Reader Imagines

Wylan Van Eck. A living sunbeam. Jesper often teased him, shouting ‘Hey, Van Sunshine! Come over here!” across the room. Sometimes he did it at the Crow Club and Wylan would get a soft blush across his cheeks as he made his way to the bar where Jesper stood. The rest of the crows found it sweet and Wylan often mumbled under his breath how he would set off a bomb to kill them all some day. Jesper would laugh, throw an arm around his shoulders and snicker about how he would never do that and Wylan would just roll his eyes but smile.

His friends were the most treasured thing in his whole would. He loved his friends. His first and only friends. A criminal gang in Ketterdam who robbed merchants, people like his father. These people who Wylan trusted with his life was a group of traumatised, young criminals. A boy who grew up at a beautiful farm, with a brother and a father, taking care of animals and playing around. He got that life ripped from him and ended up on the streets of Ketterdam as a broken and lonley boy. A girl who got sold to the menagerie and had learnt to stitch herself up because no one cared enough about her to do it for her. A zemini-born sharpshooter with a severe gambling addiction and a charming smile. A fjerdan drüskelle who had left his county and “betrayed” his people. And two lost Grisha from the little palace. A heartrender who fell in love with the “slaver” who captured her. And a healer with a bigger heart than all of Ketterdam but who still was fierce and alert.

A odd gang actually. But Wylan loved them all. He loved Nina’s home made waffles. He loved when Matthias helped him reach things from the highest cabinets. He loved Inej’s scarfs that she would silently wrap around him when she noticed he got cold. He loved Jesper’s soft kisses across his cheeks and to be held in his warm embrace. He loved Kaz’s silent gazes to check if he was alright and his quiet ways to care. He loved Y/N’s warm, caring touches, just telling him she was there for him if he needed anything. And tonight, he needed her more than ever.

-

Nightmares haunted him in his sleep. Not necessarily scary ones, just nightmares that reminded him of the past he so desperately tried to forget. And tonight, no matter what he did, they didn’t seem to go away.

It was in the middle of the night. Everyone at the slat was asleep. Jesper and Kaz were out on a heist, which didn’t really settle his nerves either. So after he’d waken up the third time he tiptoed out in the corridor and up to your room.

You awoke to soft knocks on your door. A soft “come in” told Wylan that he was welcome. He stepped inside and closed the door carefully behind him. He paused before silently walking over to the bed. You sat up against the headboard and reached out to take his hand in yours.

“Hey, Wy, it alright. Talk to me. What’s on your mind,” you mumbled and softly stroke a finger over his knuckles. His hand squeezed yours in appreciation.

“Just, a lot. Everything and nothing,” he carefully explained and sat down beside you on the bed. You wrapped your arm around his shoulders and he rested his head in the crook of your neck. “I’m worried about Jes,” he continued. “And Kaz.” He breathed out. You nodded slowly, letting him take his time. “And I’m having those nightmares again.” That’s when he broke. Hot tears fell from his eyes and he fell into your embrace. He felt so weak. How could he let so little break him down? How could he come to you in the middle of the night with his silly problems? Like you read his mind you softly reassured him.

“It’s okay, it’s alright. You’re alright. Jesper’s alright. Kaz is alright,” you quietly told him through his sobs. “You’re not a bother and you know you can come to me anytime you want or need, okay? It’s fine.” Wylan shakily nodded and pulled away slightly.

“Thank you. I feel so weak, how can I let so little get to me and let it break me down?”

“You’re not weak, Wylan. It’s not little. Everything weight different to everyone. What may not be much for anyone else may be much for you. And neither is right. You’re strong Wy. Never think anything less.”

Wylan nodded, thankful for you and your reassuring words. You squeezed him a bit tighter in the hug and Wylan relaxed against you, feeling his eye lids starting to feel heavy.

The soft, rhythmic sound of a cane was heard from outside your door and you shook Wylan slightly. He hummed in response.

As much as you hating waking up early, early mornings with Jesper were something you always savoured no matter the time. It hadn't been that way at first, but that was before Jesper had won your heart.

-

You would lay awake staring at the ceiling, fuming at the loud noises coming from the room next to yours in the slat. You had no idea what Jesper could possibly be doing to make as much noise as he was but you were at your limit with the boy. You'd stood up too fast for sure, vision going blurry as you made your way to the door and across to Jesper's room. One harsh knock after another you slammed your fist to his door making close to enough noise to wake up the entire slat.

It was dark, only a few candles lighting the hall, but your eyes still had a hard time adjusting to the change in luminosity. When the door opened you came face to face with Jesper, brow furrowed with a slight smile on his lips. Shockingly cute, not that you would fall to his looks.

"And to what do I owe the pleasure?"

You simply scowled at him, watching his smile fade as something near confusion consumed him.

"For some reason I'm getting the impression this isn't a pleasurable visit" He tried for a smile but it was more of an awkward half-grin as if afraid you would smack the smirk off his face the second it grew too wide.

"Can you quit being so loud?"

Clearly bothered, your words brought a bit of spark back to Jesper as he fell into mock offense "Who me? Loud? Never".

Placing a hand over his heart in fake innocence he looked at you with puppy dog eyes that you wished you could ignore. You never had much of a problem with Jesper, you enjoyed his company most of the time whilst on jobs, but now he was getting on your nerves. In the end you knew you couldn't win with him, his cheerfulness at odd hours of the morning was something you couldn't understand and you doubted that you ever would. Giving up you sent him one last glare.

