, his tone laced with desperation.

You shove at his hands, trying to make him pull away. “Are you insane? We’ve finally found a way out! After three years!”

His gaze hardened, his grip tightening. “Don’t you see?” He pleads, his voice frantic and pleading at the same time.

“Out there, it’s worse! You’ll see! This place, the glade—it’s safe. We’re safe here.”

You could see his demeanor changing, his eyes wild. It was love—yes, but it was twisted, fevered, consumed by desperation.

“You think it’s better out there?” He spat out, his voice a harsh whisper. “You think you’ll survive out there? you won’t.”

His grip tightened, to the point you felt like your bones were about to crack. Like it was more a warning than a plea.

“Let go!” You yelled out, shoving at his chest, but he didn’t budge.

He laughed, hard, cold, humorless. “You think they care about you, huh? Thomas? Teresa? They’ll leave you to die once it gets hard.” He says.

“But not me.” He says, his voice softening, almost sounding tender. “I’d never let that happen to you, I’ll protect you.”

“Protect me?” You snarled, “This isn’t protection, Gally, this is madness!”

His jaw clenched, clear displease in his eyes. “Madness? no, no. Madness is trusting them.” He says, with a deranged smile.

“Madness is thinking they’ll get us out of here alive.” He continues on. “You don’t get it, do you?” He asks.

“Thomas. Thomas is the problem—him and Teresa, they’re the reason we’re suffering! If it weren’t for them, we’d be happy.”

What the hell is he trying to say?

He speaks with innuendo, his words starting to sound past insane. “What are you saying?” You ask, stomach twisting.

His smile widened, almost dangerously. “I’m saying,” he said slowly, “we don’t need them. The Grievers, they’re hungry.“

Your blood ran cold. “They’ll take care of Thomas and Teresa. All we have to do is offer them over to the Grievers.” He says.

“You’re not serious,” You whispered, horrified. He was starting to lose it.

“Why?” He asks, stepping closer again. “They’re a threat, baby. To me. To you. To us. I won’t let them take you from me.”

“Gally,” You breathed, your voice trembling. “This isn’t you. You don’t mean this.”

He reached for you again, his hands almost gentle this time, but the madness in his eyes didn’t fade. “I mean every word,” he said.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. Even if it means sacrificing them. Even if it means..” He trails off, looking at you.

You used to love his smile, the way he rarely ever did made you feel special, like his smile was reserved for only you.

But then, he smiled again, sharp and terrifying. He’s gone. That isn’t him.

“Don’t do this, Gally, don’t make me hate you.” You say, stepping back away.

His expression softened, “You’ll thank me one day.” He says, simply.

The sound was sickening. His fist slamming into you. A sharp crack that echoed in your ears, while your body went limp.

-

You weren’t his partner anymore.

You were his prisoner.

[3igbootyl0ver]

A New Face Pt.3

pairing: Tara Carpenter x Reader

summary: You and Tara finally went out on a date and feelings are revealed.

word count: 2453

Pt.1 | Pt.2 | Pt.4

a/n: Hey all, I hope ya'll enjoyed this last part for this one-shot. I tried putting in more details so lmk your thoughts. I also made Sam a little laid back for this part since I honestly didn't know how to make her intimidating without ruining it lol. Anyways, I'm always open to feedback!! Thanks for all the love and support! (p.s. i got motivation for the flower scene from tasm where peter gave gwen her flowers hehehe so just imagine that because i still have no idea how to add a collage of pictures here)

Tara was walking back and forth the apartment while waiting for you to pick her up. She had suggested on going to yours instead but you insisted on picking her up for some reason. Sam was just observing her sister roaming around the living room, amused by her antics. She was picking her fingernails and fixing her hair every 15 seconds. It was 3.45 p.m and you were supposed to be here at least 15 minutes ago. Her mind was going through a ridiculous amount of scenarios as fast as the speed of light at this point. Did you suddenly decide to ditch her or realised that she wasn’t good enough for you? 

“Tara, relax. You’re freaking out so much- I can see your brain working overtime,” Sam simply stated, laying on the couch while rewatching Modern Family for the fifth time. Just as Tara wanted to give a snarky remark, she heard the doorbell rang. If she was wearing a heart rate monitor, she was sure it would give her a warning about her sudden heightened heart rate, assuming she was getting a heart attack. She looked at herself once again and fixed her hair after the 55th time before opening the door.

There you were. Looking all cute and flustered while holding a bouquet of flowers and a posy on one hand while balancing two motorcycle helmets on the other. While she appreciated and blushed and the gesture, she can’t seem the ignore the fact that the bouquet and posy is a little… lopsided.

“Hey, I’m sorry I’m late. I went to buy this for you but it’s a little harder when you’re riding while holding it, which explains the snapped stem for one of them…Oh! And I bought a small one for Sam, if she doesn’t mind, of course.” You explained with a little blush from the awkwardness. “How embarrassing, this is your first date and you’ve already messed up. Nice one, Y/N.” You thought, mentally slapping yourself for forgetting that it’s nearly impossible to hold a bouquet of flowers while riding and not mess it up. While you were having your own crisis, Tara was in her own head too.

“Seriously? Is there even a flaw flowing in their bones? ” Tara pondered internally while struggling to put out actual words, holding onto both the bouquet and posy, when Sam came to rescue after hearing the painfully awkward one-sided conversation.

“Wow, nice job, Y/N. A liiitttle crushed, but I like the effort. You’re own my good side, for now. Just make sure you bring her home by 9..or I’ll hunt you down.” Sam stated sarcastically, enjoying how you squirmed after her statement. She’ll never tell you this, but she appreciated the gesture and the thought of buying her a small bouquet. The few people Tara had tried dating has never thought of that, so she really meant it when she said you’d “earned a point”. She was impressed surprisingly, and it was hard to impress THE Sam Carpenter.

“Y-Yes ma’am” You replied with faux confidence, even though both the sisters could tell you were intimidated, rightfully so. Tara rolled her eyes at her sister’s statement and dragged you out of the apartment, after placing her flowers nicely by the table beside the entrance, of course.

“I’m sorry about Sam, she can be a bit.. Much.”

“Don’t worry about it, I have to admit I almost peed my pants though.” You joked, trying to ease the tension so thick that you could cut it with a knife. Your attempt was successful when Tara giggled effortlessly, while staring at you with those big doe eyes.

-

The engine roared beneath them, vibrating through Tara’s body as she clung to Y/N’s back. The cool evening air brushed against her face, the city lights streaking by in a blur. The smell of gasoline and fresh rain mixed with the earthy scent of Y/N’s jacket, and Tara could feel her pulse racing in time with the bike’s engine.

Tara knew she would be your ‘backpack’ as you informed her about riding your bike for the date a few days prior. That doesn’t mean she didn’t freak out when you went up a needle on your speedometer though. She was hugging you so tightly around your waist, it could almost suffocate you. You said you didn’t mind it though, and Tara took every opportunity to hug you tighter, and shamelessly run her hands from your back to your shoulders, caressing and admiring the flexed muscles from handling the two-wheeled vehicle every chance she had, enjoying your warmth that contrasted with the chilly weather.

 Her heart was pounding as she felt the warmth of Y/N's back against her chest, the gentle hum of the motorcycle beneath them. She noticed how her grip tightened instinctively, wanting to hold on to something solid as her thoughts swirled in a mess. “Is this real? Is this really happening?"

After finding a parking spot near the theaters, you helped Tara with getting off your bike seeing as she couldn’t even reach the floor if she wanted to. You assisted with taking her helmet off and fixing her hair, pushing her messy bangs away and tucking it behind her ears absenmindedly without her needing to ask for help. Tara wanted to take you right then and there. “Who cares if it’s public indecency? Both of us are hot.” Tara thought. She had never met a more thoughtful and respectful person before she laid her eyes on you; You really knew how to please a girl. 

-

You proceeded to lead her to the entrance of the theatre, which was filled with people that was keen on watching the premier of The Terrifier 3. Tara was buzzing with excitement, practically hopping up and down and effortlessly having a conversation with you after easing her nerves, while waiting on your turns to get some snacks and get seated.

The film was amazing. It was almost concerning with how Tara didn’t even bat an eyelid during the more gory scenes, but you were glad she enjoyed it. You mentally gave yourself a pat on the back after successfully making her glee and rambling about the film afterwards. You both decided to walk to the restaurant you were having dinner at, since it was only a few blocks away. You couldn’t ignore the fact that both your and Tara’s hands kept brushing against each other. You finally made the courage to hold her hands while she was still rambling about the show, your heart leaped when she interlocked your fingers together and continued talking, not commenting on the sudden act of affection.

Meanwhile, Tara was so damn glad you made the move first because she was overthinking too much to make the first move. She tried to act as nonchalant as possible, making it seem like your  gesture didn’t really affect her even though she had her heart in her mouth. When you both arrived at the restaurant, you had to wait for a while to be assigned a table. She finally made the courage to let go of your hands and to hold onto your ridiculously toned biceps, running her hands up and down your arm. She was tracing her fingers on the outline of your tattoo, making you shiver.

“You never told me this, but what’s the meaning behind your tattoo? I mean- It’s fine if it’s personal and you don’t wanna talk about it, though!” Tara stated with a slight panic in her voice. The last thing she wanted to do was make you feel uncomfortable and share something so intimate to you. You found it cute that she was trying to be mindful and considerate.

Tara was tracing your tattoo, which was full of different designs, mainly two dragons being intertwined and a date underneath it. “It’s fine- I don’t mind, really. It symbolizes the Chinese zodiac calendar. My mum and dad was born in the year of the dragon. I initially didn’t think of having a tattoo, but I considered it to honor them. They died a few years ago from a car crash, which explains the date beneath it.” You explained your tattoo in detail, including all the different strokes and lines on your hands. 

Tara wanted to cradle your head and hold you tightly, hiding you away from society after hearing that your parents are gone. It must’ve been tough handling life alone in your twenties. “At least I had Sam,” Tara thought. She gave you her condolences and you took her hand and kissed it, specifically where her scar is, before shrugging it off with a smile, not wanting to ruin the mood of the date. 

-

Dinner went by quickly, with Tara having a glass of wine (not you though, you knew you had the responsibility to send her home and you didn’t want Sam to kill you either) and getting to know each other more. Tara’s indication of having too much to drink is that she often hiccups, and that’s when you knew you had to pay the bill and send her home. On your way back to your bike, you and Tara were giggling and she kept trying to squeeze your face cheeks together, with your hand swatting her away. You decided to make a pitstop at a small bodega and buy a bottled water for Tara, attempting to sober her up, knowing she can’t ride on the bike being that drunk. You slowed your pace, allowing Tara to recover while interlocking your hands. She was effortlessly flirting with you, probably from the liquid courage she was sobering up from.

You finally reached your bike, with having an intention of helping Tara putting on her helmet when she hugged you, her arms wrapping around your neck and leaning her chin against your chest, staring at you. “I really, really like you y’know. Like, like-like you.” She stated, staring at you with her brown doe eyes that resembled a deer. 

Tara’s heart skipped again, but this time, it wasn’t from nerves. It was from a sudden realization—this was different. She hadn’t felt this kind of pull in a long time. And maybe—maybe—she wasn’t just hoping Y/N would kiss her. Maybe she was ready for it. And when the moment came, she wasn’t going to hold back. You softly chuckled, your cheeks tinting slightly at her sudden confession. “I’m glad you like me Tara. I really, really like you too,” you reciprocated and hugged her waist, embracing the intimate moment. Both of you leaned in, nose touching each other before you decided to lean away; Making Tara whine and roll her eyes. 

You really wanted to kiss her, but you didn’t want it to be in a random street where some creeps can be watching you both kiss for their own entertainment. Tara huffed in frustration and wore her (your) helmet, stubbornly trying to get on the bike without needing you assistance (she needed it, she was practically falling off that damn bike if it wasn’t for you). You softly chuckled at her act before wearing yours and turned on the bike, the engine growling. Throughout the ride, you knew Tara was still upset at you since she held her hands on your shoulders instead of your waist. 

After reaching her block, you followed her up to her apartment, making sure that she’s safe. Tara was being grumpy, having her arms crossed which prevented you to hold her hand. After reaching her apartment, she went to open the door, trying to enter before you had to chance to talk to her. “Tara- wait, give me a mi-“ 

“I don’t get you, Y/N. First you bring me out to this date, held my hands and now you don’t want to kiss me? Are you serious-“ Tara’s blabber was disrupted when you grabbed her by her cheeks and leaned in for a kiss, lips colliding. 

Tara melted in your hands like putty and wrapped her arms around your neck, pulling you in and craning your neck, trapping you in her spell. You could taste her cherry lip gloss, secretly hoping that you get to kiss her more often to get accustomed to the taste. She lets out little sighs in between the kisses to take a breath, before pulling you in again for more. You bit her lip which made her gasp, having the opportunity to slip your tongue in, making her moan and kiss you fiercely and fight with you tongue to tongue.

You pulled away gently, making her whine at the sudden end of the passionate makeup. You gave her tiny pecks and chaste kisses which made her giggle before you pulled away. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way, Tara. I just wanted it to be private, I can’t let the creeps down the street see me kissing the girl I like,” You confessed, blushing heavily now that Tara’s attention is all on you. 

“Aw, you sap. I don’t mind letting them watch, at least they know you’re all mine now.” You gave another kiss, when the door opened abruptly.

“Well, well, well, look who’s grinning like a cat that got the cream.” Sam smirks, glancing between Tara and Y/N, making both blush out of embarrassment.

“So, did you two finally make it official, or am I gonna need to take out the old shower and have a little chit chat with Y/N? I know you have no problem with public declaration of ownership.” She gives Tara a teasing look, knowing full well that her sister’s not shy when it comes to flirting. “Shut up, Sam. I’m fine.” She rolls her eyes but it’s clear that she’s still caught up in the moment.

Sam shrugs dramatically, leaning closer to Y/N, lowering her voice with mock seriousness.

“You better keep your hands to yourself, or I will find out where you live, and I’ll have a serious talk with you. That’s your warning.” She threatens, almost breaking character but keeping it cool.

Y/N, clearly caught off guard but managing a nervous chuckle, nods quickly. “Yes ma’am. I’ll take good care of her, I swear.” They look at Tara, a little embarrassed, but there’s warmth in their eyes. They’re obviously not intimidated, but they know enough to respect Sam’s warning.

“Good answer, Y/N. Good answer.” She flashes a grin, pretending to be serious before stepping back from the door. ”And for the record, I’m definitely expecting a full play-by-play tomorrow, Tara. I’ve got all kinds of questions…”

Tara shakes her head, but there’s no hiding the smile on her face now. She turns back to Y/N, giving them a peck before slipping back inside her apartment with a soft click.

[clementineinn]

in my place, all my troubles

abstract: amid the sleepless hum of a New York investigation, tension simmers just beneath the surface. as the case unfolds, one profiler finds himself unraveling in ways the evidence can’t explain—watching her warmth, her light, fall too often into someone else’s orbit.

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

genre: angst & fluff (sorry i can't help myself when it comes to lovey dovey spencer)

word count: 12.9k (literally poured blood, sweat, and tears into this DAMn)

note: ngl, this took me forever lol. i kept rewatching episodes to try to get the "crime lingo" down bc i literally know nothing fbi related jdfjkfdsk. but anyways, enjoy this angsty piece on jealous spencer mwahaha!!

Upstate New York had a way of swallowing sound—not like silence, but like memory. A hush that wasn’t serene so much as suspended, thick with the kind of stillness that pressed inward rather than soothed. It was the quiet of waiting rooms and church basements, of shuttered windows and roads slicked dark with rain. The sky hung low over Kingston like an old wool coat—heavy, colorless, and reluctant to let anything through. Clouds bruised the horizon, unbroken, smeared thin across the valley in shades of lead and pewter.

Trees stood bare as bone, their branches slick with last night’s rain, reaching crooked toward the pale daylight like they’d forgotten how to bloom. The ground was soft underfoot, not with spring, but with rot—wet leaves clinging to boots, decomposing into the earth with every step. Wind threaded through narrow streets, not howling, but whispering—low and slow, like it knew secrets it wasn’t ready to tell.

Even the town felt muted. Storefronts stared blankly into the cold, their signs faded and windows steamed. A single light flickered in the precinct’s side entrance, buzzing faintly above the doorway as if trying to stay awake. Somewhere nearby, a raven called once, sharp and brief, before the sound was swallowed whole.

It wasn’t peace. It was tension with nowhere to go. And in the middle of it all, the Bureau had arrived—unmarked cars lined up like sentinels, agents stepping out into a world that felt like it had braced for them.

The first Bureau SUV rolled through the fog like a ship into harbor, headlights catching in the sheen of rain still slicking the asphalt. Tires whispered over the pavement—more glide than roll—carving ripples in the shallow puddles that had pooled overnight along the curb. The second vehicle followed close behind, its wipers sweeping rhythmically, as if the beat of glass and rubber might somehow hold off the quiet unease threading through the morning.

The street outside the Kingston precinct was washed in that particular gray that came with river fog—thick, unmoving, wrapped low around the shoulders of the trees like damp wool. Nothing stirred. Not the wind, not the crows hunched on the power lines, not the sun behind its veil of pale steel clouds. Even the town felt like it was holding its breath.

When the passenger door clicked open, Y/N stepped out first. The moment she straightened, the wind caught her coat in a brief flare—black wool, tailored and clean, snapping once against her legs before she smoothed the collar up with one gloved hand. The cold bit harder than expected; she didn't flinch.

She always dressed for the weather, but never forgot herself in the process—navy slacks pressed to a perfect crease, a charcoal sweater soft against her frame, tucked at the waist with the practiced ease of someone who didn’t have time to fuss but still wanted to feel like herself. Her boots—heather-gray suede, modestly heeled—clicked lightly against the damp sidewalk, the sound quiet but sure.