"Just shut up"

-

You look back at those times now wondering how you could ever think of Jesper as an annoyance. Sure he was still an early riser, loud and boisterous, but you'd grown to love that about him. And now you often found Jesper would try not to wake you. Opening your eyes you could sometimes see him in the darkness sneaking about as quiet as could be, trying his very best not to disturb you. And when he realized he had unintentionally, he would apologize profusely unlike the times before your relationship. But thinking back to those times you understood that was all for a reason.

-

There was something about Jesper's odd loudness from out of the blue that you couldn't understand. You knew he would wake early but he had never been this loud before, and the night after your first confrontation with him he just seemed to get louder. Getting out of bed, frustrated once more after rolling over a thousand times trying to block out the impossible noise, you made your way to Jesper's door.

He answered almost immediately as if he had been waiting for you to show "What can I do for the beautiful lady?". He lent against the doorframe with the cheekiest of grins that almost made you think he was doing this on purpose. Rubbing your eyes still only half awake, you looked up at him "It's two in the morning Jesper, keep it down".

"But that wouldn't be any fun would it?" Jesper winked at you making a flush of red run to your cheeks. You tried to convince yourself it was simply out of anger and that it had nothing to do with the charms of the Zemeni boy.

"Jesper, don't make me break that pretty face of yours" you scowled at him with clenched fists at your sides yet the threat seemed to take no effect.

"So you think I'm pretty huh? I think I'm pretty too".

A wave of embarrassment swept through you but you hid it well, slamming your fist against the wood of the ajar door that led into Jesper's room. "Don't test me Fahey, keep it down".

You expected silence from the boy as you made your way across the hall to your room but instead Jesper spoke up once more "That was extremely attractive".

You sensed nothing but pure honesty in his voice.

-

Thinking about his words now made you smile. How cheeky he was but also how obvious. You must have been blind not to see it, the heart eyes he had for you, and deaf not to hear your own heart rate pick up every night you stood knocking at Jesper's door. It was almost fun to think back to how oblivious you had been, as if you were seeing a perfectly planned romance novel through your own eyes.

-

No matter how much noise Jesper made over the next week you refused to get yourself out of bed, hoping that it would stop if you ignored it. It never did and it seemed to get louder, as if Jesper became frustrated with each hour that passed, like he hated the noise as much as you.

It was the start of the second week when you decided to storm up to the boys room again. This time you weren't at all asleep, having been awake with the noises all night. You had been trying to interpret what they could be, but couldn't seem to figure it out. It wasn't a woman or another man, nor was it music. It sounded familiar, like the common gunfire that sounded in the streets, but it couldn't be. Jesper wouldn't possibly be shooting people every night for two weeks. Alas you were awake and confused, heading to the room of Jesper Fahey once again.

Knocking upon the door you heard a final bang from inside. It truly did sound like that of gunfire, a shot fired by someone startled with your presence. A few seconds passed before Jesper answered the door and before he could say a word you pushed past him, slipping into the room.

It was dark, the only light coming from the moon outside the open window. Jesper's bed looked as though it hadn't been slept in for days and you turned to him with a frown.

"Do you ever sleep?"

With the smirk of a crazy man he took a few steps forward to the other side of the room, propping himself up on the windowsill. The light breeze of the Ketterdam night ruffled his clothes slightly, moonlight casting an angel-like glow on his dark skin.

"When I do, I dream of you".

Rolling your eyes you scanned the room again, gaze landing on that of wooden boxes stacked high against the wall. They were riddled with bullet holes, dark circles, the entrances and exits of ammunition.

"Jes, what is this?" you gestured to the damaged stacks of wood, briefly glancing to the revolvers still in their holsters at Jesper's hips. He caught your eyes and spoke as if the answer was obvious.

"Target practice".

"Yes" you nodded still slightly bewildered "But why?"

Jesper had glanced over his shoulder at the night sky as if he was contemplating his next words. His shadow fell across the floor merging with yours, the moonlight making you both seem longer and skinnier than you were.

"If I told you I did it for you would you believe me?" Jesper glanced your way with a raised brow and you frowned at him, something that had become almost constant. His continuous flirtations had become more sincere, startling you, making your heart jumped in your chest.

"I don't think I understand" Your words were riddled with feelings. Confusion, concern and a possible hint of amusement which Jesper clung too.

"Well if I told you, I adore you as much as I do moon, would you believe me?" His words hung in the air for a moment, awaiting your answer and you couldn't stop a small smile creeping to your lips.

"That depends on how much you adore the moon".

Jesper grinned then, seeing you play along with a smile alighting him like a match, burning brightly. You could see the spark in his eyes just as he could feel it. Jesper took a single step forward then, hardly making a sound as he did so.

"I happen to think the moon is quite beautiful"

You grinned back at him "Only quite? I think the moon is stunning".

The both of you continued playing this game, knowing full well where it was headed but neither of you backing down. It was exhilarating, almost more so than the dangerous jobs Kaz would send you on each week.

"I agree she is stunning" Jesper took another step forward and you allowed yourself to chuckle. As much as you had been annoyed in the weeks before, you couldn't find an ounce of that irritation now. There was something about him, Jesper Fahey was certainly a charmer and most definitely a heart warmer.

"I didn't know the moon was a she" You stepped up this time, staring Jesper down with a grin just as wide as his. He shook his head brushing at a strand of hair in your face. You felt the light touch of the silver bands on his fingers as he tucked it behind your ear, tilting his head down just slightly to be closer to you.

"I think we both know I wasn't talking about the moon".