She paused just outside the SUV, eyes lifted to the building before them. The precinct loomed like so many others had before it—functional, forgettable, a structure made of fluorescent lights and overworked officers. But Y/N was already reading it like she would a crime scene. Measuring the weight in the windows, the stories caught in the walls. Beneath the stillness of her expression, something sharp moved—restless and coiled. A familiar tension.

It had only been two days since the third body—twenty years old, a college sophomore found curled into a drainage ditch with burns that didn’t come from fire. Y/N hadn’t slept since the flight out. Not really. The facts circled in her mind like crows: the timeline, the escalation, the signature. Every hour without a pattern was another hour someone could vanish.

Behind her, the rest of the team moved with practiced coordination. Hotch emerged next, purposeful and silent, shoulders squared like he could part the fog through sheer will. Morgan followed, already scanning the street, one hand resting near his hip holster. Prentiss and JJ flanked either side—quiet murmurs passing between them, the ends of sentences fading into breath.

Rossi stepped out last, coat collar high, eyes already fixed on the precinct doors. He didn’t speak. He rarely had to.

Spencer trailed a few steps behind the others, a messenger bag slung over one shoulder, the hem of his coat brushing rainwater off his slacks with each stride. He walked like he was somewhere else—half here, half still trapped in the victim's last known movements. His hair was a little wind-tousled, his gaze distant but flicking now and then toward Y/N. Noticing the way her shoulders held steady. The way she didn’t fidget like she usually did after long drives. The way her expression was calm—but not quiet.

She didn’t look back at him.

Not yet.

Inside the precinct, the air hit like a wall—thick with breath and overuse, laced with the sour trace of old coffee gone bitter on the burner and the lingering sting of copier toner. Voices layered atop one another in tired cadences: clipped phone calls, muttered updates, chairs scraping on linoleum. It was the kind of sound that never really rose but never stopped either. A low, ceaseless murmur—like the building itself was trying to remember everything it had seen.

Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, steady and insistent. Their glow wasn’t soft. It wasn’t kind. It laid across everything in a jaundiced smear—making pallid skin look sallow, casting shadows in all the wrong places, turning even the most innocuous stack of papers into something clinical and cold. One of the bulbs near the far corner flickered every so often, a hiccup of light that no one seemed to notice anymore.

The space was crowded—not just with people, but with fatigue. Desks sagged under the weight of their own clutter: manila folders frayed at the edges, crime scene binders left gaping, polaroids curling slightly at the corners. Maps were tacked to the walls alongside printouts and booking photos, their surfaces covered in looping red pen and coffee stains like someone had tried to trace chaos into something logical.

The walls had been painted beige once, but years of grime and tape residue had dulled them to the color of dishwater. Boot prints tracked across the scuffed linoleum floors, half-erased but never gone. Even the air felt used—breathed too many times, recycled through too many lungs without ever quite making it clean again.

Somewhere near the back, a box fan hummed inside a cracked window, its blades stuttering on every third rotation like a lung trying to exhale. The radio static from a dispatcher’s desk popped in and out of coherence, little bursts of coded urgency rising and falling like distant thunder. A phone rang. Then another.

Spencer stepped in just behind the others, the strap of his satchel dragging a faint indentation into the fabric of his coat. His fingers tightened around the worn canvas without thinking. He shifted his weight slightly, eyes doing what they always did—sweeping the room, cataloging everything. The angles of desks. The pattern of foot traffic. The way a young patrol officer to his right murmured into a shoulder mic without breaking stride, the cord coiled taut like a nervous habit.

This place wasn’t new. It was every precinct they’d ever entered and none of them at all. It reeked of long hours and longer silences. Of caffeine and secondhand trauma. Of good intentions ground down to routine.

But through it all, Spencer’s gaze found her.

Y/N, just ahead, already tuning in. Already working. Already lighting the edges of the room—whether she meant to or not.

Then—

From one of the side offices, a man emerged.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. His steps were slow, purposeful — not sluggish, just grounded, as if he knew everyone in the building would move around him if needed.

“Chief Halberd,” he said, extending his hand before he even crossed the room. His voice was gravel-thick, tinged with the fatigue of someone who’d seen too many bodies and buried too many leads. Still, it held command.

“You must be the BAU. Thanks for getting here so quickly.”

Hotch stepped forward, the natural gravity in his stance anchoring the exchange. “Aaron Hotchner. This is my team—Agents Morgan, Prentiss, Jareau, Rossi, Y/L/N, and Dr. Reid.”

Halberd nodded briskly as each name passed — his gaze quick, perfunctory. No delay. No pause. Just recognition.

Then came the man just behind him.

“Detective Nate Carroway,” he said smoothly, tugging off a pair of black gloves as he stepped into view.

He was younger than Halberd by at least a decade, maybe more. Well-groomed in a way most field detectives weren’t — a sharp jaw lined with the shadow of a beard, dark hair pushed back, eyes that flicked quick over the room and landed with unnerving ease. Charisma radiated off him like cologne — not overwhelming, just persistent. There was something magnetic about him, something easy. The kind of man people liked on instinct. The kind of man who always had an answer in a room full of silence.

“I’ve been working the case details since the first body turned up,” he continued, rolling his gloves into one hand. “You’ve got a hell of a team, Agent Hotchner. We’re lucky to have you.”

If Halberd was the anchor, Carroway was the draw. There was something magnetic about the way he moved — like a man used to being listened to, even when he wasn’t the one speaking. He was handsome in a way that didn’t try too hard: stubble lining a strong jaw, dark eyes alert but relaxed, a leather holster slung diagonally across his chest like it had been tailored just for him.

His voice carried — smoother than the chief’s, a warm baritone shaped by confidence and long hours in interrogation rooms.

He nodded toward the group. “Your name gets around—in a good way. Glad to finally see it in action.”

His gaze swept across the team — but stopped, unmistakably, on Y/N.

There was nothing indecent in it. No leer. Just focus. Measured, sure. Entirely aware.

Y/N noticed his gaze linger a moment longer than expected—curious, not crude—and offered him a soft smile in return.  “Agent Y/L/N,” she said kindly, her voice light and sure, folding her hands loosely in front of her. “It’s good to meet you. Thanks for the welcome.”

There was no trace of discomfort in her voice, just her usual kindness. She didn’t mention his stare. She didn’t need to. Her tone was warm—natural. The kind that soothed witnesses, that made even bristling detectives feel like they’d just been understood. It was the way she always sounded in the field. Spencer knew it by heart. So did everyone else on the team.

But something about the way Carroway reacted to it—

The way his smile deepened—not wider, just more real. The way his eyes lingered—not invasive, but deliberate. The way he leaned forward just a hair, like the rest of the world had dulled.

“Trust me,” he said, still watching her. “We’re glad you’re here.”

Y/N nodded politely, already turning slightly toward the wall of maps and pinned case details behind them. Her focus shifted easily—her hands already brushing the edge of a case file someone had left half-closed.

Beside her, Chief Halberd was already speaking. “We’ve mapped three major dump sites within a five-mile radius,” he said, gesturing toward the main whiteboard. “There’s a pattern, but it’s not clean. The third body threw off our initial radius projection.”

“We saw that in the report,” Hotch replied, stepping forward. “Were the remains moved postmortem?”

Carroway answered this time, smooth and measured. “Possibly. Or the unsub's changing comfort zones. We’ve got canvass reports still coming in.”

As they spoke, Carroway’s eyes didn’t follow the diagrams or the conversation.

They followed her.

Spencer, from his quiet place just behind Hotch, said nothing.

But his knuckles whitened slightly around the strap of his satchel.

The whiteboards along the back wall rose like monoliths—covered in crime scene photos faded by copier ink, timelines scrawled in half-erased marker, maps spotted with thumbtacks that formed patterns like bruises across the city. The overhead lights hummed a dull monotone, casting everything in a sterile pallor that leeched color from skin and paper alike.

Y/N nodded once at Carroway’s words, already stepping past the cluster of introductions. Her focus shifted without pause to the case boards, her eyes moving quickly—cataloging, scanning, absorbing. She didn’t wait to be led. She was already moving, already locked into the rhythm of the case like a dancer finding a familiar beat.

Carroway started to follow, clearing his throat lightly. “We’ve flagged some witness inconsistencies from the first scene. I can walk you through them.”

But she was already reading a notation on the map, leaning in slightly. “This section—was the body facing the street or angled toward the alley?”

“Alley,” he replied after a beat. “Face down. No obvious drag marks.”

She gave a small nod, filing it away. Her boots clicked softly against the dull linoleum as she shifted her stance, black slacks moving with quiet precision. Her sweater hugged her frame beneath the tailored line of her open coat, the edge of her Bureau ID swaying lightly. Her hair, slightly tousled from the cold, caught the fluorescents just so—strands shining like dusk through a windshield.

And Carroway watched her.

Not obviously. Not in some inappropriate way. But it was frequent—his gaze falling back to her again and again, as though gravity didn’t allow it to stray for long. There was charm in it. That subtle, practiced kind some men carry into every room: easy and harmless and just a little too smooth. But where others might have glanced at the whole group, he watched her move.

Spencer saw all of it.

He stood just behind Hotch, unmoving—shoulders rigid, spine straight, the folder in his hand hanging limp by his side. The hum of the precinct seemed to dull around him, swallowed under the slow press of something tight and unwelcome curling low in his chest.

The smell of printer toner. The buzz of voices. Carroway’s voice—low, confident—somewhere behind them.

And Spencer’s eyes fixed to the sway of Y/N’s step.

Hotch, still tracking the board, spoke again—focused, precise. “Let’s pull the satellite mapping from yesterday’s dump site. See if there's overlap with the alley’s trash pickup schedule or any recent construction permits. I want a timeline in the next hour.”

He turned slightly, his voice following like a directive across the room. “Y/L/N, if there’s any witness detail on foot traffic near the alley, you and Prentiss get it on the record. And if anything points east of the river, flag it immediately.”

Y/N nodded without turning. “Understood.”

Then, silence again. Then, Hotch again.

“Reid, Rossi—get the ME reports. Morgan, JJ—start working the dump site angles. Y/L/N, Prentiss, go with Detective Carroway. He’ll bring you up to speed on witness statements and initial interviews.”

It was crisp. Commanding. The kind of tone that split conversations clean in half.

The team dispersed like clockwork.

It was crisp. Commanding. A voice honed on years of consequence and sharpened by the weight of federal silence—the kind that didn’t need to rise above the din to cut through it. It simply was, and everything else stepped back to make room.

Hotch’s directive sliced clean through the room, scattering conversation like birds startled from a wire.

The team moved with the fluidity of practiced instinct. Not rushed—never rushed—but with that purposeful precision that came from too many years spent chasing the shadows of terrible men. Chairs scraped. Pens clicked closed. Jackets shrugged back into place. Somewhere near the vending machine, a cup hit the trash can with a hollow plastic clatter.

Y/N was already moving. She pivoted cleanly, boots gliding soundlessly over the scuffed linoleum as she turned toward a narrow corridor half-hidden behind a cluster of worn filing cabinets and a forgotten rack of spare uniforms. Her steps were quiet, certain, the faintest echo of heels softened by the low ceiling and yellowed ceiling tiles above. She didn’t hesitate—not even when her name had only just been assigned.

“Thank you,” she said, casting the words like a breath over her shoulder.

The syllables fell softly, light and unhurried, as though she were already immersed in something deeper than speech.

Carroway was close behind, his stride matching hers. Not urgent. Not intrusive. But angled—always slightly turned toward her, a magnetic tilt of the shoulder, a subtle lean of posture that betrayed attention too steady to be professional. His boots made a heavier sound, rubber soles wet from outside tracking faint prints with each step that ghosted and blurred behind hers.

They passed through the short hallway, dimly lit by a buzzing fluorescent panel that flickered once, then stilled. The office ahead was small, a box of a room crowded with overstuffed evidence boxes and dog-eared case files stacked like brittle towers. The windows were fogged along the edges, rain pressing lazy rivulets against the outside glass. Someone had left a radiator humming faintly near the far wall, filling the space with the low, metallic smell of heat against old dust.

Y/N stepped inside first, her eyes already scanning. Not out of suspicion—but hunger. That steady, quiet hunger she always carried in these moments. The need to know, to understand, to pull truth from static.

Her gaze found the photo first—crooked on the corkboard, slightly curling at the corners. It wasn’t framed or labeled. Just tacked there, a fragment of horror on display.

A woman. Late teens. Shoes missing. Her limbs half-curled on a bed of crushed pine needles. Bruises painting the delicate skin at her collarbone like fingerprints of dusk. One hand outstretched toward nothing. The flash had caught the glaze in her eyes, and it made the image feel too alive. Like something still lingered there.

Y/N's brow furrowed—not in fear, but in quiet absorption. She leaned forward slightly, enough to send the smallest movement through the fabric of her coat, enough to catch a single lock of hair and let it fall forward across her cheekbone.

Carroway stood beside her now. Just a pace away. His shoulder was turned fractionally in her direction—attentive. Not overbearing, but present in a way that marked intention. The kind of presence that carried weight even in silence. That leaned closer not to crowd, but to remain near enough to witness.

Y/N didn’t flinch. Didn’t change. But—

As she took in the photos, her head turned. A gentle glance over her shoulder, her voice barely more than breath.

“Em?” she asked, soft, like she was calling a friend across a crowded train platform, sticking her head out of the room and into the hallway. Her steps slowed half a beat.

Back by the main desk, Emily lifted her chin and waved, already peeling off her gloves. “Right behind you.”

Y/N smiled, brief and quiet, and turned back into the room.

Carroway waited as promised, his posture casual, hands tucked into the front of his coat. He didn’t mind the delay. If anything, he looked pleased. At ease.

Spencer hadn’t moved.

Not really.

Just watched.

The corner of his jaw ticked once.

Then again.

His knuckles whitened just slightly where they curled around the edge of the folder in his hands.

The buzz of the precinct resumed its familiar pitch, but in Spencer’s ears—it all sounded just a little too far away.

Emily didn’t move immediately.

Morgan gave her a look. “You stalling?”

She smirked. “No. Just enjoying the view.”

Morgan chuckled low. “Detective Handsome’s got it bad already. Did you see the way he zeroed in on her like she was a hot lead?”

Emily tilted her head thoughtfully. “Might’ve been subtle if he hadn’t been doing it the entire time Hotch was talking.”

Spencer, who had already started flipping open the ME file, made a quiet noise under his breath. Disapproving.

Emily looked over at him, one brow lifted. “Don’t start frowning like that unless you want it to stay that way.”

“I’m not frowning,” he said, still reading.

Morgan grinned. “You’re definitely frowning. Like someone just insulted your favorite theorem.”

Spencer’s voice was calm but clipped. “It’s unprofessional. He’s clearly distracted.”

Emily folded her arms, dry. “Right. And you’re clearly not.”

Spencer finally looked up. “I’m not distracted.”

Morgan leaned on the edge of the desk, grinning. “Reid, you’ve had one eye on her since we got here. You’re tracking her like a trained bloodhound.”

“I’m not—” Spencer caught himself. Took a breath. “I just think Carroway’s presence is… unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary,” Emily repeated. “He’s the chief’s second-in-command.”

“Exactly,” Spencer muttered. “Shouldn’t he be coordinating efforts, not hovering around one agent?”

Emily leaned closer, stage-whispering with mock intrigue. “Or maybe he just likes her.”

Spencer’s jaw twitched.

Morgan gave him a sympathetic clap on the shoulder. “Look, man. She’s warm, she’s smart, she listens like no one else. You think he’s the first guy to notice that?”

Spencer said nothing.

Emily softened, just a little. “She’s not flirting back, you know.”

“She’s just kind,” Spencer said, quieter now. “She’s always kind.”

Emily gave him a long look—knowing, but not cruel.

Then she turned on her heel. “Guess I better go rescue her from the swirling orbit of Detective Smitten.”

“Good luck,” Morgan called after her. “Try not to get caught in the gravitational pull.”

Spencer didn’t watch her go. But his pen tapped once. Then again. Then again.

Spencer stood just outside the conference room, his silhouette cast long against the hallway floor by the overhead fluorescents. The file tucked beneath his arm had slipped slightly, one corner pressing into his ribs. In his other hand, a cooling paper cup trembled faintly, more from how tightly he gripped it than the weight it held.

He hadn’t moved in several minutes.

Through the wide glass wall, the room inside glowed softly with artificial light. A low murmur of voices—indistinct—filtered through the pane. Not loud enough to hear, but enough to feel. Steady. Rhythmic.

Y/N sat at the far end of the table. Her legs were crossed neatly at the ankles, back straight but not rigid, posture attentive. Her expression, Spencer noted—not for the first time—was exactly the kind that made people talk. Calm, open, engaged. Her pen hovered over a blank page, her head tilted just slightly, as if to better catch the shape of a truth not yet spoken.

She wasn’t smiling. Not exactly. But her presence was the kind that invited trust.

That’s just who she is, he reminded himself.

But then Carroway leaned closer.

The detective was angled toward her, elbows braced lightly on his knees, voice pitched low enough to be private but not secretive. His expression was focused—relaxed. Polished. Like everything he said was meant to land effortlessly.

Spencer’s jaw clenched.

When Y/N let out a soft, brief laugh, it flickered across her face like sunlight skimming the surface of water—gone almost as soon as it appeared. Spencer had heard that laugh before. Had earned it, in rare, golden moments. He’d known the sound of it in quiet hotel hallways and on long rides home from cases that nearly broke them. But here, it set his stomach turning.

Because Carroway was looking at her like it meant something.