You lifted your chin, smirk growing wider.

"I think we both know you never were".

-

From there Jesper was never as loud at late hours unless he wanted your attention, which you now understood was the reason he was banging about at night in the first place. You grew closer and closer until eventually you shared the same room, where Jesper would wake you with those frost bitten flowers and wonderful kisses. Early mornings spent with him whether he intended to wake you or not, were the best you could ask for and you could hardly understand why you had hated them so much before.

And every time Jesper would wake you whilst the moon was still in the sky you would ask if he still loved the way it shined. You would joke around like you had the night of Jesper's confession, And every time, no matter how often it happened he would respond with the same seven words that made you blush bright red.

"Not as much as I love you".

-

AN: I wrote this last year and I am cringing please send past me help

GRISHAVERSE TAGLIST: @avyannadawn

JESPER TAGLIST: empty*

GENERAL TAGLIST: empty*

The first note appears inside a book Spencer has already read three times.

Which, statistically speaking, should make it impossible for him to miss.

And yet he almost does.

The BAU is quiet — a rare miracle between cases — and Spencer has escaped to the small, dusty library room tucked into Quantico’s far hallway. Most agents forget it exists. The fluorescent lights buzz faintly, the air smells like paper and old glue, and the silence feels structured. Predictable.

Safe.

He pulls a psychology text from the shelf, flips it open automatically to the chapter he’d intended to skim, and something small and folded flutters into his lap.

A square of notebook paper.

Spencer blinks.

He didn’t put that there.

He glances around the empty room, as if the shelves themselves might confess.

They don’t.

Slowly, cautiously, he unfolds the note.

You’ve read this one already. Page 214 is wrong, by the way — the cited study was disproven in 2008. Thought you’d want to know.

Spencer’s eyebrows lift.

There’s no name.

No signature.

Just neat handwriting and a tiny doodle of what looks suspiciously like a smug little smiley face.

His heart does something unfamiliar — not fear, not anxiety, but a jittery curiosity that settles right behind his ribs.

Someone left him a correction.

For him specifically.

He turns to page 214.

It is wrong.

Spencer presses his lips together, trying not to smile and failing completely.

⸻

The second note appears two days later.

Different book.

Same handwriting.

You look like you’re arguing with the book again. It can’t defend itself, you know.

Spencer freezes mid-page.

Because he was arguing with it.

Quietly.

But still.

He looks up sharply.

And that’s when he sees you.

You’re sitting at the far table, legs stretched out beneath a stack of books that looks less like studying and more like a personal fortress. There’s a pen tucked behind your ear, another spinning between your fingers, and the expression on your face is dangerously close to amusement.

You don’t look embarrassed.

You look pleased.

Spencer’s brain short-circuits.

“You— I— you wrote—”

You grin.

“Wow. Profiling genius struggles with basic deduction. Devastating."

His ears go red instantly.

“I wasn’t struggling,” he says, already flustered. “I was simply verifying the probability that the annotation originated from— from you, which is now statistically conclusive given your admission.”

You tilt your head, pretending to consider that.

“Or,” you say, “I just wanted to see you panic.”

Spencer’s mouth opens.

Closes.

Opens again.

You win.

“Relax, Reid,” you add, softer now. “I wasn’t stalking you. You just always pick the same corner, sit the same way, and mutter at books like they personally offended you.”

“That’s— that’s not muttering, that’s critical analysis.”

You smile wider.

“That’s adorable.”

He looks like you just handed him an unsolvable equation.

⸻

After that, the notes become a routine.

Not every day.

Just enough to keep Spencer anticipating them.

Some are corrections.

Some are jokes.

Some are completely unnecessary observations that still make his chest feel warm.

You bounce your leg when you’re excited about something. Not anxious. Excited.

If you keep rereading that paragraph, the words are legally allowed to file a restraining order.

I like the way your face does that thing when you figure something out.

That one makes him reread the sentence fourteen times before realizing he hasn’t absorbed a single word.

Because someone is watching him.

Not in a threatening way.

In a noticing way.

And Spencer Reid has spent most of his life being observed for his intelligence — not for the way his face changes when he smiles at a book.

It makes him nervous.

It also makes him keep coming back.

⸻

You start sitting closer.

Not immediately.

You’re subtle about it.

A different table.

A chair angled toward him.

Eventually, the seat across from him.

Spencer notices all of it.

He notices everything about you.

The way you tap your pen when you’re thinking. The way your sarcasm softens when you ask genuine questions. The way you never seem intimidated by him — not by the rambling, not by the statistics, not by the awkward pauses where he loses track of his own sentence.

“You’re staring,” you say one afternoon without looking up.

Spencer nearly drops his book.

“I was not— I mean, statistically speaking, staring implies an extended fixed gaze and I was simply observing—”

You glance up, eyebrow raised.

He stops talking.

You grin.

“You’re very easy to fluster, you know that?”

“I am not flustered.”

“Your ears are red.”

He immediately covers them.

You laugh — not mean, not teasing in a cruel way — just delighted.

And Spencer realizes something deeply inconvenient.

He likes making you laugh.

Even when it’s at his expense.

Especially when it’s at his expense.

⸻

The first time your knees bump under the table, Spencer forgets how sentences work.

It’s accidental.

Probably.

You don’t move away immediately.

Neither does he.

The contact is barely anything — fabric against fabric — but it feels like someone turned the volume up on his entire nervous system.

You notice.

Of course you do.

Your mouth curves.

“Oh,” you murmur. “That did something.”

Spencer inhales too fast.

“I— I don’t know what you mean.”

“You get jittery when you’re nervous,” you say lightly. “But this is different.”

He absolutely cannot handle this conversation.

“You make me nervous,” he blurts.

The words escape before he can analyze them, categorize them, or bury them under twenty layers of overthinking.

Your expression softens.

Not smug.

Not teasing.

Just… warm.

“Good nervous?” you ask.

Spencer hesitates.

Because honesty has never felt this dangerous before.

“Yes.”

You smile like that answer matters more than anything else he could have said.

The note he finds the next day is different.

No jokes.

No teasing.

Just one sentence.

You don’t have to be nervous with me.

Spencer holds the paper for a long time.

Because the truth is — he doesn’t know how not to be.

But he thinks he wants to learn.

“You’re doing it again,” you say.

Spencer looks up from his book.

“Doing what?”

“Thinking so hard you forgot to exist in the present.”

He blinks.

That is… alarmingly accurate.

“I was processing—”

“You were spiraling,” you correct gently.

You slide a book across the table toward him.

A novel.

Not academic.

Not practical.

Just a story.

“Read something that doesn’t require you to prove anything,” you say.

Spencer studies the cover.

“You think I read exclusively to validate intellectual competency,” he says.

“I think you forget reading can be soft,” you reply.

He doesn’t know why that sentence affects him so much.

But it does.

⸻

The teasing never stops.

It just becomes softer.

More familiar.

“You memorized the Dewey Decimal system for fun?"

“It’s structurally satisfying.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“That’s not a question.”

“Still a problem.”

And yet you keep sitting across from him.

You keep leaving notes.

You keep noticing things.

And Spencer keeps feeling like the library — once just a quiet escape — has become something else entirely.

A place where he is seen.

Not as a prodigy.

Not as the awkward one.

Just Spencer.

⸻

The turning point happens on a night neither of you planned to stay late.

Rain taps softly against the windows. The hallway lights outside have dimmed, leaving the library wrapped in a kind of quiet that feels almost private.

You’re both reading.

Not talking.

Comfortable.

Spencer realizes he doesn’t feel nervous.

Not the overwhelming kind, anyway.

Just the soft anticipation that comes with sitting near someone who matters.

“You never asked why I started leaving notes,” you say suddenly.

He looks up.

“I assumed curiosity paired with observational interest and a tendency toward playful intellectual engagement.”

You stare at him.

“…you could’ve just said curiosity.”

He flushes.

You smile.

“I left them because you looked lonely,” you say simply.

The honesty knocks the air out of him.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were,” you say gently. “Not sad lonely. Just… used to being inside your own head.”

Spencer swallows.

“That’s not entirely inaccurate.”

You shrug.

“I figured notes were less terrifying than conversation.”

He laughs softly.

“They were.”

Your eyes meet.

The teasing fades.

“What changed?” he asks.

You hold his gaze.

“You did.”

And Spencer’s heart forgets every coping mechanism it has ever developed.

⸻

He finds a note in his book when he gets home that night.

He doesn’t remember you putting it there.

You’re allowed to be liked without earning it.

Spencer reads it three times.

Then folds it carefully and keeps it.

⸻

The next afternoon, he beats you to the library.

Which never happens.

He sits in your chair.

Waits.

Rehearses approximately sixteen different ways to start a conversation that doesn’t involve rambling.

None of them survive when you walk in.

You pause when you see him.

Smirk forming instantly.

“Well, this is unsettling,” you say. “Did I lose my seat privileges?”

Spencer stands too quickly.

“No— I mean— I wanted to—”

You walk closer.

He forgets everything.

“You make me nervous,” he says again, quieter this time. “But not in a bad way. In a… in a way that makes things feel less overwhelming.”

Your teasing expression softens.

“I know.”

“I don’t want the notes to stop,” he adds quickly.

You smile.

“They don’t have to.”

“I also—” He hesitates, hands fidgeting. “I like when you sit close. And when you tease me. And when you notice things I don’t realize I’m doing.”

Your voice drops, gentle and amused all at once.

“Reid, are you trying to confess something or are you narrating your own emotional awakening?”

He panics.

“I— I’m attempting to express that your presence has become statistically significant to my daily functioning.”

You laugh — soft, fond, completely unfair.

“That might be the most Spencer Reid confession imaginable.”

He freezes.

“That was a confession?”

You step closer.

Your knee bumps his again.

On purpose.

“Yes,” you say. “And for the record, you make me nervous too.”

Spencer blinks.

“You hide it better.”

You grin.

“I like watching you figure things out.”

His voice is barely steady.

“And what have you figured out?”

You reach into your book, pull out one last folded note, and press it into his hand.

He opens it immediately.

You’re my favorite thing to find in quiet places.

Spencer looks up.

You’re closer than before.

Close enough that the jitter in his chest feels less like anxiety and more like something warm and hopeful.

“You could’ve just said that,” he murmurs.

You tilt your head.

“But then I wouldn’t have gotten to watch you slowly fall apart in the library for weeks.”

He laughs — real, unguarded, the kind of laugh that startles even him.

“You’re terrible.”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “But you still showed up.”

Spencer exhales.

And for once, his mind doesn’t race ahead.

It stays right here.

With you.

In the quiet.

“I think,” he says carefully, “I’d like to keep showing up.”

Your smile is gentler than any teasing you’ve given him before.

“Good,” you whisper. “I was hoping you would.”

And Spencer realizes something simple and terrifying and wonderful all at once.