And Spencer was starting to believe maybe it did.

Y/N shifted in her seat, just slightly, knees turning a fraction in Carroway’s direction. Her shoulders were still angled toward the witness—but her gaze flicked sideways. A light in her eyes. Curious. Amused.

Interested, Spencer thought. Or maybe entertained. He couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

His fingers curled tighter around the cup.

It didn’t help that Carroway was the kind of man who made people listen. Not because he demanded it, but because he fit so easily into the rhythm of conversation. Charismatic. At ease. His attention didn’t press—it coaxed. Even Emily and JJ had laughed at something he’d said earlier that morning, their heads tilted toward him with that low, familiar camaraderie of shared humor. Spencer had seen it.

He just hadn’t expected to see it from her.

Inside the room, Carroway said something again—something soft, Spencer assumed, because it made Y/N’s brow rise with interest. She leaned in by no more than an inch. Just enough to make Spencer’s heart stutter in his chest. She responded, mouth curling upward—not quite a full smile, but warm.

Friendly.

Maybe more.

Spencer looked down at the file beneath his arm and realized he hadn’t turned a page in twenty minutes. His coffee had gone lukewarm. His temples throbbed.

She’s just being kind, he told himself again, but the words felt flimsy now. Brittle.

He didn’t hear Hotch approach, but the voice behind him snapped like a rubber band stretched too thin.

“Reid,” came the quiet command. “I need those timeline estimates in my hand in ten.”

Spencer’s throat was dry. “On it.”

Hotch’s footsteps receded, fading back into the steady churn of the precinct.

Spencer stood frozen for another moment, gaze flicking once more toward the glass.

Y/N was speaking again—focused on the witness now. Professional. But when she glanced back at Carroway, something about the ease in her face made Spencer turn away.

He couldn’t do this right now.

He left the hallway in silence, footsteps brisk, head down.

The file under his arm creaked softly as he gripped it tighter.

And the coffee cup, still full, landed in the trash beside the break room door without a sound.

They regrouped at the central table an hour later—though “table” no longer felt like the right word for it. It was more of a battlefield now, every inch littered with the debris of unraveling a human mind. Case notes stacked in uneven piles, post-its curling at the edges, printouts spread like maps to a war zone. Folders burst open with scribbled margins and red circles drawn in haste. The air smelled like toner and fatigue, underscored by the metallic bite of too-cold coffee.

Coffee rings bled like ink stains across manila covers, some still damp, overlapping like old bruises.

Y/N stood near the head of the table with JJ and Emily, her body angled toward the overhead light that flickered every fifth second like a nervous tic. She was reviewing a spread of new forensics photos—fingerprints, partial treads, mud-blurred impressions. A strand of hair had slipped forward from where she’d tucked it, brushing her cheek as she leaned over the files. She didn’t notice. She was already halfway through connecting dots no one else had seen yet.

Spencer hovered at the periphery—close enough to listen, too far to be seen.

His fingers turned pages in the file in his hands, but none of them registered. The paper was a blur. Words lifted from the page like smoke without meaning. His jaw worked tight. His eyes, traitorous things, kept drifting back to her.

She looked calm. Composed. Lit gently by the overhead flicker and the pale glow of the task lamp beside her. The sweater she wore caught the light softly, hugging the lines of her shoulders like it had been made to. There was a highlighter tucked between her lips, and her boot tapped unconsciously against the floor in a quiet rhythm only she could hear.

He’d seen her like this before—brilliant and quietly focused. But now, it wasn’t just him seeing it.

Carroway strode in from the hallway like the kind of man you saw at the end of a polished campaign commercial—broad shoulders, sure hands, dark coat still dusted faintly with rain. He held a fresh folder under one arm and walked like he’d always belonged in rooms like this.

“Crime scene updates from the east side dump site,” he said, dropping the folder onto the center of the table with a practiced kind of ease. “Still no positive matches, but one of the tire treads lines up with an earlier print we flagged on the service road. Might help narrow the vehicle search.”

“Good,” Hotch said from the corner, not looking up from the map he was reviewing. “Prentiss, take point on that. Reid—start running vehicle ownership data based on the radius we discussed.”

Spencer nodded automatically. But he didn’t move.

Not yet.

Because she had stepped forward again.

Y/N leaned toward the photo Carroway had set down, one hand grabbing the highlighter out of her mouth and then braced lightly on the table, the other pointing with a delicate precision. “See how it curves here?” she said, fingertip just above the ridge of the print. “That’s not a flat surface—he drove over something uneven. Maybe a culvert or broken curb.”

Carroway’s eyes followed her finger, but not just her finger. “Sharp eye, Agent Y/L/N.”

She smiled—small, modest, a soft curve of her lips that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “We’ve been staring at these prints all day.”

And Spencer felt it.

That awful, twisting thing. Tight and low in his chest. Like something ancient had uncoiled behind his ribs and didn’t know how to settle again.

Carroway’s gaze didn’t linger inappropriately. It wasn’t lewd. Just appreciative. Warm. The kind of look that wasn’t a violation, but an invitation. An acknowledgment of something seen—and admired.

Still, Spencer’s throat went dry.

His eyes fell to his own file, to lines of text he couldn’t focus on. His knuckles whitened slightly around the folder’s edge.

Emily slid in beside him with the quiet grace of someone who’d been watching the whole thing for a while now. She bumped his elbow just slightly—light, but grounded.

“You should talk to her, you know,” she murmured.

“I am talking to her,” Spencer muttered without looking up.

“Not like that,” Emily said. Her voice was soft but firm, the tone she used on victims who needed the truth gentle but real. “Like a person. Not a profile.”

He didn’t respond. Couldn’t. The words snagged in his chest.

So instead, he turned away—folder clutched too tightly, the edges biting into his palm—and walked out of the bullpen toward the printer room. His steps were stiff, deliberate, almost too quiet. The shadows in the hallway swallowed him whole.

Back at the table, Y/N glanced toward the doorway he’d left through.

Her hand lingered above the photo just a moment too long.

Then she blinked, straightened her spine, and turned back to the work.

By late afternoon, the precinct had settled into that familiar kind of lull—the kind that clung after long hours and longer silences. It was the static rhythm of too many hours stretched thin over cold light and colder cases. Not silence exactly, but a hush made of paper shuffles, soft radio murmurs, the tired sigh of someone pinching the bridge of their nose at the end of another dead lead.

The air buzzed faintly, an undercurrent hum from the aging fluorescents that flickered in imperfect rhythm above. That kind of artificial light that never quite felt like light at all—too yellow, too sterile. It bleached everything it touched, casting a dull haze over whiteboards and laminates, turning paper coffee filters the color of old teeth, and making the red circles on the crime scene maps look more like dried blood than ink.

Mugs—half full, half forgotten—rested precariously on cluttered corners of desks. The coffee inside had long gone bitter and cold, its surface shimmering faintly with the oily sheen of time. Sleeves had been rolled and pushed and tugged again and again until the creases were permanent. Files lay open where minds had wandered, notes scrawled in the margins with pens that had run dry three times over.

The air itself smelled lived-in. Not foul—just used. Burnt coffee and stale printer toner. Fabric softened by too many hours of wear. The faintest trace of pine cleaner that hadn’t touched a surface in days. Outside, the snow had begun to melt in slow, muddy sighs, and the precinct carried the aftermath in its corners—bootprints tracked in across the linoleum, puddles in the shape of soles turning to ghost stains beneath desks. Damp coats hung over the backs of chairs, sleeves dripping into faint halos on the floor, collars steamed from the heat of too many bodies crammed into a space not meant for long-term comfort.

There was weight in the stillness. Not grief. Not panic. Just the heaviness of knowing too much and not enough all at once.

Somewhere in the corner, a desk fan rattled with every turn, clicking softly like a nervous tic. The phone rang, once, unanswered. Then again.

And above it all, the boards loomed—case files mapped out in red string and pushpins, photographs with blurred faces and time stamped sorrow pinned like ghosts to cork. Under the fluorescents, every face looked a little too pale. A little too lost.

Spencer sat at the central table with his back too straight, fingers poised over the keyboard but unmoving. The victimology matrix blinked on the screen before him, half-filled with names, locations, variables that once felt like progress but now blurred together. There had been a new lead—something about proximity and trail overlap, a possible cluster of vehicle sightings near the service road—but he wasn’t reading it.

Not really.

Because across the room, Y/N stood at the secondary table near the copy machine, sleeves rolled past her elbows, a pen tucked behind her ear, sweater stretched soft across her shoulders. She was leaning over a series of fresh prints, her voice low and thoughtful as she pointed something out to Emily and JJ, her other hand braced lightly on her hip. The small glint of her necklace shifted with the angle of her chin as she spoke.

“See that imprint?” she said, fingertip hovering over a photo. “The leaves are flattened, but only in one direction—he stopped here. Maybe turned the body before dragging it further.”

Emily leaned in, arms crossed, brow furrowed. “Could explain the scuff marks near the east edge. That dirt pattern wasn’t from the tires.”

JJ nodded. “If we overlay that with the timeline, he was in the area longer than we thought. That’s intentional.”

And then Carroway appeared—smooth as ever—emerging from the hallway like the casual hero of a small-town noir, jacket still zipped halfway from his brief step outside. The chill of upstate air clung to him in the form of faint dampness on his collar, his sleeves pushed up just enough to suggest effort without sweat.

He smiled easily, stepping into their circle.

“Agent Y/L/N,” he said, his voice warm with a familiarity he hadn’t earned. “Three for three today. If you keep solving everything before the rest of us catch up, you’re going to put the whole department out of work.”

Y/N laughed—polite, brief. Not flirty. Just her usual—sunlight-in-the-fog warmth. “Pretty sure there’s enough crime to go around.”

Carroway’s grin deepened, his eyes steady on her. “Still. You’ve got a sharp eye. You ever consider transferring to a city that doesn’t travel with its own jet?”

She just shook her head, turning back to the photo spread with a smile. “Tempting. But I don’t think I’d survive without Garcia.”

Spencer clenched his jaw. The cursor on his screen blinked like a pulse.

He didn’t realize Emily and JJ had both glanced at each other until Emily smirked, elbow nudging JJ. “Detective’s got it bad.”

JJ, more gentle, just murmured, “He does seem… interested.”

“She’s not picking up on it,” Emily added, crossing her arms. “Too busy being brilliant.”

Spencer’s stomach twisted.

Because from where he sat, it didn’t look like she was too busy. It looked like she was leaning just a little closer than necessary. Like her smile lingered for him. Like her laugh came easier in Carroway’s orbit. And maybe she didn’t notice. Maybe she did. Either way—it wasn’t for Spencer to decipher anymore, was it?

Morgan appeared behind him, setting down a fresh file with a soft thump.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low.

Spencer didn’t look away from the screen. “I’m fine.”

“Right,” Morgan drawled. “Just... staring holes into the back of Detective Charming’s head.”

“I’m analyzing his behavioral consistency,” Spencer muttered.

Morgan snorted. “Sure you are. And he just happens to be stationed next to Y/N every time you start typing.”

Spencer didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t have one—because every possible answer felt too close to the truth.

Across the room, Carroway reached past Y/N to hand Emily a photo, his shoulder brushing hers as he did. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t even seem to register it. Her brow was furrowed in thought, eyes darting between photo and printout, wholly absorbed in the case.

But Spencer saw it.

Saw the way Carroway watched her—like she was the answer to something he’d never dared ask. The way his focus dipped with every shift of her weight, every tilt of her head. And Spencer hated that it wasn’t just obvious. It was effortless.

A warmth he could never replicate.

“I’m going to review tire patterns from the north trailhead,” he said abruptly, standing too fast. The chair legs groaned against the floor.

Morgan raised a brow. “That’s… very specific.”

Spencer was already moving.

“Just don’t pull a muscle trying to ignore her,” Morgan called after him. “You’re not built for denial.”

Spencer didn’t reply.

Didn’t need to.

Because the silence that followed him wasn’t empty—it was full of things he couldn’t say.

The evidence board was quiet now.

Most of the team had filtered out for dinner or a break, but Spencer remained, crouched beside an array of tire tread overlays and timestamped location markers spread across the precinct table like a disassembled watch.

He didn’t need the room silent to think. But silence helped.

Here, with no one around to distract him—no voices, no glances, no Carroway—he could finally breathe.

He slid a photo an inch to the left, matching it against a radius map from the earlier dump site. The patterns were narrowing. He knew it. The unsub was returning to places with emotional weight—each site a recursive loop of some unresolved trauma.

He could feel the shape of the profile forming beneath his skin.

He just couldn’t see it clearly yet.

“Hey, Spence.”

The voice came like a break in the storm—low, familiar, golden at the edges. Like the first shaft of sunlight through a rain-soaked window. Soft enough to miss if you weren’t waiting for it.

But he was.

He looked up—and there she was.

Framed in the doorway, haloed by the muted gold of the hallway’s lamplight, she looked like something conjured out of sleep and half-lit memory—a flicker of warmth in the weary hush of the precinct. The light didn’t just hit her. It softened around her, like it had chosen to bend gently at her shoulders, spill in low amber tones along the line of her jaw, the dip of her collarbone, the fine curve of her wrist where she cradled the mug in both hands.

Her sleeves were pushed up past her elbows, exposing forearms that bore faint creases from where she'd leaned too long against paper, maps, thoughts. The sweater she wore—charcoal-gray, loose in the way worn-in things always are—draped along her frame like it knew her. Like it had studied the shape of her for years. The steam from her mug curled upward in slow ribbons, catching the light just so, turning to breath before vanishing into the still air.

Strands of hair had fallen loose from behind her ears, soft and errant, clinging in feather-light arcs to the curve of her cheek where rain or fatigue or time had left their quiet fingerprints. There was a blush to her skin—not cosmetic, not feigned, just the flush of hours awake, of movement, of some hidden reserve of warmth she carried even now.

And her smile—

God, her smile.

It broke across her face like morning over water. Too wide for the hour, too bright for the overexposed fatigue hanging in the air like static. It was the kind of smile that should’ve been saved for a different life—one without blood or case files or the slow erosion of good sleep. But it was hers. And it was real. That smile always had been.

It didn’t ask for attention. It didn’t perform.

It just was—easy, unguarded, crinkled at the corners of her eyes like it had bloomed there first. And for a second—just a breath in time—it erased everything else. The clatter of keyboards. The ache in his shoulders. The bruising quiet in his chest that he’d been trying not to name.

She wasn’t even trying to glow.

And somehow, that made it worse.

She tilted her head slightly, then stepped into the room—and he heard her before he saw her. The sharp, soft click of her heels against the linoleum rang out like punctuation in the silence, delicate but sure. Not loud, but undeniable. Measured steps that carried with them something certain, something that grounded.

Each tap echoed just enough to remind him she was real, that she wasn’t a figment conjured from too many sleepless hours and not enough courage.

She moved like warmth itself—shoulders relaxed, gaze already scanning the room with quiet precision—but it wasn’t just the heat of her presence. It was the way the air seemed to shift around her, to bend subtly toward her orbit. Like wherever she went, the room remembered how to breathe again.

“You okay?” she asked gently, voice lighter than it had any right to be after the day they’d had. “You’ve been hiding out in here so long I was starting to wonder if you’d merged with the case files.”

He blinked once. Twice. Swallowed.

“I’m fine,” he said—too quickly. Too practiced.

But her gaze didn’t falter.

Just softened, as it always did for him.

Like she could see the static clinging to his thoughts, the tension woven into his posture. Like she’d trace it all with her fingertips if he let her.

Her eyes held his a moment longer—steady, open, impossibly kind.

Then, as if sensing he wouldn’t offer more, she smiled again—smaller this time. Gentler. It lingered like moonlight caught in fog, like something made of hush and half-formed hope.

And then she moved. Past him. Just close enough.

The air changed around her.

It was subtle—barely more than a shift in temperature, a brush of motion—but to Spencer it was tectonic. Like the breath of a new season stirring through an open window. And with it came the scent of her shampoo, trailing behind her like a whispered secret: sweet, soft, unmistakably hers.

It smelled like wild honey and blooming jasmine—sweet in a way that wasn’t cloying but golden, ripened, like fruit left out just long enough to glow. There was something gentle in it, but decadent too—like the memory of sugared tea sipped on a porch in late summer, or the faint trace of blossoms pressed between the pages of an old book.

It clung to the damp curls brushing the slope of her neck, delicate and unrushed, warmed by skin and rain and the hours she’d worn it. The jasmine was soft and heady, petal-thick, like something from a dream. But it was the honey that caught him—amber-sweet, sun-spilled, deeper than it had any right to be. A sweetness that bloomed slowly, curling into the back of his throat, thick and molten and almost unbearably tender.

It wasn’t the kind of scent designed to dazzle. It was the kind you didn’t notice until you were close. Really close. The kind that settled into the air around her like it belonged there.

Like she belonged.

His blood rushed, molten and dizzying. A flush crawled up the back of his neck, hot beneath his collar.

She didn’t notice—couldn’t possibly know what she’d done to him with something so innocent, so quiet. She was already turning toward the others, her steps light, her presence soft as ever.

But the scent stayed.

“I brought you tea,” she said simply, holding out the mug like a peace offering. “Stole the last of the honey packets. Hope that gives me extra credit.”

And just like that—she was light again.

And he was drowning in it.

“Don’t ask me what kind. I just picked the bag with the prettiest tag.” She set it beside his elbow, leaning on the edge of the table.

He gave a faint nod. “Thanks.”

She studied his face for a second too long.

“I’ve missed talking to you today,” she said.

He didn’t reply.

Just went back to his file, pen moving with mechanical precision across the corner of a victim’s timeline.

“I mean, I know we’ve been in the same room, but that doesn’t count,” she added, light. “You’ve been… elsewhere. Galaxy brain mode.”

His lips twitched, almost into a smile. But it didn’t make it.

“I’ve been working,” he said instead.

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing—not suspicious, just playful.

“Right. Of course. The Spencer Reid black hole of intellectual intensity. How could I forget?”

Still, nothing from him. Not really.

She leaned in just a little, voice gentler now. “Hey. How are you holding up?”

He didn’t answer that either. 

Instead, he shifted the stack of papers between them. “We need to cross-reference the tread spacing with the eastern sector security footage timestamps. The pattern’s emerging slower than it should.”

She blinked. “Okay…”

Something in her voice faltered, just a fraction.

But when he didn’t look up, she straightened. Her smile dimmed slightly—not enough for him to feel guilty, but enough for him to notice.

She took a slow breath.

“You know,” she said, still teasing but softer now, “I’m starting to think you like maps and tire tracks more than me.”

That one hit something low in his chest.

He looked up—just once.

And for a split second, he saw her as she really was.

Eyes warm. Open. Crinkled at the corners from trying too hard to reach him.

And the worst part?

She didn’t even know what she was competing with.

Because it wasn’t Carroway.

It was the thought of losing her to someone who didn’t have to try so hard to not be cold. Someone who didn’t have to keep reminding himself not to want more than professionalism would allow.

Spencer closed the folder with quiet finality.

“You should get some rest,” he said. “We’ll need you sharp tomorrow.”

Y/N paused. The spark in her eyes flickered—but didn’t go out.

She nodded once, slowly. “Right. Of course.”

And then, just before she left the room:

“I’ll see you in the morning, Spencer.”

Not Spence. Not this time.

Just Spencer.

And that, somehow, was worse.

The footage came through at midnight.

Spencer had barely gotten two sips into the cup of tea Y/N had left behind when Garcia’s alert pinged into the shared drive. He moved fast, skimming the timestamps, locating the eastern perimeter cams.

By 12:13 a.m., the team was gathering again.

Coffee replaced sleep. The overhead fluorescents buzzed to life like they resented being disturbed.

“Got a partial plate,” Garcia’s voice crackled through Morgan’s speakerphone. “It’s grainy, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure the vehicle matches our earlier dump site photo. Black Nissan, three digits visible. Cross-checking local registrations now.”

Hotch was already assigning roles. Spencer barely looked up from the monitor.

“Carroway, take Y/L/N and Prentiss,” Hotch said. “There’s a witness who might’ve seen the car parked near the trailhead. She’s an older woman—tends to sit on her porch late.”

Carroway nodded. “She knows me. We’ve spoken before. I’ll keep it short.”

Y/N stepped toward the coat rack, zipping up her outer layer with quiet efficiency. The zipper caught slightly near the collar, and she tugged it gently with gloved fingers, the sound delicate in the hush of the room. She looked over at Spencer—just for a moment.

Her eyes searched his face like they were hoping for something there. Some glimmer. Some thread of softness she might still reach for.

But he didn’t meet her gaze.

Not this time.

Instead, he turned back to the whiteboard, the overhead lights catching faintly on his lashes. “Check if she’s mentioned anything about the car’s exhaust,” he said, voice steady but distant. “Our guy might be modifying the muffler—sound dampening.”

Y/N didn’t move right away. Just blinked once, slow. Her shoulders didn’t slump, not quite—but something in her posture stilled, as if a tether had quietly snapped.

And then—Morgan caught her eye.

It was just a flicker, a glance between teammates, but it landed like weight. Her gaze met his, startled for half a second by the fact that someone had seen. That he had seen. And for a breath, she couldn’t quite hide it—the sadness softening the line of her mouth, the brief fracture in the brightness she always wore like armor.

But then she nodded once, like it didn’t matter. Like it hadn’t mattered at all.

And turned away.

“Got it,” Emily said, already moving.

Spencer heard them leave. Her voice mingled with Carroway’s down the hallway—cordial, curious. Focused.

But not cold.

Never cold.

That was the thing about her. She didn’t need to flirt to light up a conversation. She just existed in the space beside someone and made them feel like the most important thing there.

Even when they weren’t.

Even when someone else was watching.

The precinct lights buzzed faintly overhead, humming in that way that only overworked bulbs could—thin and constant, like a headache waiting to happen. The walls were tired beige, plastered in maps and taped-up mugshots, the corners yellowed with time and too many late nights. Somewhere behind them, a copier clattered out pages, its rhythm too sharp against the low murmur of conversation.

The team had clustered around the central bullpen table, half-empty coffee cups balanced near notepads, a box of glazed donuts open like a peace offering from a rookie cop who hadn’t known what else to bring. JJ leaned against the table’s edge, recounting something that made Emily snort into her paper cup. Even Hotch cracked a tight smile behind his coffee. Rossi gave a low chuckle and shook his head.

Spencer sat at the far end of the table, spine straight but gaze unfocused, stirring the same cup of tea he’d made nearly twenty minutes ago. It had gone lukewarm.

Then—

She walked in.

Y/N. Hair pulled loosely back, still damp from washing the rain and grit of the case away. She’d changed into a soft gray shirt layered under a navy quarter-zip and her usual field boots, laces tucked messily. Her badge caught the light as she moved. There was something quiet in the way she smiled at the team—sleepy, but warm, like she hadn’t let the weight of the day steal her brightness yet.

She slid easily into the spot between JJ and Emily, offering a quick “Morning,” as she set down a file. Her fingers brushed JJ’s sleeve as she pointed to something in the report—casual. Close. Familiar.

And of course—

Carroway followed a moment later, all easy charm and shoulder-set confidence. He didn’t sit right away. Just hovered behind her for a second longer than necessary, one hand resting lightly against the back of her chair. He leaned in, saying something too low for Spencer to hear, a glint of humor tugging at the corner of his mouth.

And she laughed.

Not the polite kind. Not the work-laugh people used to keep energy up during briefings.

A real one.

Unfiltered and round-edged. Soft and full, the kind of laugh that made her eyes crinkle and her shoulders relax for just a moment, like it slipped out before she could remember the day wasn’t over.

Spencer felt it like a fist behind his ribs.

Because he’d spent the last four days tracing her steps in crime scene photos, listening for her voice through earpieces and radio static, and memorizing the cadence of her laugh in moments when it was meant to be shared with him.

But now?

Now it belonged to someone else’s punchline.

And he hated himself for noticing.

Across the table, Morgan raised an eyebrow at him. Didn’t say anything. Just watched him, the way friends did when they knew the exact shape of what you were trying to hide.

Spencer looked down. Took a sip of his tea.

Bitter. Still cold.

A shuffle of movement pulled his gaze back up. Y/N was leaning forward, elbow grazing Emily’s as she reached for the grainy satellite print of the trail routes they’d discussed earlier. Her brows furrowed as she traced something with her finger.

Carroway leaned in again, pointing at a different angle, voice soft, easy. A joke or maybe a note about the route. Whatever it was, it made Emily laugh too. JJ smirked behind her coffee lid. The whole circle of them felt warm. Alive. A center of gravity that pulled.

And then—

Y/N glanced up.

Right at Spencer.

It wasn’t dramatic. Wasn’t loud.

Just a look. But it carried something in it—open, careful, almost hopeful. Her mouth curved slightly, a smile not meant for anyone else. A quiet question in the shape of a moment: Maybe this time, he’ll smile back.

He didn’t.

Couldn’t.

Something clenched too tight in his throat, and all he managed was a single blink before dropping his gaze again, letting the pages in front of him blur together in grayscale lines.

When he looked up again, she’d already turned back toward Emily.

But something in her had dimmed—just slightly. Her posture was still open, her voice steady as she murmured something in response to Carroway, but the light in her eyes had flickered. Not vanished. Flickered like a candle catching on a draft no one else noticed.

She smiled again, but it didn’t reach as far this time. A softer curve, more reflex than spark.

And Spencer felt it like a missed step on familiar stairs.

Carroway was still talking. Emily nodded along. JJ made a quiet comment and earned another laugh.

But Y/N?

She nodded too, polite as ever, focused and present. That same gentle light still shone through her—but it felt muted now.

Still there. Just not for him. Not in that moment.

And it was his fault.

Spencer sat very still, the ache in his chest louder than the tea would ever be.

And he told himself it was just the lighting. Or the noise. Or the rain still running in rivers down the windows.

Anything but what it really was.

The rain had been steady for hours, clinging to the sides of the perimeter van in fat drops, tracing lazy paths down the windows like veins. Inside, the hum of low conversation and soft static filled the air, cut occasionally by the sharp click of a keyboard or the squeal of distant tires against wet asphalt. The team was quiet, focused. Waiting.

Garcia's voice crackled through the headset like a lifeline. "Still got eyes on the interior feed—camera three is a little glitchy, but our mystery guest hasn’t doubled back. You’re still clear."

Spencer sat forward in his seat, elbows braced on his knees, eyes fixed on the monitors. JJ stood beside him, arms crossed tight against her vest, jaw set.

"If he’s cornered," JJ said, "he might try to draw it out. We need to anticipate a misdirect."

Rossi, standing just behind them, offered a short nod. "He’s been escalating fast. I don’t think he came here to surrender."

Spencer didn’t respond. His eyes tracked the flickering feeds, switching between angles. The warehouse loomed gray and jagged in the rain, like the husk of something long-dead.

The clock ticked past 11:00 p.m. when the radio finally buzzed alive.

"Confirmed sighting," came Carroway’s voice, clipped but clear. "Back entrance of the warehouse—suspect entering alone."

Spencer straightened immediately.

Hotch didn’t hesitate. "Move in."

Like muscle memory, the team fell into place. Morgan and Prentiss swept toward the north wall, boots slick on the pavement. Hotch followed tight behind Y/N and Carroway as they moved to flank the rear.

Spencer stayed at the comms hub with JJ, scanning the grainy footage. The exterior lens, fogged by rain, shimmered with silver threads that distorted the structure’s angles. He spoke without looking up.

"Any movement?"

JJ leaned in. "Nothing since he entered. Think he’s alone."

Spencer nodded once. "Y/N?"

JJ glanced sideways. "Last I saw, she was stacked just behind Emily on the side entrance."

He didn’t say anything more. Just stared.

The arrest, when it came, happened fast.

Five tense minutes passed. Then the door burst open. The suspect stumbled out, wild-eyed, soaked, a makeshift blade tucked against his lower back. He didn’t get a full step before Morgan closed the distance and knocked the weapon clear. Hotch was there instantly, locking the cuffs with a force that brooked no argument.

Spencer watched it all unfold from across the lot, his breath caught tight in his chest. Rain fell harder, a dull roar against the van roof.

The unsub dropped to his knees in the mud.

And there she was.

Y/N stood just behind Emily, hair damp and plastered to her temple, one sleeve pulled up past her elbow. Her chest moved with shallow, controlled breaths. Her gaze was alert.

She was fine.

Spencer didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until it released all at once, leaving him dizzy in its wake.

The tension didn’t evaporate. But it thinned, enough to breathe again.

She was okay.

They returned as a unit, boots dragging through fractured gravel and ankle-deep puddles that swallowed light whole. The rain hadn’t let up in hours—it fell in sheets now, relentless, a cold that bit through Kevlar and skin alike. Each breath fogged the air in uneven clouds, visible proof of the way the night pressed in.

Their silhouettes blurred in the downpour, fractured by the glow of the SUV’s floodlights. Water streamed from the edges of tactical jackets, pooled in the folds of sleeves, dripped rhythmically from the rims of hoods and the curls of damp hair clinging to foreheads and temples.

Carroway laughed—a low, easy sound that somehow cut through the storm.

“Next time,” he said, his voice half-muffled by the collar of his jacket, “we skip the Kevlar and pack wetsuits.”

Emily huffed a breath of amusement. “As long as they’re bulletproof.”

Y/N let out a small laugh, but it was distracted, half-formed. Her gaze was already drifting forward—past the lights, past the conversation. Past them.

To him.

Spencer stood beside JJ, motionless save for the faint curl of steam rising from the rim of the untouched coffee in his hands. He hadn’t stepped into the rain—not once—but the cold still crept in under his coat, settling sharp in the crooks of his elbows and the base of his neck. The overhang above him offered dry shelter, but not warmth. His coat was buttoned haphazardly, forgotten in favor of focus, and his shoulders were slightly hunched—like he’d been bracing for something that never came.

His hair stayed dry, but the air had made it static-soft around the edges, and the pale glow from the SUV's lights caught on the curve of his jaw, throwing him into partial silhouette. There was tension in his stance—quiet, restrained. Not restless. Not twitchy. Just the kind of stillness that comes from holding too much in for too long.

Y/N’s fingers brushed Emily’s arm.

“I’ll catch up,” she said softly, already moving before she finished the sentence. “Need to ask Reid something about the profile.”

Emily nodded, wiping at her dripping brow. Carroway didn’t notice. He was busy turning toward Morgan, launching into something about coordinating statements with the local deputies, his voice still lined with that infuriating charm.

Spencer watched Y/N break away from them, her footsteps light but hurried through the muck. Her boots kicked up flecks of gravel and rainwater with every step, and even soaked to the skin, even with fatigue written into every line of her posture—she glowed. Her hair clung to her cheeks in soft strands, droplets running down the curve of her jaw. There was mud on the hem of her pants and a smudge across one wrist where she must’ve steadied herself on something rough.

But her eyes—they were bright.

Like something had cracked open in her. Lit her from within. Her cheeks were flushed, glowing with adrenaline and rain and that quiet electricity she always carried after the sharp edge of a standoff had dulled.

And her smile—

It hit him before she even spoke. Wide. Too wide. Crinkled at the corners, reckless in its honesty.

“Hey, Spence,” she said, and it was soft in a way nothing else around them was. The rain kept falling—unforgiving, heavy—the storm humming against metal, against gravel, against skin like a second heartbeat. But her voice cut through it like light through stormclouds, gentle and golden even as it shivered.

He turned toward her, barely.

“Crazy case, right?” she said again, her breath fogging faintly in the narrow space between them, disappearing into the cold.

The chill in his voice wasn’t biting—but it wasn’t warm either. Distant. Hollow. Like something left out too long in a cold room. “Yeah. It was.”

She gave a small, shaky breath, too quiet to be a sigh. Her clothes clung to her—soaked through and heavy with rain. Her coat, dark and drenched, dripped steadily from the hem, a thin rivulet of water trailing down one boot to the gravel below. Her sweater had molded to the shape of her arms, darker at the seams, the fabric stretched and dripping. She hadn’t stopped shaking—not entirely. Not since the arrest. Her fingertips were pink and raw from the cold, curled slightly at her sides as though her body was trying to shield itself from the sting of it all.

Droplets slipped from the curve of her temple, down her jaw, gathering in the delicate hollow of her throat. Her hair, soaked to its ends, stuck in gentle waves against her skin, framing her face like brushstrokes half-erased by weather.

Still, she didn’t wipe them away. Just stood there, watching him. Steady in the way only she knew how to be.

“You okay?” she asked, voice soft, but trembling faintly around the edges now—whether from the cold or something else, he couldn’t be sure.

“I’m fine,” he said too fast. Too sharp. The words brittle in the air between them.

She blinked. Once. Then again, slower—her lashes weighed down with rain. A flicker of confusion crossed her brow. Hurt, maybe. Or just tiredness, slipping past her guard.

“You sure?” she asked, her voice quieter this time. “You’ve seemed a little… I don’t know. Distant.”

She hugged her arms around herself slightly, as if the words alone weren’t enough to warm the space he was leaving between them.

He didn’t answer right away. Just adjusted his grip on the mug, eyes flicking down and away. “I’ve just been focused. That’s all.”

Her smile dimmed—not fully, but enough to feel it. Enough to see something in her shoulders dip the slightest degree. Something smaller.

“Right. Of course.”

She didn’t move. Just lingered there beside him, the rain seeping into the seams of her sleeves, her boots planted solidly in the gravel.

Spencer said nothing.

Y/N gave a quiet sigh, masked behind a chuckle. “Well. At least no one got shot. That’s got to count for something, right?”

He offered a pale shadow of a smile. “Yeah. It does.”

The silence between them wasn’t charged. It wasn’t even heavy. Just hollow. Like something important had already passed by, unnoticed.

The rain whispered behind her, a constant hush against metal and gravel.

She didn’t move yet.

Just stood close—close enough that the mist clinging to her sleeve began to bead faintly on his coat. Her eyes flicked down as she noticed, and she gave a soft laugh, a little embarrassed.

“Sorry,” she murmured, brushing at the spot where her arm had touched his. “Didn’t mean to get you wet. You feel warm.”

She said it like it surprised her. Like the heat radiating from him had caught her off guard after hours of bone-deep cold. And maybe—just maybe—she’d hoped he might offer some of it back. Not in words. Just in nearness. In that way he used to stand a little too close when she needed grounding. In the way he used to look at her like she was the only steady thing in a world constantly pulling itself apart.

But Spencer didn’t reply. Didn’t move.

Her hand lingered just a second longer than it needed to.

Then dropped.

And then she turned.

She stepped back into the rain, the light from the SUV catching her hair as it swung behind her, damp curls catching in the wind. She returned to the others without another word—back to Emily, to Morgan, to Carroway, who glanced up the moment she approached and said something too quiet for Spencer to hear.

But he saw the way she smiled again.

Gentle. Bright.

She laughed—just once—and it echoed in Spencer’s chest like something falling.

Not shattering.

Just sinking.

And still, he stood under the awning, perfectly dry, perfectly still, and somehow the only one who felt like he was drowning.

The precinct felt different now.