For someone who remembers everything — he hopes this becomes one of his favorite things to never stop rereading.

taglist - @eliastarzz

After one of his worst days in the field, Spencer ended the day in a hospital bed unable to walk. Hotch had been stabbed, and he had been shot. Both would be ok, and they were in separate hospitals to recover. The team alternated who would come to visit, and when. It usually took until the nurses kicked them out at the end of visiting hours, for them to actually leave. 

It’d been 2 days since his surgery, and the nurses had given him permission to walk around with his brace, on crutches. He’d never used them before, so he walked around the floor to the nurses’ station to get some more jell-o, and then around the hall back to his room. He allowed his curiosity (or nosiness) to get the better of him, occasionally glancing in at the people with their doors open, giving them a small smile or wave. Until he saw a familiar face. 

You’d worked for the FBI for a few years, working on the same floor as the BAU, but you weren’t in the field. You were sitting up in a hospital bed, playing solitaire in one hand, holding what looked like an oxygen mask to your face with the other. You looked up when you felt his eyes on you, and there he was, trapped in the doorway. You’d think you were hallucinating if not for the brace on his knee, and the crutches he was propping himself up on. He didn’t move from the threshold until you gave him a small wave, jumpstarting his movement into your room. 

You’d heard about Hotch’s incident, but you weren’t in the office yesterday, and since Spencer’s injury happened later in the day, you had no idea why he was here. You pulled the mask spraying (terrible tasting) medicine into your lungs from your face. You could stop for 30 seconds to see what he was here for. 

“Hey Spencer, what–um, what brings you here?” He hesitated, because you’d know since the 5th floor of the FBI building was the most gossip-ridden place he’d seen since high school. Yet he had no idea you’d be here. It’s not even as if you never talked, whenever he was in the office he’d stop by your desk to talk to you. He figured that you hadn’t gotten tired of him yet because he was gone a lot, although in reality you’d never tire of hearing his voice.

“I got shot in the knee, I’ll be fine, the real question is why are you here?” You’re sure it’s on government record, something Garcia could find in two minutes if she looked, but you still didn’t like talking about it. You knew it was stupid to be embarrassed of it, but you couldn’t help it. Every time it got brought up, you felt like the dorky character in a movie carting around their inhaler all the time, the butt of some cosmic joke. 

You preferred to think of it as an inconvenience more than anything. It didn’t come up often because you weren’t in the field, and when you needed to use an inhaler, you measured your breathing long enough to get to an empty bathroom or supply closet. You’d just blame the jitters that came after on too much coffee, and no one would ask any questions. This time, the inhaler wasn’t working, the next step in medication, a small machine similar to what you were supposed to be hooked up to now, wasn’t working either. So you drove to the ER feeling like you’d just run 10 miles, and they were making you stay 36 hours to give you stronger medication in intervals. 

“No reason.” You didn’t know why you even bothered with that response. Neither did Spencer, tossing you an apathetic look. He knew how squeamish you got when attention was drawn to something that made you look vulnerable, which is why he let it slide every time you walked into a supply closet looking flushed and panicked, with a soundtrack accompanying every time you took a breath, only to come out 5 minutes later with no supplies. 

 “Ok, really? Why would you even try it, you’re hooked up to a nebulizer and your oxygen saturation is at 90. What happened?” He was using the tone he only ever broke out for interrogations and proving Morgan wrong, but you still wanted to minimize the attention drawn to this not so glamorous piece of your life. You wanted Spencer to see you as someone he could date, even someone he could love, so this was not ideal to the image you’d been trying to show at work. 

“I have gross broken lungs. It’s really no big deal.” He laughed, but there was minimal humor behind it. Like he couldn’t even fathom you thinking this was ‘no big deal’. 

“I would venture to say you being in the hospital because you were unable to breathe is a very big deal.” While you loved when Spencer got a little bit cocky, you decided it would be more fun to make the little vein in his forehead appear again. So you tossed a vague shrug.

“Well I’d say getting shot is a much bigger deal. So why don’t you sit down, eat your jello, and tell me what happened to you, while I finish this thing.” He couldn’t argue with that, because at the very least he wanted you to feel better and the medicine currently going to waste while you were talking was the only way to accomplish that, so he relented. 

He didn’t want to move your things to the floor, but they were occupying the only chair in the room, so he made himself comfortable at the foot of your bed. He always wanted to be closer to you anyway. Setting his crutches next to him and opening the small cup of jello he’d somehow been holding this whole time, he reiterated his answer from before. 

“I told you already, I got shot in the knee, went into surgery, and now other than having to use these crutches for a while, I’m fine. Just need to spend a little longer in recovery before I can go back home to minimize the risk of infection.” He took a bite of jell-o just as a show of finality, like there was nothing more to say. Like a gunshot wound was not a huge deal. 

The whirr of the machine started to slow down, the medicine sputtering instead of coming out in a steady steam, meaning you could finally be done. You set it on the table by the bed, right next to your abandoned game of solitaire, and as soon as you set it down Spencer’s attention was back on your wellbeing. 

“Ok your turn, what happened?” 

“I’ve had asthma since I was a kid, and I just got unlucky today. It’s always worse this time of year, and my inhaler wasn’t really doing anything for me. Our health insurance plan doesn’t cover the more expensive meds unless I’m in the hospital, so here I am, for the next 36 hours.” You made a point to turn your exasperated expression into a cheesy smile, hoping to convince him to stay for just a little while longer.  “But the bright side is that since you're here I don’t have to play solitaire anymore. That was getting old fast.” You grabbed the cards, giving them a quick shuffle.