Not silent—there was still the low murmur of voices, the hum of tired electronics, the distant rattle of a printer finishing its last job—but the air had shifted. The weight that had hung thick for days had finally thinned, like fog lifting from a field. The unsub was in custody. No one had been hurt. And for the first time in hours, maybe days, the tension had unspooled from everyone’s shoulders.

Outside, rain still whispered against the windows in a steady, rhythmic hush. But inside, there was warmth again. The buzz of a space beginning to breathe.

Spencer stood at one of the long evidence tables near the center of the room, his fingers carefully smoothing the edges of manila folders as he reorganized them into the transport boxes. The methodical motion was grounding. Reassuring. It gave his hands something to do while his mind caught up with itself.

Nearby, JJ and Morgan were by the exit, laughing over bitter coffee and half-wet sneakers.

“I swear, if these boots don’t dry by morning, I’m putting in for hazard pay,” Morgan grumbled, lifting one foot and inspecting the muddy tread.

JJ snorted. “You say that every time we work in the rain.”

“Yeah, and one of these days, someone’s gonna take me seriously.”

Emily was still on the phone across the bullpen, her back turned slightly as she spoke in low tones—likely a final update to Quantico. A vending machine buzzed beside her, lights flickering faintly against the rain-slicked windows.

And across the room—

Spencer’s fingers paused.

Carroway stood close to Y/N, leaning with that familiar, easy confidence of his—hands in the pockets of his jacket, posture casual, voice pitched just low enough to not draw attention but not so quiet that it couldn't be heard.

“You know,” he said, brushing a bit of lint from his coat as he spoke, “if you ever feel like sticking around a couple extra days, I could give you a tour of the area. Show you the local coffee spot, maybe the bookstore—if you’re still into that.” His smile curved, warm, in a way that made Spencer’s stomach drop. “Or… if you ever find yourself back in New York.”

Spencer’s jaw tightened slightly.

But then—

Her reply.

Y/N smiled. That smile Spencer knew—gentle, sure. Not dismissive. But not wavering, either.

“Thanks, Nate,” she said, her voice soft, steady. “That’s sweet. But I’ve already got someone in mind.”

Carroway didn’t miss a beat. His brows lifted just slightly, like he’d expected as much. “Lucky guy,” he said, with a quiet nod that carried more weight than the words alone. The respect in his tone was genuine—but it didn’t quite mask the disappointment in his eyes. There was something a little wistful in the way he looked at her, like maybe, in another life, he’d have tried his luck.

Then, after a beat, his voice dropped just a touch. “He should know it. You’re… remarkable.”

Y/N laughed—soft, almost shy, the sound wrapped in modesty and something older than pride. “He doesn’t always know it.”

Her gaze drifted, unthinking, toward the back of the room—toward a shadow standing still beneath the pale halo of a flickering light. Her smile didn’t fade, but something in it changed.

A softness that didn’t belong to the moment they were in.

And Carroway saw it.

Didn’t push. Didn’t press.

Just offered a nod, and a quieter smile of his own.

Spencer’s breath caught.

Y/N offered Carroway a small, rueful smile—one corner of her mouth lifting with that same easy grace he’d grown to admire over the last few days. Her eyes flicked briefly past him, toward the far end of the room where Spencer stood, half-lit by the harsh fluorescence overhead.

“Speaking of,” she said softly, with a touch of dry humor, “he’s waiting for me.”

And she turned, not in a rush, but with quiet purpose. Her boots tapped gently across the floor, each step unhurried but sure. As she crossed the room, her hand skimmed the edge of a nearby desk, fingers brushing a forgotten pen, a coffee ring, a file left half-open—as if grounding herself in the familiar clutter of it all. When she reached him, she didn’t speak right away. Just let her presence settle beside his like warmth slipping into the chill he hadn’t realized had been sitting heavy in his chest.

He didn’t look at her at first. His fingers stilled over the last folder, but they didn’t move. Couldn’t.

She slid the file box closer, nudging the final reports into place.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Sorry about earlier.”

The words were quiet—gentle in that way only she could manage, like they weren’t meant to scold or stir, only soothe. And they landed in his chest with the weight of something sacred.

That broke him.

Spencer exhaled. A real breath this time—one that left his lungs without curling back in around his ribs. He looked up, fully, truly, meeting her eyes like they were a lighthouse after a long night at sea.

“No,” he said, voice low and edged with remorse. “Don’t be sorry. I was the one being an ass.”

She shook her head too quickly, her expression laced with that instinctive kindness she never seemed to turn off. The kind of grace she gave freely, even when he didn’t deserve it.

“You weren’t,” she said. “I just… didn’t know if something was wrong. You didn’t really look at me all day.”

He winced. A flicker of guilt cut across his face like lightning behind his eyes.

His mouth moved before his thoughts caught up. “I noticed Carroway.”

She paused, the subtle kind of stillness that said everything. Her hands slowed where they’d been helping him sort files—those same fingers that moments ago had left ghost-warmth against his sleeve.

Spencer’s voice dipped into something quieter, like he couldn’t trust it to carry more than the truth. “I know nothing happened. I know you weren’t… interested. I just…”

He swallowed hard, throat tight, the taste of regret thick behind his tongue.

“I think I let it get to me anyway,” he admitted. “Which isn’t fair to you.”

Her eyes softened—barely, but enough. She reached up and tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear, the motion as practiced and graceful as the way she moved through crime scenes. The rain hadn’t fully dried from her yet. The ends of her hair clung to her sweater, curls curling like commas against her temple. Her sleeves were still pushed up, exposing chilled skin, and the hem of her sweater bore faint watermarks that hadn’t yet warmed.

But her face—her face was steady.

“Spencer,” she murmured, and his name had never sounded softer, more meant for him alone. “You don’t have to explain.”

She glanced, briefly, toward the corner where Carroway now stood, gesturing animatedly in conversation with Morgan. His posture was relaxed, his smile easy.

But Y/N’s attention didn’t linger.

“I meant what I told him,” she said, turning back to Spencer with eyes that didn’t waver. “I already have someone in mind.”

Spencer’s pulse kicked hard at that. But it was the pause that followed—the smallest breath longer than necessary—that unraveled him completely.

“Not that he always knows it,” she added, teasing softly.

His chest tightened, but it wasn’t that sharp pinch of jealousy anymore. It was gentler now—an ache, yes, but one blooming with the fragile shape of hope.

He looked at her like she was a page he’d been afraid to turn for too long. Like every detail—the way her lips curled at the corners when she teased, the way her lashes stuck faintly together from rain, the faint rose of her cheeks still thawing from the cold—needed to be memorized. Archived in full color, burned into the quiet library of his mind.

A flush bloomed across his neck, and when he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“Do I know him?”

She tilted her head, smiling—this one smaller, secret, and just for him.

“You might.”

And in that instant, the hollow distance that had stretched between them all day felt less like a chasm and more like a bridge they’d both started crossing at the same time.

Spencer blinked, slow, and breathed again—like it might stick this time.

“I’m sorry I pulled away,” he said. “I thought I could hide it better. I just… I didn’t want to mess things up.”

Her smile widened—not into something bright and teasing, but something warm, rooted. Familiar.

“You didn’t,” she said. “You just made me miss you.”

Spencer’s throat worked around a breath, his voice tangled in something he couldn’t quite name yet.

“I missed you too.”

She beamed then—one of those too-wide, too-warm smiles that didn’t belong in a precinct or under fluorescent lights, and yet lit the whole damn place anyway.

“I forgive you,” she said, bumping his arm lightly with her own. “But only if you let me walk you to the jet.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Is that your way of asking for a seat next to mine?”

“Maybe,” she said, already grabbing the files from his hands. “But only if you’ll share your coffee.”

He paused, the air between them thick with unsaid things, rain still drumming softly against the glass behind him.

And then he looked at her. Really looked at her, as if it might be the last time he could.

His eyes swept across every detail of her face, slow and reverent—cataloguing each one like a page from a book he’d never dare lose. The damp strands of still wet hair clinging in curling tendrils to her temple. The faint smudge of tired eyeliner beneath her lashes, softened by the rain. The flush still blooming faintly across her cheeks from the cold, from the adrenaline, from being alive. The fine lines near the corners of her eyes, crinkling faintly as she smiled at him—lines he knew by heart now, not because they were imperfections, but because they were hers.

Her mouth, pink from the wind, parted just slightly in anticipation of whatever he might say next. He loved the way it curved, the way it softened when she teased, the way it trembled sometimes when she was fighting not to feel too much.

He wanted to memorize it all. Not just to remember—but to hold. To keep.

Something in his chest ached. Something deep and bone-quiet and full of awe.

“You can have the whole cup.”

[winchesterwild78]

The Gravity of it All

Master List

Characters: Dean Winchester x Reader, Cass, Jack, and Sam

Warnings: language, mentions on death, squint for some smut.

A/N: This takes place between Season 14 and 15. I’ve been rewatching Supernatural and I’ve been thinking about how things would be different if Dean had someone in his life during this time.

This does not follow the Supernatural storyline, but does include some of the story. I do not own the rights to Supernatural or the characters.

This will also be in a few parts.

All work is my own, don’t take it. Please reblog and like. Comments and feedback are always appreciated.

Minors DNI 18+

The bunker was cold. Not the normal chill that lingered in the air, but a bone chilling cold.

After Michael broke loose and killed almost everyone in the bunker, the ones that were left scattered.

I stayed. I stayed for three reasons. One, I had nowhere else to go. Two, since being in this world they had all become my family, and three, most likely the most important reason, Dean.

I was secretly in love with him.

His green eyes always seemed to find me across the room, he taught me how to properly shoot a gun, and our late night chats in his or my room held a special place in my heart.

It started out subtle. A glance here, a wink there. The way his hand brushed against mine and when we had too much to drink his flirting hit an all time high.

When Jack protected all of us and killed Michael, we noticed a subtle shift in his personality. Dean was worried he lost all of his soul.

I rode in the Impala with him as he drove Jack to see Donatello.

Dean and I waited outside.

“Dean, do you really think his soul is completely gone?”

Dean’s eyes flicked to mine, “I’m not sure. I really don’t want it to be true, but Donnie will be able to tell us.”

I nodded and fidgeted. Dean smirked and took my hands in his, pulling me close. “Hey, come here. Don’t worry, sweetheart. Everything will be fine.”

I nodded, my heart pounding in my chest and not just because of Jack.

Then Dean’s eyes met mine again. Something shifted between us. He placed a soft kiss on my temple.

Jack and Donatello came back out. Jack and I got in the car while Dean and Donatello talked.

Dean glanced back at the car and he looked solemn. Jack was in the backseat talking about the snake and how he’s going to try other foods for him.

I nodded, but my eyes were fixed on Dean.

Dean climbed back in the car and we headed back to the bunker. The ride home was pretty quiet, with the exception of Jack talking about the snake.

Arriving back at the bunker Jack went to his room and Dean went to his. I walked to Dean’s door and softly knocked.

“Come in,” I heard Dean say. He looked up with a smile tugging at his lips, “Hey sweetheart. What brings you in here?”

I offered a soft smile, “I just wanted to check on you and see what Donatello said.” He nodded, “Well he said he thinks Jack has a soul but he’s not sure. He said Jack has a power unlike anyone and to keep an eye on him. So I’m thinking no hunts for him. He can stay here and look up lore.”

“Do you think he’ll go for that?” Dean shrugged, “Maybe. Hell, I hope so.”

I nodded and then lingered at his door. “You okay sweetheart? Is there something else on your mind?”

I nervously bit my lip, “No. Um, I’m okay. Well, good night.”

I turned to leave and Dean stood. His hand on my arm before I could walk away, “Hey, talk to me. You know you can tell me anything, right?”

I nodded. My breath hitched. How could I tell him I was in love with him?

I looked at him and swallowed. I couldn’t tell him how I felt. It would ruin our friendship and that means so much to me, so I lie. “Honestly, I’m just worried about Jack. We’ve seen how he has no control of his powers and now what’s going to happen without a soul? I’m just worried, Dean.”

Dean closed the distance between us and his eyes softened, “I know Y/N. I think we’re all a little worried. But, (his hand touched my cheek) I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

My pulse quickened and my breath hitched. I nodded and smiled.

“Hey Dean. We need to talk.” Sam announced as he walked down the hallway. Dean’s hands dropped and pulled away.

“Dean, you in here? Oh hey, Y/N.” Sam looked between Dean and I.

“Hey Sam, um I’m just leaving. Thanks Dean for the words of encouragement.” He smiled and nodded.

I walked away and let out a shaky breath.

Sam looked at Dean and smirked, “Dude, what was that about?” Dean looked at Sam, “Drop it Sammy.”

Sam shook his head, “Okay, but you know you can be happy, right?”

Dean looked at Sam again with a tense jaw, “I said drop it.” His voice almost growled. “Now what did you need?”

“I found something that might help Jack, but I think Jack should stay here.”

“Give me 5 then. We will talk to him together.” Sam nodded, “What about Y/N? Wanna take her with us?”

Dean looked at Sam and a slight smirk spread on his face, “Yeah, we can take her.”

Dean packed his bag and stopped at my door, “Hey, we’re about to head out. Wanna join?” I looked up from my book and smiled, “Yeah. Let me pack and I’ll be ready.”

He smiled and nodded then left. Sam and Jack were in the war room and Dean joined them. They told Jack to hang back in case any other hunter needed help and to let Mary know what was going on. Jack agreed and the three of us left.

I sat in the backseat with my book. I glanced up and saw Dean looking at me in the mirror. Sam noticed too, shaking his head and smiling.

I looked back down at my book and felt the heat fill my face. Did he know how I felt about him? Did he feel the same way? My head reeled with questions.

A few hours later we pulled into a hotel. Nothing fancy, just your usual roadside motel. Dean put the Impala in park as Sam ran inside to get two rooms.

When he came back he looked defeated, “hey Y/N, they didn’t have two rooms so you’ll have to bunk with us.”

“It’s okay Sam. I don’t mind. It’s not like we haven’t shared a room before.”

He nodded and opened my door for me. I grabbed my bag and slung it over my shoulder as Dean opened the door. There were two queen beds and a sofa. Dean placed his stuff on the bed closest to the door, “You can have that bed, sweetheart.” My eyes met his and I nodded. Hearing him call me sweetheart sent a shiver down my spine.

I sat my bag on the empty bed and sat on the edge.

Later that evening Sam ran into town to get food, beer and pie. Dean and I stayed behind. There was a silence that filled the room I couldn’t quite figure out how to fill.

Dean was sitting at the table by the window looking at some lore. I stood, stretched and grabbed my clothes for a shower. “Hey, um, Dean? I’m gonna jump in the shower real quick.”

Dean’s emerald eyes landed on mine and a smile twitched at his cheek. “Okay, sweetheart. I’ll be waiting.” My bottom lip instinctively went into my mouth. I bit hard, trying to keep my feelings in check. Damn he was making it hard.

I walked into the bathroom and closed the door. I turned on the water and took my clothes off. Then I realized I dropped my panties. Shit! Where did I drop them?

I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around me. As I swung open the door Dean was standing there grinning with my panties hanging from his finger. His smirk stretched to his eyes, “Drop something?” My face flushed red, “Yeah, um I’m sorry.”

He stepped closer, “Don’t be. It’s not everyday I get to see your blue lacy panties.” I tried to hide my face. The embarrassment was too much. I grabbed at my panties and he pulled them back, laughing. My body collided with his solid frame. His strong calloused hands gripped me. My breath hitched.

“Dean…I.” My voice barely a whisper. He stepped even closer, my heart pounding in my chest, “Do you want me to stop?” His voice was deep and almost primal.

I couldn’t speak, the words caught in my throat. I just shook my head no. His hand cupped my face, lifting it up to him and his soft, plump lips ghosted mine. “You sure about this, Y/N?” “Yes,” I whispered.

His lips pressed softly to mine and I melted into his arms. The sound of the water running behind me faded. All I could hear now was the drumming of my heart.

The kiss was everything and then some. It was too much and not enough at the same time. My body reacted to his lips and touch in ways it never had with anyone before. I felt the slick running down my thigh.

I moaned into his mouth and he swallowed it. His hands ran up my body. The thin white towel that separated my naked body from his did nothing to keep me from feeling his arousal. My body was on fire.

Dean’s hands slid down my sides and to the hem of the towel. His fingers lightly pressed against my thigh and danced their way up. My breathing became faster and full of want.

I wanted him and I could tell he wanted me. Nothing was going to stop what was about to happen. My mind exploded with the possibilities and as Dean’s fingers found their way under the towel, I saw his green eyes darkened with lust.

His fingers found their way to my folds and as he slipped his fingers in, feeling my arousal, the room door swung open and Sam came in.

I pulled away quickly disappearing into the bathroom as Dean growled. “Dammit Sammy!”

“Sorry Dean. I didn’t think I’d be walking into whatever that was.” He chuckled as he sat the food down.

I stood in the bathroom trying to steady my breath. I just crossed a line with Dean. Did it mean something to him? Was it just a means to an end for him? My head spun with all my thoughts. I climbed in the shower and tried to focus on getting clean, but all I could think about was his lips, hands and how his fingers felt.

“Sammy, you have the worst timing, you know that?” Dean sat and let out a frustrated sigh.

“Dean, if you had been honest with her before now you two would be together. Look, I get it. It’s hard to open yourself up, but Dean she’s a great girl and a hell of a hunter. I’ll go for a drive and be back in an hour. Talk to her!”

Sam grabbed the keys and headed to the door, “And Dean, don’t screw this up.”

Sam left and Dean stood in the middle of the room weighing his options. He was determined to tell you how he felt about you.

Dean heard the shower turn off and he took a deep breath. Sitting on his bed he faced the bathroom.

A few minutes later I came out with a rush of steam enveloping me. My eyes met Dean’s and I noticed Sam was gone.