“So what do you say Vegas, are you up for a round of poker?” You hoped that would distract him from fussing over you, and luckily it did. He was satisfied you were ok, and the last thing he wanted was to push you too far, and for you to ask him to leave. So he let the smile take over his face. 

“Always. But i'm not going to go easy on you just because of your- what did you call them- broken lungs?” That got a good laugh out of you. Admittedly wheezy, but still one of the most beautiful sounds in the world to him. 

“Gross, broken lungs. And I wouldn’t dream of it.” You dealt the cards, already knowing you’d lose. You didn’t even know how to play poker. But word around the office was that most of your coworkers wouldn’t play with him since he always won. But you didn’t mind, you mostly just wanted someone to hang out with, and you were overjoyed that person was Spencer. He won, of course. Only gloating a little bit at how badly he beat you, and while you were dealing the second round of cards, you couldn’t help but vocalize what had been in the back of your mind for a few minutes now. 

“Hey Spencer, could I ask you a favor?” He had a mix of worry and willingness to help all over his face. 

“Anything.”

“Could you–not tell anyone in the office? Just. You know how they are, they would make a fuss about the whole hospital thing and it’s just not necessary.” 

“Where do they think you’re going to be for the next day and a half?”

You looked down like a kid who just got caught in a lie. “I kind of told Hotch I had a cold.” Spencer just sighed in response. 

“I really do think you should let them fuss over you. You deserve it, and you know Penelope lives for that sort of thing.” That you couldn’t deny, no matter how much you disagreed with him saying you deserved to be cared for. 

“Please, Spencer?” 

“Alright, but they might walk past your room in the morning. Garcia said she was coming, and you know she’ll drag at least one person along with her.” 

“Noted. I’ll close the door in the morning. Thank you Spencer, seriously, it means a lot.” You put your hand over his and it felt like every thought he’d ever had was gone from his brain at your touch. He couldn’t believe his dumb luck at meeting someone like you. Just to be in your orbit, to see and know you, felt like it could only be accomplished by divine intervention. Selfishly, he wished that you’d be staying a little longer, so that you could both leave together. Even more selfishly, he wished that you would leave with him, and come to his apartment. There he could take care of you, make you feel special until he could finally convince you that you deserved it. Deserved everything. 

You moved your hand to start tapping it on your leg, and while Spencer knew the side effects of respiratory steroids, he couldn’t help the nagging feeling that something was wrong. That maybe he did something wrong. 

“Is there something on your mind?” 

“No, it’s just the jitters. I used to get them so bad when I was a kid, my parents would have to practically hold me down. It’s like I have the energy to run a mile, but I can’t actually do it. I’ll calm down in a bit, but I’m probably going to get really rambly first.” 

“I’d love to listen to you talk, and I love being on the other side of a ramble.” It was just then that a nurse came in to ask if you were feeling better, charting your vials,  reminding you that you need to take your next dose in 4 hours, and telling you that an orderly would be in to set it up then.

Just when she was getting ready to leave she turned her attention to Spencer. “I’m sorry, but I am going to need you to go back to your room Dr. Reid. You both need to get some rest.”

He reluctantly told her that he would and just as soon as he’d come in, he disappeared again. He gave you a wave when he was gathering his crutches, but no real goodbye. You of course waved back, but you couldn’t help but feel disappointed. You really liked him, and you thought maybe he really liked you too. And yet, he only gave you a wave. 

All of the adrenaline moving through you, getting you all worked up finally won out, and stupid as it may sound, tears started to prick the corners of your eyes. Just as you closed the door to your room to get some privacy while you cried, your phone started to ring, and you couldn’t help but think; What now? You answered it without looking, and on the other side of the line was the person you wanted to hear from the most. 

Please! Let me out! Please!

Cold. Hunger. Pain.

How long has he been there?

Months? Years? Decades?

Astarion has bitten his wrists to get at least a few more drops of blood. But it only made him hungrier. He dreams of fleas and rats and worms because at least those vermin are alive.

He hasn’t moved for so long. He wishes only for death.

But he is already dead.

And it’s only getting worse.

The torture will never end. His skin will be flayed. His body will be raped. His bones will be broken.

Over and over again.

The reverie lets Astarion go. He stares into the darkness – full of shades of grey thanks to his elven darkvision. 

He isn't in the coffin.

Astarion licks his lips. Memories slowly crawl back dispelling the nightmares.

Could it be…

Something moves beside him. A body.

Is it another conquest? Another victim? Is it?

Astarion elbows up fearing he will see an unfamiliar face.

Tiriel nuzzles into his chest. Her breathing is steady and so is her heartbeat. She is as warm as a fireplace. She has a bandage on her neck, and Astarion catches a subtle scent of blood.

It is real. All of it.

Freedom. 

Love.

Satiation.

Warmth.

Astarion stares at Tiriel’s face.

A month ago, they both got rid of the parasites and Astarion had to return to the darkness. 

He expected Tiriel to abandon him once she saw him for what he really was.

She didn’t.

And she is still there, by his side.

He watches her, studying her facial features. Tiriel hugs him, sharing her body warmth with him, and he knows his cold touch would feel uncomfortable to her if it wasn’t for an extremely thick blanket covering them.

Suddenly Tiriel moves and opens her eyes.

“Hm? Are you awake?” she asks.

“Yes”

She turns on her back, tugs her blanket and falls asleep.

Of course, Astarion realizes she woke up because he was staring.

Astarion sits up, putting his legs on the floor.

He needs something to occupy himself – it’s still daylight outside, almost noon. And Tiriel needs to sleep.

Sleep. Such a strange concept. Elves need to get absolutely wasted or drugged to experience what others have to go through daily. Would he be happier if he could sleep? He remembers his siblings – Petras’ stupid smile, Leon’s peaceful face.

It seems like he and Daylria suffered the most – elves who couldn't escape from their misery to the dream world.

Astarion stands up and sits on the floor.

What to do?

Boredom was such a weird concept – he never experienced peace in the two centuries of misery.

And now he has all the peace in the world.

And Astarion doesn't know what to do with it.

He opens a book. Closes it.

So many books to read. And he can't choose any. He lacks concentration. Before, he could have only dreamt of indulging in all these simple luxuries, but now, he simply can't make himself.

He fears being punished.

Beaten. 

Astarion curls at Tiriel’s side. Plants a kiss on her back. Deep down, he wishes to wake her up, to hear her voice soothing his anxieties.

What if she were an elf like him and didn't need to sleep…

Nonsense. Astarion can wait a few hours before Tiriel returns to him. 

He lets Tiriel go and leaves the bed. He approaches a small window and hears voices from the outside. He doesn't dare to open the thick curtain for even the small amount of sun will leave him in pain and burns.

It's been a week since the netherbrain, and the city was being slowly re-constructed – whole streets were destroyed. Astarion knows the city will never be the same again.

He doesn’t feel sorry.

Astarion hates Baldur's Gate.

He hates these streets and these houses, these taverns and inns. The streets are full of homeless people and beggars. The whole city used to be his hunting ground. The whole place used to be a brothel. How many people of different races did he bed? How many times did he lie on his back or on his stomach while yet another ‘lover’ used his body to their liking? How many times did he use his mouth to go down on them? 

Didn’t any of them notice he was already dead?

And how many times did he wish to die?

It’s still hard to believe it is all over. 

He tugs the curtain just a bit to see the outside but not be burnt. They stay in the upper town, which was relatively untouched by the debris, but the place is too familiar for Astarion.

He can see the Cazador’s mansion.

It’s still there. Dark and empty. Even though many people lost their homes, no one dared to stay there, maybe, believing the lord and his invisible servants were still somewhere.

It looks like a menace, like a warning that nothing is over. Nothing will ever be over…

Nothing…

“Hello, love,” Tiriel mutters, elbowing up.

Astarion flinches and realizes it’s almost sunset outside. How long did he stay like that?

“You should have woken me up. Though I think I want to sleep for days,” she smiles. Her face is puffy, her hair is messy; she is the most beautiful person Astarion has met. “Can I kiss you?”

Astarion suspects he smiles like an idiot. 

“You know you don't have to ask?” he murmurs.

“But I like to.” 

Tiriel puts her palms on his cheeks and kisses him. For a brief moment, there is nothing but her warmth, her heartbeat, and her scent.

She breaks the embrace and Astarion adores her face. Freckles, deep wrinkles on her forehead when she smiles, her lips, her eyes (one blue, the other is green), half-elven ears – he still hesitates to tug them when she is in his arms, and, gods, her fire read hair that looks like a flame in the sunshine.

Pity he will never see her like that again.

Tiriel pulls away and looks out the window. Then, she frowns.

“Something on your mind, my love?” He touches her cheeks. She nods.

“Astarion, I need to go and do something. Will you be able to find me at sunset? You know… by…”

“Now that my vampiric abilities are back I can catch your scent even in that wretched crowd of a city. Don’t worry. I can always find you.”

“Great, because honestly, I am afraid to get lost.”

Tiriel pulls away, but Astarion grasps her arm. The very idea of staying in that room alone scares him.

He doesn’t want it.

“But can’t we do that together when it’s dark?” He pouts.

“Please, it’s almost sunset. You won’t regret it.”

Astarion feels torn apart. He is afraid Tiriel is going to leave him. What if she is scared of him? And wants to run away? What if there is a ship that will take her far away from him and she just has enough time to board it?

But if he keeps pushing…What if it makes her realize he is a lost cause? What if he is breaking something between them right now?

What if…

“Astarion look at me,” Tiriel asks and he realizes he’s been staring at the floor. “I am not going to leave you. I don’t want to break up. I’ve been telling you that every day since you returned to the shadows. I made a choice and I am not regretting it, at least, for now. I just want to do something – just find me at sunset, all right?”

“Good,” Astarion sits on the floor and takes a book. “I will try to occupy myself.”

Tiriel quickly puts on her clothes and leaves. Astarion feels her scent fading as she goes further away.

He must get used to it. He won’t be able to keep her all by himself the whole day long and she will have to go away from time to time. But it doesn’t mean he feels less lonely.

When it’s dark, he jumps on his feet and rushes outside. 

Strange.

Her scent is still very close, though he thought she would be waiting for him in the Lower Town.

He covers his head with a hood and follows the path. Then he realizes …

… that he follows a way too familiar path…

It's the road to Cazador’s mansion.

The same narrow streets he used to walk returning back with yet another victim. Or without anything, knowing he would be flayed and beaten.

He stops hoping he’s mistaken, but Tiriel's scent leads him directly to the mansion.

But why? Why?!

He is getting angrier with every step he has to make. How dare she force him to come back? How dare she?!

Then he feels tears pricking his eyes. He has only recently started grieving his past and everything that was taken from him.