Dean’s eyes raked over my body. Damn she’s gorgeous. Fuck! Look at her perky nipples pushing the shirt out. Dean licked his lips and cleared his throat.

“Hey, sweetheart. Can we talk?”

I nodded, grabbing my hairbrush and I sat on my bed facing him. As he talked I brushed my hair.

“Look, that was, well, amazing. If Sammy hadn’t walked in, I know where I wanted it to go. But I think we need to talk before we jump into bed together.”

I looked stunned. “I…agree.” My voice was smaller than I expected. I felt a twinge of sadness, almost like rejection.

Dean noticed and shifted towards me, “Y/N, I like you. I mean I really like you. If I’m being honest I’ve liked you since you came over from apocalypse world. You’re kind, generous, gorgeous and a badass hunter. I’d like to see where this leads. If you’re willing to.”

I blinked, not believing what I was hearing. The silence between us grew. I was in shock. Dean shifted. I took a deep breath, “Yeah I’d like that. More than you know. Dean, I’ve liked you since I first laid eyes on you in my world. You’re strong, kind, sexy as hell and the best damn hunter I’ve ever seen. You protect those around you without a second thought. You’re the kind of man who deserves everything good in life.”

Dean didn’t say anything, he just stood, pulled me up and placed a kiss on my lips. When we pulled away my face was crimson red. He chuckled, “Now where were we?”

Part 2

Tags are open, if you want to be added or removed, let me know.

Tags:

@nescaveckwriter @kr804573

@k-slla @jackles010378

@jawritter @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx

@roseblue373 @cheynovak

@jassackles @chriszgirl92

@suckitands33 @arcannaa

@n-o-p-e-never @ladysparkles78

@smoothdogsgirl @hobby27

@manicjk @stoneyggirl2

@deans-spinster-witch @snowayumi

@shadowqueen1318 @shanimallina87

@muhahaha303 @fitxgrld

@nancymcl @baby19sthings

@cheekygirl2309 @oceean

@kindollss @foxyjwls007

@lmg14 @cevansbaby-dove

@spxideyver @reignsboy19

@deans-baby-momma @deansimpalababy

@ladykitana90 @quietgirll75

@superrey @kamisobsessed

@obliviousap @ninii-winchester

@mischiefnevermanaged89-blog @whimsyfinny

@bobbdylan @star-yawnznn

@reignsboy19 @monkey-d-hoshizora98

@depressionbarbie2023 @livingdeadblondequeen

@mandee7 @barnes70stark

@spnaquakindgdom @djs8891

@pughsexual @spnaquakindgdom

@lunaleah @amberlthomas

@rebecca-hvnstn

[kxsagi]

Lol I'M SORRY😭😭🥶 this is the second request back to back😞. Literally. I got another idea as soon as I hit the ask/send button.

2nd idea if you don't mind.... pianist rin x orchestra reader 🤫‼️‼️. Idk what instrument really. But I've recently been rewatching Wednesday and thought hmmm.... wednesday likes horror...rin likes horror... So yeah I don't get my thought process either but basically I think cellist reader 😭😭😭

“𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬”

a/n: okay okay i see you 🤭 ngl rin looks like a pianist, or maybe just because my mom’s friend’s son literally looks like rin and he’s a skilled pianist

this was actually nice to write since both of my younger sisters are in band and one of them has been playing the piano for nine years, ever since she was really young

(canon in D would be the song that rin and reader would play together)

(art credits go to paresseux_0_0 on X)

the concert hall buzzed with anticipation as the lights dimmed, and the orchestra settled into place. you, a skilled cellist with a passion for music that ran deep in your bones, adjusted the strap of your cello and glanced toward the grand piano on the stage. there, sitting with a calm yet intense expression, was rin. his fingers were poised above the keys, his eyes closed in concentration, preparing for the piece you both had rehearsed countless times. 

it was the final piece of the evening, a duet between piano and cello, a symphony that had always held a special place in your heart. your heart beat in time with the rhythm of the music as the conductor raised his baton. the first note rang out from rin’s piano, a deep, resonant chord that seemed to echo throughout the hall. 

you answered with your cello, the warm sound of the strings weaving through the air. the blend of both instruments created a melody so beautiful it felt as though time had paused. the audience, quiet and still, hung on every note as you both danced through the music together, a seamless duet of sound and soul. 

rin's fingers flew across the piano keys, his eyes occasionally meeting yours in the briefest of glances. despite his usual stoic nature, there was a warmth in his gaze as the music flowed between you. it was as though you two had become one, not just musicians but partners in the art of creation. 

there was a moment, toward the end of the piece, when the music swelled to a breathtaking crescendo. rin’s playing grew more fervent, matching the rise in the cello’s notes. your heart raced in synchrony with the movement, and the two of you reached the peak of the music, perfectly timed, perfectly connected. 

and then, as if the world had taken a collective breath, the final note rang out, leaving a lingering echo in the hall. silence followed, an awe-filled stillness before the audience erupted into applause. 

rin’s fingers rested gently on the piano keys, his expression softened but still a hint of concentration in his eyes. you met his gaze, and for a brief moment, everything outside the music seemed to vanish. he gave you a small, quiet smile, a rare gesture that held all the gratitude and affection he had for this shared moment. 

as the orchestra filed off the stage, you walked toward him, your cello in hand. "you played beautifully," you said, your voice soft but filled with warmth. 

he tilted his head slightly, as if considering your words, before responding, "you too. it felt... effortless." 

"that's because we make a great team," you replied, and for a moment, you both just stood there, the weight of the performance settling around you, the bond forged through music lingering in the air. 

rin, usually the type to remain composed and distant, nodded, his lips curving into a more genuine smile. "yeah. we do." 

and for the first time, he didn’t just look like a pianist; he looked like someone who had found his counterpart, someone who shared not just the same stage but the same feelings. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[sansaorgana]

— SECOND CHANCE

PAIRING — Erik Lehnsherr x fem!Mutant!Reader

SUMMARY — Long time ago, you made your choice not to follow Erik. It was a decision that you have been regretting ever since. Ten years later you finally see him again.

AUTHOR’S NOTE — Finally, as I promised, another fic with Erik!!! And not the last one either! 😁 I have rewatched all X–Men movies recently and I have some ideas... 😊 Reader’s mutation is NOT specified.

WORD COUNT — 3,040

ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.

SECOND CHANCE

Tight, black and yellow suit was hot to touch from the heat of the sun. You still remembered that feeling; the hot material underneath your fingers when you were trying to adjust the torn piece on your shoulder to cover your wounded skin from the upcoming blows and punches. You also remembered the fear, the pounding heart in your chest and the metallic taste of blood on your tongue from accidentally biting it after landing flat-faced on the ground when the plane crashed. 

And you remembered Erik’s steel blue eyes. He was surprised to see you even hesitate after his invitation to stand by his side. He felt like there was no need for words. Your loyalty was something he wouldn’t dare to overthink. But you didn’t move, you kept standing, petrified. And he kept staring at you and your lungs were starting to fail you. It was so heavy to breathe.

Even Raven left Charles’ side – his somewhat sister – and you kept standing in the same spot with a dry mouth because you had forgotten to swallow.

“(Y/N),” Erik’s voice was stern but you knew him well enough to know that it was a desperate plea more than a request. You had spent so much time together, he took you for granted.

“I’m sorry, Erik, I can’t…” you heard the words leaving your mouth but it felt like someone else had said them. It felt like watching a movie, it was certainly not real.

“(Y/N),” he repeated your name and his jaw clenched but you knew it was not driven by his anger. His world was tumbling down, everything he had known was turning into dust. You were everything he had known and the only person he had. And now you were betraying him… Abandoning him. Just like his mother did because she was just a weak human and couldn’t protect herself from the bullet. Meanwhile, you were a weak mutant – weak, because instead of admiring him, you feared him at that moment. He wasn’t a telepath but he could sense your apprehension.

“I love you…” you heard yourself saying and felt a tear rolling down your cheek. You had never told him that. That state of your feelings was obvious but you had never made that confession. “...but I can’t join you.”

Something told you already that you would regret your decision. You watched them all disappear but you let yourself burst out in tears only after being left alone with Moira, Charles and Hank. You didn’t want Erik to know how much this decision had cost you because then you’d expose yourself to his manipulations and sweet promises and you knew you’d give in.

But you didn’t want to give in and for the first time in your life, you made an important decision all by yourself. It was a tough decision, it was painful and difficult but it was morally good. You should have been proud of yourself but instead you were cursing yourself in your mind.

“Th-thank you,” Charles coughed out and you cracked a smile through your own tears.

You didn’t choose him. It wasn’t about him at all and you could feel deep in your bones that you would grow to hate him for your own decision just because it meant being separated from Erik.

You woke up abruptly and sat up in your bed while breathing heavily. You couldn’t see anything; it was the middle of the night. You glanced at the clock on your nightstand. Three am. You turned a small lamp on and wiped the sweat off of your forehead before sighing deeply and falling back down on your pillow.

It was raining outside, the sound was making you feel comfortable and somehow safe. Cold rain was a reminder that the hot, sunny day on the beach was far away. The dream was only a memory of something that had happened a long time ago.

“Stop haunting me, you bastard,” you murmured and turned your head around to look at the photograph on your night stand, right between the clock and a small lamp.

It was the only picture of you and Erik ever taken. You were wearing a new red polka dot dress that he had stolen for you in a store in Paris and the picture was taken by the Eiffel Tower. You had been living like Bonnie and Clyde back in the day, or like two superagents; always on a hunt. Chasing traces and clues, never spending more than a few nights in the same place. Back in the day, you had thought that once you’d capture your main target, you’d settle down with Erik.

“But you’re not dead,” you whispered and reached your hand out to caress the picture’s frame. “You’re not a ghost, so you can’t haunt me.”

It was your own heart haunting you with the memory of the day you two had parted. It was caused by regret.

You sighed and rolled over in the huge bed, feeling so small in the middle of it. Ten years earlier, the two of you had been sleeping in it together for a few weeks. It had been the longest time you had ever spent in one place. You had hoped it would become your home.

Your biggest regret was not even the fact that you and Erik were parted. Your biggest regret was that he was in jail now, deep under the ground. And you thought that it wouldn’t had happened… if only you were with him.

On the other hand, every single person that had joined him was dead – except for Raven. That was the argument Charles would often bring up whenever you whined about your current life.

And, God, you hated your life and you hated Charles Xavier. Well, not really. At this point you were like a dysfunctional family – but still a family – so you couldn’t say that you hated him. But he was an asshole, addicted to alcohol and that medicine that Hank had prepared for him. The mansion was dark and dirty, full of spiderwebs and dust. You only took care of your bedroom and the en suite bathroom. It wasn’t your job to be a maid of Charles and Hank.

At first your life hadn’t been so bad. You had been a teacher, you had your students and your schedule had been distracting you from thinking of Erik all the time. But now your life was full of long and boring days without any purpose and meaning. You were wasting your life away and you couldn’t even be with a man whom you loved. You spent most of your time reading books, taking walks around the neglected garden and taking long naps.

You turned the lamp off and formed a big roll out of your duvet to put your arms around it like it was a person. It would help you to fall asleep on nights like this.

“Are you thinking of me, too?” you asked quietly before drifting away to the land of dreams once again.

The arrival of that man known as Logan was the first exciting thing that had happened to you in years. And when he mentioned something about helping Erik to escape the Pentagon, you felt the mixture of anxiety and excitement.

The possibility of seeing Erik again was worth risking everything. Even if he wouldn’t want to look at you twice after all these years, after the abandonment and betrayal. You just wanted to see him again, look into his eyes, feel him being real and alive. You wanted the constant yearning and guilt to go away. You felt like you owed him the escape.

Of course Charles didn’t want to do it but it was about Raven more than about Erik, so he gave in. But he knew very well that you couldn’t wait to see your lover again so he kept giving you weird looks. And he wasn’t the only one.

“What is it?” you asked after spotting Logan in your mirror.

You were in your bedroom, preparing yourself to go with them all to find some mutant boy who was extremely fast.

“I’m sorry,” he emerged from the darkness and cleared his throat after properly entering your room instead of lurking inside through the ajar door.

“Don’t be sorry,” you shrugged your arms and fixed your hair. “I’m just wondering why are you scared of me. Or intimidated by me, I don’t know how to interpret your odd looks and why you’re avoiding me,” you explained and turned around to face him.

“Rule number one of a time traveller,” he cracked a smile, “is that you can’t reveal anything about the future.”

“Oh, so it has something to do with my future,” you cocked an eyebrow. “Now you have to tell me,” you insisted. “Are we, like, enemies?”

“It’s the first time I’m meeting you in real life,” he admitted and you furrowed your brows. “You’re more of a legend, I’d say. A myth perhaps.”

Your heart skipped a beat at that revelation. So, in the future you were apparently long gone. You only hoped that you wouldn’t die before making things right between you and Erik again.

“How will I die?”

“Perhaps not at all if we prevent Raven killing Trask,” he explained and you sighed with relief.

One thing you had in common with Charles was your hope – sometimes too naive and too innocent for your own good. But after finding out that this part of your future remains unwritten, for you it was like it wouldn’t happen at all. You had hope that you would manage to stop Raven. You were almost certain of it.

But still, there was some universe, some version of the timeline, where you had died.

“But when I died…” you started.

“I really don’t want to give you any details,” he shook his head.

“Just one thing, please,” you pleaded. “Was I with him again before that?”

Logan laughed a little and you furrowed your brow.

“So… That’s why Magneto is so dangerous,” he explained. “If I lost a woman who loved me so much, I would swear to destroy everything, too.”

You felt your cheeks heating up a little at that comment. It still wasn’t an answer to your question but it was enough – Erik loved you. Still.

“Let’s go,” you said and left the room to join Hank and Charles downstairs.

Charles decided it would be a bad idea for you to go to the Pentagon with the rest of them. You were supposed to wait for them on a plane – just in case they got into some sort of trouble, you’d be out of it so you could rescue them. That was Charles’ explanation. But in fact, he wasn’t sure of what you’d do after seeing Erik for the first time in ten years.

You were sitting in one of the seats, fixing your hair all the time, nervous of the way you looked. After all, ten years had passed and you weren’t as young as you had been on that beach when you had seen him for the last time. On your lap there was a bag with new clothes for Erik to wear so he wouldn’t have to walk around in a prisoner’s uniform. Your palms were sweaty and shaky as your heart pounded so loud that you couldn’t hear anything else.

There was a lump in your throat and a pit in your stomach as you chewed on your lower lip. And then you heard a whoosh sound and all of the guys showed up in front of you. At first, you didn’t react, too shocked to do anything.

When you realized that it was, in fact, Erik standing in front of you – real and alive – you stood up abruptly as the bag fell down off of your lap to the ground. He made wide eyes at you, Charles probably hadn’t told him that you’d be waiting.

“Let’s get out of here,” said Charles and sat down in one of the seats. Logan followed him while Hank sat behind the steer. Erik and you were still standing and staring at each other.

He hadn't changed much. His hair was shorter and there were a few more wrinkles on his face, but that would be it. You hoped he was thinking the same about you.

“I… I’ve got clothes for you… To ch-change,” you crouched down to pick up the bag before handing it to him.

It felt so surreal to see him again that you couldn’t even say “hello”.

“Thank you,” was all he said and your fingers brushed when he was taking the bag from you. Your whole body felt like it had been hit with an electric bolt.

Erik walked past you to go to the bathroom and you turned around to watch his back disappear behind the door.

“Wait,” you breathed out and followed him inside. Both Charles and Logan turned their heads to watch the scene. It had to be entertaining for them.

But they couldn’t see anything anyway because you closed the door after walking inside the bathroom after Erik. You couldn’t control your own body, it was all impulses and instincts leading your actions.

“What are you–” Erik started but you clashed your lips with his before he could finish the question.

He was surprised and taken aback at first but eventually he placed his big hands on both of your cheeks and pulled you even closer. You tangled your hands in his hair and opened your mouth wider to let him devour you with a kiss.

Long time ago you had been laying in bed together, in one of the cities that you had only been passing by. You remembered watching some war movie on TV in a hotel room and you remembered the long on-screen kiss. Your head had been on Erik’s chest and you had looked up to watch his face as you had been wondering what it was like to kiss someone after such a long time. Now you knew.

He broke the kiss when he felt your wet tears on his thumbs. You both caught your breaths and he wiped your cheeks gently. His own eyes were glistening, too.

“I thought you were with him now,” he said.

You took a step back – as much as the small bathroom allowed you to.

“You asshole,” you clenched your jaw and turned around to open the door and leave but he locked it without even lifting a finger. And when you tried to unlock it aggressively, he kept locking it back again until you gave up with a sigh and faced him again. “First thing you do after seeing me again is accusing me of cheating?” you asked, disappointed.

“Cheating? That would mean we were together all this time,” he raised an eyebrow. “As far as I remember, you chose him.”

“I know you were fucking Raven,” you pursed your lips to stop yourself from crying more, “and that other woman, too, probably. Emma, that was her name, right? Angel, too, I assume. I don’t care. I didn’t choose to go with you, you were free to do whatever you wanted. But it doesn’t mean that I didn’t choose to go with you because of him. I chose that for myself. And I have hated myself for it every day since then. I wanted to be a good person and do the right thing but turns out I am not. I am not a good person. Because all I want is to be with you again,” you confessed and blinked a few times to dry your fresh tears.

“You weren’t looking for me. I was waiting for you to change your mind and join me,” Erik clenched his jaw like he was waiting for some complicated explanation. But the answer was easy.

“I was afraid of you. I was afraid of the man I had seen on that beach, Erik. All these years we spent together, you had never told me what had been truly hiding in your head. I always thought it was about hunting Schmidt. I never knew you shared his ideas,” you swallowed thickly and sniffled.

“I didn’t want you to ever be afraid of me,” Erik’s fingers raised your chin up as he looked deep into your eyes. “You know that protecting you is my priority, always. Even if it means destroying the world,” he confessed as your eyes widened. It reminded you of what Logan had said earlier.

“I know,” you cracked a smile and he caressed your cheek. You leaned in to kiss the palm of his hand and held onto his wrist for a moment while looking into his eyes. “Will you do everything right this time? For me? I don’t want you to destroy the world. I just want you to fix everything so we can get the second chance,” you explained. “In our old room in Charles’ house there is still a drawer full of your clothes and I still wash them sometimes, pretending that you are using them, pretending that you’re going to come back soon. I make up the bed on your side and I keep a razor in the bathroom in case you wanted to shave,” you kept talking and talking and you knew that you were blabbering at this point but after all these years, you had to let it all out, along with the tears rolling down your cheeks uncontrollably now.

Erik furrowed his brow as his eyes full of pain were watching your face. Eventually, he shushed you and pressed your head to his chest to give you a comforting hug. The one you had been craving for so long.

“I will fix everything,” he made a promise and rubbed your back before giving kisses to your temple and the top of your head. “But I don’t think I want to go back to that house. I don’t think I can share Charles’ ideas and optimism.”

“It’s alright,” you shook your head. Now it was time for you to make a promise, too. “This time I will follow you wherever you go.”

MASTERLIST

[iliketangerines]

Raiden and Kung Lao with a reader that looks like this?? Like she works at madam Bo’s and comes from outworld. Shes fast with her work and now’s the boys orders- tehe

made to order

a/n: can't gang know i fw encanto (i cried during the rewatch of the movie)

pairing: raiden x reader x kung lao

warnings: xenophobia

Raiden and Kung Lao stare at you from their table as you effortlessly put down two waters on the table while taking their order in your other hands at a customer’s table

when Lord Liu Kang had opened up the barrier between Outworld and Earthrealm, there was a never ending flow of people coming from Outworld to explore Earth

people also loved going from Earthrealm to Outworld and last either of them heard, some corporate bigwig was trying to make a tourist industry out of it

but Kung Lao and Raiden supposed it wasn’t so bad as they watch you finish greeting a table with a loud smile and gentle laugh

you glance over at the two of them, tucking a stray strand of water behind your ear, before coming over to them with a big smile

Raiden clears his throat as you ask them how they’re doing today and that you can take their order, and Kung Lao flashes you a smirk, opening his mouth no doubt for a bad pickup line

Raiden elbows Kung Lao in the ribs, trying to do it subtly to stop him, but you catch the action as Kung Lao grunts and shoots a glare at his friend

you just smile and ask if they need any more time, and Raiden quickly says no, saying that they’re just a bit tired from picking cabbage all day

he puts in his order, saying it’s what he usually orders, and Kung Lao quickly puts his in, adding on that hey come here a lot to Madam Bo’s

you snap your fingers together on one of your many hands, and you exclaim that they’re Madam Bo’s prized students

Raiden raises his eyebrows at the statement, Madam Bo talked about the two of them?

Kung Lao just takes the chance to lean in closer to you, saying that yeah they were those students, learned everything they knew about fighting from her

you smile and cock your head, tapping another hand on your chin before you ask them to meet you after your shift, if they're willing

you want to test your skills, and Madam Bo had told you that they were the best fighters in this side of China

they glance at each other, answer already clear in their heads as they both say the same thing in unison: yes

you beam at them with that gorgeous smile and walk away with a wink, putting their food orders to the kitchen

both Raiden and Kung Lao chat, watching you out of the corner of their eyes as you flit around the restaurant putting down plates and pouring glasses of water and taking orders

your arms certainly came in handy for sure

finally, you serve them their meals as you pour them new tea, and you tell them to enjoy their food

Raiden gives you a polite nod, thanking you for the speedy service, and Kung Lao gives you a large smile and tries to say something flirty

except he misjudged where to place his elbow as he leans his head on it and ended up slamming his forehead into the table

you place a hand over your mouth, stifling your giggle, and you nod your head at them before disappearing to serve the next table

Kung Lao rubs his forehead and Raiden ruffles his friend’s hair before going to eat his meal, a casual conversation easily rising between the two of them

several minutes pass, finishing their meal, and they hear a small commotion and look over, finding you looking rather irritated as a man too red in the face points at you

they spot the empty bottles of alcohol, how the spittle flies from his mouth, and then they see how his hand grab onto one of your wrists tightly

the man is shouting insults about how Outworlders don’t belong on Earth and that they should all go home, and Raiden rises up to help

but then, they watch you grab onto the man’s wrist with your other hands, easily pushing his grip out of yours, and bend his wrist back so far they’re surprised the bone hasn’t broken

they hear the man howl in pain, kneeling down to try and relieve the pressure, but all you do is bend his wrist further back with a cold smile on your face

you ask him to repeat his statement, asking if he really wants to test you right now, and he sobs out an apology, begging you to spare him

sighing, you let go of him and tell him to get out of the restaurant, but not before paying

he scrambles, leaving his wallet on the table, and you pick it up, fishing out a generous amount of money and counting through it as you walk over to the counter

you hand over some of the cash to the lady at the register and then pocket some of it for yourself before noticing how Raiden and Kung Lao stare at you

walking on over, you give them a slight embarrassed smile, saying you really wish they didn’t have to see it, but the both of them reassure that it’s fine, that they can’t wait to fight against you

you give them a relieved chuckle and ask them to just stick around a little longer, that your shift is almost over

you take their empty plates away, handing them the check

but not before sending them a flirty wink as you walk away, sending both Raiden and Kung Lao’s heart stuttering

[plutoswritingplanet]

Ring Of Fire (Lucifer x Female!Reader)

a/n: again, no one asked for this, but i've been rewatching supernatural and there is something about season 5 Lucifer that just hits the spot for me. this one will be multiple chapters (i swear), a bit on the darker side. Cross-Posted on AO3

Warnings: Dub-Con (nothing too scandalous), Soulmates (but not really), follows season 5 storyline, Kinda Depressing, Strongly Inspired by "Preacher's Daughter" by Ethel Cain

Summary: Knowing God has an actual plan for you would be comforting for most people. You, however, seem to be always down on your luck.

PT.2

The foliage is damp with the night's air, water seeping into the fabric of your jeans, as you sit in the low bushes, watching. Smoke still fills your lungs, and grief still fills your heart, Jo and Ellen's faces etched just beneath your eyelids. Tears stain your cheeks, drying slowly on your skin, forming an uncomfortable crust. It's been such a long time since you've experienced loss such as this. One that rips something out of you and refuses to give it back. You must've grown too comfortable since Dean has been brought back, life needed to bring you back down. Your hands hurt from the tight grip you hold on a branch of a nearby tree, nerves locking you in place, as you watch Dean approach the Devil. Except, you're not there anymore. 

It's warm inside Bobby's home, and you've changed out of your past outfit, scattering it on the floor, never to be used again. Still, you can feel phantom moisture on your knees, elbows, on the palms of your hands. Coldness, like nothing you've ever experienced, seeps deep into your bones, taking root within you. No candle, no prayer, no ancient exorcism can cleanse you of the revelations you've seen tonight. Your head feels heavy, when you drop it onto the pillow, as if some weight is pressing you further down, through the comforter, through the bed and the wooden floor. Through all the layers of Earth, until you're right where you're supposed to be. 

It's unfortunate, you thought back then, compelled to reveal yourself from your hideout by one command you couldn't ignore, he looks just like any human. Tall and lean, with a little softness to his body. His clothes were unassuming as well, casual. As if he just took a stroll through the woods from a supermarket. No one told you the name of his vessel, who he was before he said yes, why did he do it. His eyes were ordinary as well. Blue and gray, aged, tired. Human.

It would've been so easy to pass him on the streets, not knowing. He could've been one of the patrons in the countless bars you've visited while on the hunt. Handsome, yes, with an aura of a beaten dog around him, that, in any other circumstances would've made him irresistable to you. You could never refuse a hopeless case, now you supposed you knew why. 

Sam made you tea. It sits untouched on your night stand, steam flowing in dancing ribbons into the ceiling. Somehow, you can't seem to force yourself to drink it, even if you know the intention behind it has been kind. You couldn't eat as well, the smell of cooking coming from Bobby's kitchen reminded you too much of the smell of smoke coming from the exploding hardware store. And his smell. 

Burning coals, cedar wood, jasmine, all of them were pleasant once. Now, you know they will always be stuck in your head with only one association. Lucifer. 

Even thinking of his name brings a wave of shivers running down your back, as you curl into yourself on the bed. Your fingers scratch at skin of your jaw, trying to regain some sense of autonomy. Still, you can feel a phantom of his icy touch, where he grabbed your face like his hands were meant for it. And in a way they were. At least, that's what he told you. 

The demons gathered around the mass grave didn't even react, as you ran out of your cover, pushed to reveal yourself by the sight of Dean's flying body. Because how else would he coax you out, if not through the hurt of your boys? In hindsight, you were glad Dean was unconscious for the most part of this ordeal. After the night's events, it was hard to look him in the eye, you didn't need him witnessing your downfall over your head as well. Sam tried to make his way over to you, feet sliding cautiously through the grass, but suddenly Lucifer's eyes were on you, and you could feel your fate get sealed then and there. 

He clasped his hands in front of him, pursing his lips as he took you in, cowering on the ground, trying hard to find Dean's pulse. 

- You boys brought me a gift - he mused, eyes crinkling with some strange emotion - You shouldn't have. 

One gesture later, you're up on your feet, limbs trembling as he abandoned his shovel in favor of making his way towards you. You're frozen, fear seizing you in a tight grip, and you can't seem to think straight, as you watch him approach. Last day on Earth, you muse, life flashing before your eyes, when he raises both his hands. And then he grips your face, gentle yet confident, and the world around you spins. He's cold, so cold it's unnatural. Your lips fall apart in a silent gasp. 

- Do you know who you are? - he asks in a quiet voice that suddenly makes you understand why he's temptation incarnate - Do you know why you were put on this Earth?

All you can do is stare, confusion creasing your eyebrows. His breath reaches your collarbones, as he lowers his head slightly. You can hear him chuckle to himself. The sound makes you shudder, fear and anticipation mix within your gut. 

- All those years of hunting, struggling... - your life seems so trivial, coming from his lips - It all lead you here, to me. Doesn't that sound lovely?

It doesn't. It most definitely doesn't. Tears of confusion prick at the corners of your eyes, your breathing quickens. Panic settles into your nerves like a paralyzing blanket. Because here stands a threat of magnitude you couldn't even dream of. The Satan, the Devil, Bible's biggest villain. And he knows something about you, that you cannot comprehend. 

- It's really quite pathetic, when you think about it - he muses, hands leaving your face in a flash, as he starts to pace in thought.

Swaying in your place, you risk looking at Sam, his confusion mirroring your own. Dean is still unconscious beside him. There's a thin smudge of blood running down his forehead, and you want to move so badly. You've spent years caring for these boys, being there for them, whenever they needed you. Yet, at this crucial moment all you can do, is stare in horror.  

- My Father's last ditched attempt - Lucifer turns to you with a tight smile that doesn't reach his eyes - To give me my own special little bag of worms. To own, to care for, to change my mind. 

- What?

Your own voice sounds foreign to your ears. Lies. Those had to be lies. He's Satan after all, manipulation was his forte. Yes, that had to be it. Just another, messed up way at getting an upper hand over Sam. 

This time, you nearly scream when he advances towards you, his cold hands immediately finding purchase on your face, covering your jaw and your cheeks. He presses against your face so hard, you have to take a step back as he comes closer still. Sam's figure flashes out of the corner of your eye, and suddenly you feel the rough surface of a tree bark digging into your back. 

- You - for the first time you can hear some tension in his voice, something more than cold indifference - You were made for me, Honey. Just like Sam is destined to be my vessel, you're destined to be by my side. To own, to care. - he repeats those words like a mantra, and you want to throw up at how genuine he sounds.

He smiles at your terror. Tears start to flow freely from your eyes, falling on his cold fingers, skipping down his arms in smudges. His hands start to move, a perversion of a caress, as he ruffles your hair. Your head bounces off the tree, and you try with all your might to free yourself out of his grip. Your limbs flail at your sides, and you crane your neck so far back, your muscles start to strain. He doesn't let go, pressing himself closer, one of his hands coming up to grip your hair. Your nails dig into his cotton shirt, as you push against his chest to no avail. 

- No - you whisper, your rejection falling flat against his unaffected stare - I'd never...

- See, but that's the best part - his sudden enthusiasm scares you deeper, than any passive stare ever could. - Unlike Sam...

You backpedal into the tree again, as he leans closer still. His cold breath mixes with your short, panicked ones, and your stomach churns, when he tilts his head in curiosity, as if he's experiencing this intimacy for the first time. And in a way, you suppose he is. Then, his eyes meet yours, gray captivates you, and you hold your breath on instinct.

- You don't have to say yes to me. 

You're not even allowed the decency of taking a gasp of air, when his lips press into yours. It feels beyond weird. He's unnaturally cold, and there is a sort of unpracticed sloppiness in the way he fights for your mouth to fit against each other. Reminding you of your first, inexperienced romances, he smashes your faces together until you feel both sets of your teeth through the flesh. Then, he pulls back just a smidgen, taking in your terrified face. Something flashes through his expression, and he sighs, leaning back towards you, stopping just short of your left ear. 

- Kiss me like you mean it, or I'll make Dean eat his intestines. 

He looks at you, just once, letting you know this is not a game. Your heart stops. 

Dean's unconscious body starts to move by the tree, and never in your life have you felt so helpless. So, when Lucifer unavoidably leans back down, you give him all you've got. Your body arches, hands come up to his hair, and you will yourself not to feel grossed out by the feeling of his cold tongue slipping past your teeth. It's a fight for survival, you remind yourself, as his hands move to your back, rubbing your skin like a horny teenager in a bathroom stall. The short supply of air you've been granted runs out quickly, and as pressure builds in your lungs, you start to push against the Archangel's chest. He doesn't register what you're doing, not at first, confusing your sudden unwillingness as some sort of late attempt at rebellion. That is, until you bang your fist against his shoulder, letting out a muffled scream. 

Finally, he detaches himself, hair even more disheveled than before. You take a heaving gasp of air, as you brace yourself against the tree, your vision swimming ever so slightly. Lucifer watches you, his body hunched over, as if he's observing some middle schooler's science project. There are new tears in your eyes, just waiting to fall. Your hair is disheveled and your lips are puffy from his unpracticed assaults. His right hand comes up to his face, and he bites on his index finger in thought. 

- You really are human - he muses to himself, and with every fiber of your being, you try to explode his head with your brain - That's no fun, you'll break so easily...

- Fuck you - your words make his eyebrows raise, and he straightens out with a flourish.

- Fuck you - he repeats, mocking your tone - Yeah, I probably will - you watch, disgusted, as he sends a wink towards Sam.

Then, he's back to his shovel, back to his mass grave, where he completes the ritual. 

You can't move, not really, even when Sam tugs on your shoulder. Your head runs empty, realization of your current predicament far from registered in your brain. You stay frozen in your spot, when Castiel arrives, taking the three of you back to Bobby's house. Only, when the Angel's hand pushes against your rib cage, only when you feel Enochian symbols burn into your bones, do you lift your gaze. Apologetic doesn't really cover the way Castiel looks at you, and the pity painted on his face drags you down more than any Devil could.  

Sam is the only one to truly understand, when you fall to the floor, shock, anger and dread spilling out of you like a broken faucet. He's the only one that truly knows how it feels to have your bodily autonomy stripped away by the literal Devil. How it feels to have a threat of such magnitude hanging over you, every day. Which is why, he's the one to lift you in his arms, and get you to the guest room, lead away by the concerned glances of the rest of the men. He's the one to make you tea, bring you fresh clothes. He opens the window when the smell of dinner makes you retch. And finally, he's the one to explain, what really happened back on that hill to the rest of the group.

From your fetal position on the bed you can hear Dean curse, throw something somewhere. All the ways he knows, how to show he cares. Despite everything, it makes you smile, face pressed to the pillow that smells like cigarette smoke and beer. You're doomed. There's nothing you can do against God's plan, and you can feel that thought take root in you like an invasive species ready to destroy every crop in it's path. Still, despite it all, a sense of security falls upon you like a decieving blanket. 

- What sort of a messed up game is this? - Dean screams somewhere in the house, you assume it's at Cass, the only one even remotely aware of your destiny. 

The idea, that God made you specifically to be Satan's personal therapist sounds far fetched at best, but given how the last couple of months have been going, you're more inclined to believe in the absolutely worst scenarios. You don't even need to hear Castiel's response. The sound of glass breaking is telling enough. Then, a door slamms somewhere, and the house falls into heavy silence.

You can't think. Can't allow yourself to fall apart more than you've had already. So, you focus on the sound of your own breathing, interlinked with your heartbeat. Steady, alive. Your eyelids are heavy, eyes burn with drying tears, so you close them and sigh. Exhaustion pinns you in place, sinking you into the blankets. Darkness welcomes you like a long lost friend.

Your boys will find a way, they always do. And Lucifer can't find you, not with the wards Castiel has put on you. You'll have to thank him i the morning, you think, and it's the last conscious thought you have, before slipping into sleep, shivering like an abandoned child. 

[1-imaginary-girl]

I’ll Take Care of You Pt. 2

Eggsy Unwin x Reader

Summary: You and Eggsy have continued seeing each other after the incident. The only problem is, Eggsy only sees you when he's injured. Will he find the courage to tell you how he really feels? Reader uses she/her pronouns.

Warnings: Talk about minor injuries, but overall fluff again.

Word Count: 3824

Part 1

A/N: The second part is finally here! I rewatched "Robin Hood" recently and it got me back into the Taron Egerton headspace. God I love that man. Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Eggsy is walking out of a Kingsman meeting and he can feel the fatigue settling into his bones. Without having a mission to focus on, spy work can be rather boring. Especially during meetings like those. He's trudging down the hall when suddenly, he feels a buzz from his phone. He takes it out and instantly a smile appears on his face.

He received a text message from you saying: Did your meeting kill you with boredom? :P

He laughs to himself before responding: It was fucking dreadful, but thankfully I will live to see another day.

Ever since that fateful night where Eggsy got hit by your car, the two of you have stayed in touch. He thinks he’s actually found a friend in you. It feels nice to have someone to talk to about being a spy, other than his fellow Kingsman agents. Maybe Eggsy shouldn’t be telling you the information he does, but he can’t help it. There’s something about you that makes him want to tell you everything and he knows he can trust you. And you already knew he was a spy, so he figured what’s a few more secrets to spill?

Eggsy loves having you in his life. The only thing he doesn’t love is that the two of you don’t really hang out other than when he gets hurt. Yes, Eggsy has continued to visit you, his favourite nurse, whenever he gets injured in the field. Once, he even paid you a visit after fighting practice with Roxy resulted in a nasty black eye. You didn’t appear mad at him for wasting your time, since all you could really do is offer him an ice pack. You just tended to him as you often did and the two of you talked the night away.

It isn’t even a conscious decision anymore to go to you. He just always finds himself making the journey to your place with a new injury. The first time it happened after the car accident, it was because he had gotten injured near your place and thought it would be easier than returning to base or even going home. But after a few visits, he found himself just wanting to be with you, injured or not.

After this realization, he began to feel bad about selfishly wanting you to be the one who fixes him. After all, you already spend all day tending to patients. So he told you:

“Are you sure you don’t mind fixing me up all the time? I’m starting to feel bad for inconveniencing you.” 

But instead of agreeing, you smiled at him and said, “Eggsy Unwin, you could never be an inconvenience. Don’t tell anyone, but out of all of my patients, you’re my favourite.”

His heart sped up at that, so he cracked a joke. “I’m sure that’s what you tell all your patients.”

“Only the handsome ones,” you replied with a wink that caused a shade of pink to bloom on his cheeks, but luckily you had returned to your work and didn’t seem to notice.

It was after that encounter that Eggsy had realized he was developing feelings for you that evolved past friendship. He had tried to chalk his feelings up to being platonic, but who was he kidding? He was falling for you, and falling hard. He thought about confessing to you, wondering if you felt the same, but it was too risky. Eggsy didn’t want to ruin one of the best friendships he had over feelings that are most likely one-sided.

“Is that Y/N?” A voice sounds from beside him, causing Eggsy to jump and almost drop his phone. So much for his spy training. “Tell her I say hi.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, tucking his phone away and out of Roxy’s nosy stare. She scoffs and rolls her eyes, now walking beside him.

“Cut the shit, Unwin, I saw you smiling down at your phone with that goofy lovestruck smile that is reserved only for Y/N,” she says. Eggsy had never planned on sharing Y/N with Roxy, not wanting to risk you getting into trouble, but unfortunately for him, Roxy and Merlin are no good busybodies. The next day at work after the car accident, Roxy immediately bombarded him with questions about you. Apparently, when Eggsy informed Merlin that he was going to a random civilian’s house, the news was too interesting not to tell Roxy.

He also never planned on giving Roxy your name but having a friend that’s a spy is not convenient when keeping secrets. She had spied on him when Eggsy was texting you, the two of you having exchanged information that fateful day, and saw your contact name before he could stop her.

“I was not smiling, and I do not have a goofy lovestruck smile only for Y/N,” Eggsy tells her, but as soon as he says that, he wonders if he does. If his feelings are really that obvious.

“God, for a spy you really are obvious.” Sometimes he wonders why he’s even friends with Roxy.

“And for the last time, Rox, I am not in love with her,” he insists. 

“Is that why you won’t let me meet her? You’re afraid I’ll tell her? Because I can assure you, unlike yourself, I am quite excellent at keeping secrets.”

“For the record, I won’t let the two of you meet because I’m afraid you’ll scare her off,” he says, but he’s also afraid that Roxy might steal you away. Maybe you’d prefer a female spy friend over him. He doesn’t think you’re the type of person to do that, but his insecurities continue to hold him back, just in case.

Roxy lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Come on, Unwin, just admit that you love her! I already know, and you won’t convince me otherwise.” Eggsy realizes how true that is when he looks over to see his friend’s dead serious expression. Fuck it.

“It’s not love, quite yet,” he admits, and Roxy giddily celebrates. Eggsy looks up and down the hall to make sure no one sees her. “What was that about being too obvious?”

But Roxy doesn’t hear him. “I knew it. I can’t believe I got you to confess, I thought I’d have to bug you at least a few more times about it,” she says with a smile on her face. He rolls his eyes.

“Well, now you know. Satisfied?”

She stays quiet for a moment before asking, “Why don’t you tell her again?”

“It’s not that simple,” he says, shaking his head. He doesn’t know how to explain himself without making him seem like a miserable sod. “She’s my friend. A good friend, and I don’t…” He sighs and stops walking. Roxy stops beside him. “I don’t want to screw this up.”

“Eggsy Unwin,” Roxy says, and when he looks her she has a serious arms-crossed look that makes Eggsy want to keep walking. “You’re not going to screw this up.”

“But what if she doesn’t feel the same?” he confesses and then realizes they should have chosen a more private location to be having this conversation. Luckily, there appear to be no other agents around.

“By the looks of your messages, I can almost guarantee she feels the same. On top of that, I’m your best friend and even I would get annoyed at having to fix you up after every fight,” she says.

“Sorry, exactly when did you see such messages?”

“Never mind that,” she says, brushing the topic aside. “The point is, I think she feels the same way. And even if she doesn’t, based on the limited knowledge of her, she sounds like the type of person to handle that well. You don’t have to worry about your friendship.”

What she said makes sense, yet Eggsy can’t shake the queasy feeling in his stomach at the thought of having to confess to you.

“It’s up to you what you do,” Roxy continues. “But would you at least consider it?”

He stares at her unyielding gaze, and relents. “I suppose.”

“Thank god. I don’t know how much more pining I can take,” she says and resumes walking.

“I do not pine!” he says, picking up his pace to catch up with her.

†††

A week later, Eggsy finds himself sitting in one of the Kingsman jets heading back to base after a long, but successful, mission. He’s lounging in one of the chairs, feeling proud that the mission had gone off without a hitch. 

His mission had been to retrieve some confidential information that had gone missing, but the retrieval ended up being fairly easy. The people who had stolen the information got lulled into a sense of calm and had lowered their security. Thanks to that, Eggsy had been able to be in and out of the compound, only having to take out a few people along the way. 

Eggsy feels the pride and relief he normally would but now he’s also filled with excitement. Typically, at the end of his more recent missions, Eggsy will have acquired a few wounds that need tending to and would drop by your place (if you were available, which most of the time you were.) Only, as Eggsy relaxes into the jet’s seat, his excitement suddenly dwindles. He lifts up his arms and examines his body to check, but this time Eggsy finds himself in perfect condition. No injury to be found. He slumps back into the chair.

This should be a good thing, as Eggsy isn’t always as careful as he should be, but he finds he’s disappointed. After all, now he didn’t have a reason to see you. He bites his lip and gazes out the window. He was really excited to see you and now there is a hole of dissatisfaction left behind.

He continues thinking about you, about what you’re doing right now, and before he knows what he’s doing, he’s dialling your number. He only wants to hear the sound of your voice, even if he got your voicemail he would be satisfied.

On the third ring, you pick up. “How’s my favourite spy doing?” you ask as a greeting. He’s almost embarrassed at the butterflies that flutter in his stomach at your voice, and you calling him that.

“I don’t know, how is Bond?” He hears you giggle, brightening his already wide smile.

“Oh hush, no need to be jealous over a fictional character. And you were right, he is a bit posh for my taste.”

It’s his turn to laugh. “Well, your real favourite spy is feeling pretty fucking good right about now.”

“I take it the mission went well?” He had been texting you throughout the mission when he got bored. Merlin used to give him shit for it, but now he’s begrudgingly resigned to it, knowing that Eggsy had no intentions of stopping. As long as it’s only you.

“It went great! Everything went according to plan.”

“Sounds a bit boring.” He laughs, as he silently agrees with you. “Speaking as your nurse, however, I suppose this is good news.”

“What a lovely nurse I have. How did I get so lucky?”

Another laugh. “Right place, right time, right car I suppose.” He laughs. It took a while before you were able to laugh about hitting him with your car, as you still felt extremely guilty. But after reassuring you that he was over it, and constantly teasing you about it, you found the humour in it. “Seriously, I’m happy for you Eggs. You must feel great.”

“I do,” he says, despite the disappointment that lingered due to not seeing you. “Want me to tell you about it?”

“Duh!”

“Could you please try to leave out the classified bits?” Another voice sounds from the jet. Eggsy looks up to see Merlin passing by. He gives Eggsy a tired, worried expression. Eggsy smiles up at him.

“You can count on me, Merlin,” he says with a cheeky smile and a wink. Merlin simply rubs the bridge of his nose where his glasses sit.

“Is that Merlin? Tell him I say hi!”

“Y/N says hi,” Eggsy relays to him. Merlin’s face softens.

“Hello dear,” he says. Despite the nagging and scolding, Eggsy thinks Merlin likes you. The two of you have never met, but Eggsy suspects the older man believes you’re a good influence on him. Truthfully, it’s because you make Eggsy happy.

“He says hi back.”

“When are you going to introduce me to your spy family? Or is that against the rules?”

“I think it’s a little late to be considering the rules.” You laugh.

“Fair enough. Then what is it? Do you just want to keep me all to yourself?” Eggsy’s breath catches as you jokingly hit the nail on the head. He knows it’s selfish, but he can’t help the feeling of wanting to be yours. To remain your favourite spy.

“You caught me,” he says with a laugh to avoid the truthfulness from leaking through his tone.

“You can’t keep anything from me, my dear boy.” Again, his heart hammers in his chest. “Now enough chit chat, tell me about your mission.”

†††

Later that night, Eggsy is sitting on his couch, your phone call from earlier echoing in his mind. Even after hearing your voice, it didn’t quite satisfy his need to see you. He considers slightly nicking his hand with a knife when he catches himself. What is he doing? There’s nothing stopping him from going to see you right now except his own nerves. But if the two of you really are friends, then there’s nothing wrong with it, right?

“Fuck it,” he mutters to himself. Summoning up courage he doesn’t have, he stands up from his couch. What’s the worst that can happen? A deep breath, and he’s making his way to the door when suddenly he hears a knock. He pauses, wondering who it could be. It’s the middle of the night.

Eggsy cautiously walks to his front door and opens it, only to stop in shock. There, on his doorstep, is you. You’re here, at his place. Once that registers, concern overwhelms him as he takes in your state. 

You’re leaning against his doorframe with a hand pressed against your left side. You also brand a gash on your chin and a split lip. Despite all of this, a smile graces your lips. “Well isn’t this ironic?” you say as way of greeting. Eggsy’s still having a hard time believing he didn’t fall asleep and dreamt this. But your voice shocks him out of his frozen state.

“Y/N, what the bloody hell happened to you?” he asks, opening his door. Shock is slowly giving way to worry as he watches you slowly make your way into his place, taking in the view.

“It’s actually a funny story,” you say. You make your way to his couch but pause to examine his living room. “Nice place you have here.”

Eggsy’s mind is going a mile a minute. He didn’t know what to do, but then he remembers that you’re injured. “I-I’ll go see if I have anything to patch you up with.” Before you can argue, Eggsy starts scrambling around his place trying to find what he thinks he would need. He ends up bringing a wet cloth, a bag of frozen peas, a package of bandaids, and some disinfectant cream that you had given him.

He returns to find you sitting on his couch, a pained expression on your face as you take deep breaths. As soon as you see him however, your face hides any trace of pain. He furrows his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything. He dumps the stuff on his coffee table.

“Whoa,” you say, taking in his collection. He becomes self-conscious since you’re an expert in medicine.

“I-It’s not much, I know, but it’ll do for now,” he says reassuringly. He takes a seat on the couch beside you. He knows about the injuries on your face but not your stomach. He eyes your side and you know what he’s thinking. “Could you lift up your shirt?”

“How forward of you,” you say with a smirk and he’s acutely aware that your roles have truly changed. He gives you a stern look, and you drop the smirk. You pull your shirt up to reveal your side and Eggsy sucks in a sharp breath.

“Jesus Y/N,” he mutters, examining the massive bruise. 

“I’m lucky it’s just a bruise,” you say, a wince on your face. Eggsy looks at you and forces your gaze to meet his own.

“What happened?” he says sternly. He knows you’ve been dodging around the subject since you got here. You blush, realizing that he’s caught onto your game. To distract you, Eggsy begins fixing you up. He gently places the frozen peas on the bruise and you gasp in pain, causing his heart to squeeze.

“I don’t know how you spy types do it,” you comment. He thinks about asking how you medical professionals do it, as seeing you in pain breaks his heart. But Eggsy won’t let you dance around the subject any longer. You let out a sigh as you hold onto the bag while Eggsy examines your other injuries. “So, it’s actually rather embarrassing, but…I was actually on my way to see you.”

His eyes widen. You wanted to see him too? He tries to catch your eye but your gaze is directed at anywhere but him. A deep red is encroaching on your cheeks. You clear your throat. “So anyway, I got in my car and drove over. I…I was a bit rushed so when I got out of my car I wasn’t paying much attention. That’s when this biker rounds the corner and rides right into me.” Eggsy finishes dabbing the wet cloth on your chin and begins to apply the disinfectant, causing a hiss to escape your lips.

“Sorry,” he says. He finally meets your eyes and it feels like he got the wind kicked out of him.   

“It’s fine,” you whisper, not breaking away from the stare. A moment passes before you look away and continue your story. “Anyway, he knocked me over and my left side hit the curb while my chin hit the pavement.” Eggsy winces for you. 

“Did the wanker at least apologize?” His voice is clipped, withholding his anger for your sake. Tending to you is all that’s keeping him from tracking down this man and inflicting the same pain he forced upon you.

"It wasn’t his fault, Eggs, I wasn’t looking." He nods but still isn’t satisfied. Accident or no, this man hurt you which stirred unpleasant emotions in his head. “He ended up falling over as well, but he had a helmet so ultimately both he and the bike were fine. We both apologized to each other, me for not looking and him for not steering away or stopping quick enough. He was actually really nice about it.”

To distract from the illogical flare of jealousy that rose within him, Eggsy decides to joke around. “Is this a habit of yours? Getting into accidents with nice men? You know, there are other ways of gaining a man’s attention.” His comments make you break out into a smile that instantly winces due to the split lip.

“First of all, shut up,” you say, causing him to laugh. “And second of all, I’ll have you know that I had a clean record before I met you. Perhaps you’ve begun to corrupt me.”

“Perhaps I have.” The two of you smirk and the flirtatious energy soon leaves a sharp tension in the room. Eggsy applies a large enough bandage onto your chin and now begins to dab on the cut on your lip. You’re close enough for your breaths to tangle. But before Eggsy makes a complete ass of himself, he has to know. “Why were you coming to see me?”

This question wipes the smirk from your face and reheats your cheeks. “O-oh, that,” you say, trying to find the words, it seems. “Well, the thing is…okay, after your mission, I know it sounds ridiculous, but I was expecting to get a call from you saying you needed to be patched up. I-I had gotten used to it, so I was expecting to see you. But then the mission went fine.”

Eggsy can’t believe what he’s hearing. His heart begins picking up speed as he eagerly waits for you to continue.

“And I know I should have been happy to hear that—I was, I mean I hate seeing you hurt and I’m always the one telling you to be more careful.” You begin to ramble on and in your ramblings, Eggsy’s confidence grows. “I selfishly wanted an excuse to see you, but then I decided fuck it, and made my way over here. I-I just wanted to see you.”

You will no longer look at him. Your flirtatious confidence is gone as you let the unspoken words hang in the air. Looking at you, processing what you said, Eggsy realizes that there’s a chance. There’s a chance that you feel the same way, a strong one. And if there’s a chance, Eggsy’s going to take it.

“Y/N,” he whispers. His continued silence forces you to look at him and he hears you gasp softly at his proximity. He’s looking at you, flicking his gaze down to your lips and back up to your eyes. His eyes hold a question and you glance quickly at his lips before nodding.

Eggsy gently takes your face into his hands and crashes his lips down onto yours. You hiss and he breaks apart, feeling guilty for forgetting your cut, but you grab his collar and force his lips back on yours.

Eggsy sinks into the kiss, letting the passion take over and melt his body. He can’t think of anything else other than your lips, moving together, sweeter than his imagination could have predicted. When the two of you break apart, gasping for air, he breaks into a smile. You giggle, making him want to kiss you all over again to swallow the sound and live off it.

After a moment, you say, “If I’d known this is what it would take for you to finally make a move, I would have got hit by a bike ages ago.” You both laugh before Eggsy can’t hold himself back any longer and captures your lips again. You hungrily accept.

You kiss until you pull back, wincing in pain. “Totally worth it,” you whispers. He sighs as the cut on your lip reopens. 

“What am I going to do with you?” he says, shaking his head as he reapplies the cloth. 

“Nurse me back to health?” you say with a smile. He smiles back.

“Don’t you worry love, I’ll take care of you.”