He finds Tiriel at the wooden tower. Its enchanted guardians left the place when Cazador died and now it is as empty as everything else.

Tiriel sits at the table and there is a sack at her legs.

“Hi!” She waves at him. “I’ve been missing you!”

“Why did you bring me here?” He demands. His voice betrays his emotion, he knows he sounds like he is about to cry.

“Well, first, I found some good prospects for us – so we can leave the city tomorrow and never come back. And second – you can cast ignis, can’t you”

Astarion raises his hand feeling how magic fire prickles his fingers. Yes, this spell was always his. It was something natural for him, a fey magic, but Cazador forbade him from using it. Because otherwise, Astarion would be able to warm himself. And now he can use it freely.

Tiriel smiles again and raises her hand. She inherited the same skill from her elven ancestors. 

Create small balls of fire and throw them into enemies. The problem with Tiriel is the fact that when she is in her berserker state, she can’t concentrate on magic. So it’s more like a game to her rather than a weapon.

“So, I suggest,” she opens the sack showing a few dozen glass bottles. “We burn this place down! And if someone wants to punish us for arson, we are going to be far far away.”

“And what is that?”

“A gift from gnomes. Looks like water but burns like a spirit. This place will be set on fire with all its fancy stuff, beds, chambers, ugly paintings, dust, and whatever is left here.”

Tiriel laughs as if she is going to have the biggest fun in her life.

“I never noticed you were a pyromaniac!”

“Astarion, there are many things we need to learn about each other. And a new fact about me – I love burning things. I love setting places on fire. And I so much enjoy hearing you casting ignis. Makes me want you even more than I usually do. But”  She closes the sack. “If you don’t want to, just tell me, and I will sell the potions at the market.”

Astarion lets out a laugh. Gods. He has been dreaming of burning this place down for centuries. Cazador couldn’t prohibit his thinking and Astarion liked imagining this place on fire. He often would imagine himself burning too, because vampires can burn.

But he has never said it to Tiriel.

But she knew he would love it.

Astarion takes the heavy sack. 

“Yes. Let’s burn this fucking place down!”

Tiriel grabs his hand and makes him follow her into the dark halls.

One bottle for the room of the favorite spawns.

Two bottles for the chamber where Astarion had to sleep with his victims.

Three for the torture dungeon.

One by one they throw bottles in rooms and closets. Astarion rips the rugs and curtains, and Tiriel breaks the paintings and furniture. 

A bottle for the tower of Cazador’s niece.

A bottle in Cazador’s wardrobe.

Astarion curses. And laughs. He dominates his own past and Tiriel encourages him to keep going.

“Oh look! The bastard had so much whiskey and wine! What for?” She says opening the wine cellar.

“For parties,” Astarion finds the most expensive ones and throws them on the floor. “And sometimes he would try to drink himself to numbness.”

“Watch out!” Tiriel grabs yet another bottle but Astarion jumps to her and snatches it from her hands. “What?”

“It’s Berduskan Dark. The most expensive wine on the Swords Coast.”

“And?”

“It costs 1500 gold at least!”

“You wanna sell it?”

“I don’t,” Astarion opens the cork. “It is dark, like blood, and sweet.”

“Like blood?”

“Yes,” he chuckles. “It has a very high alcohol content. Can knock out an ork. I wonder where he took it from.”

Tiriel shrugs. “You know I don’t like wine.”

“You just never tasted a proper one,” Astarion smiles. “Open your mouth.”

Tiriel obeys and sticks her tongue a bit. Astarion gently takes her head and pours wine into her mouth. The Berduskan Dark streams down Tiriel’s throat and along her chin, staining the shirt.

“Oh fuck,” she mutters gulping the wine. “It burns my tongue!”

“Yes, like it's supposed to. Keep drinking..”

Tiriel takes the bottle and takes a few more gulps. Astarion thinks maybe he should have offered her a goblet, but it’s too late.

She finished almost the whole bottle off.

“Fuck!” She slurs and almost falls off the table. “I don’t remember ever getting wasted so fast.”

“Good.”

“Oh…That was your plan! You wanted to taste Berduskan Dark!” Tiriel puts the cork back. But I do it only for you because I don't really like it!”

Astarion tugs Tiriel and kisses her wine-stained lips.

Then, he imagines himself in the same room mere months ago. 

What would he think if he knew it was possible? To destroy that cellar, to kiss a person he wants, to get drunk together?

“What was the bastard's favorite place?” Tiriel asks.

“Come on,” Astarion takes her hand and leads her through the dark halls to the throne room. The black armchair made of dark wood looks ridiculous and pompous. “The bastard thought of himself as royalty!”

“But he was a moron. Neither the bhaalists considered him a target nor Gortash invited him to his coronation,” Tiriel falters. Now she is completely drunk.

Astarion pulls her to the throne and makes her sit on the soft pillows. Cazador’s pillows were made of some expensive fabrics – the ones that were supposed to always be clean.

“Can I bite you?” He asks.

“Of course.”

Astarion grazes her throat. He doesn’t care about the mess he is making. He wants to create a mess. 

Tiriel’s blood spills over the throne and pillows and Astarion tastes alcohol. Then he suddenly feels happy. Darkness fades away, replaced by intoxication and satiation. 

As for Tiriel's clothes, he will wash them. Or will get her new ones. Doesn’t really matter.

“Now we are both drunk,” she pouts.

Astarion almost falls when he takes the last bottle from the sack. Tiriel hugs him and starts murmuring drunkenly.

“You are so cute, you know that? And your ears stick so funny from your hair! You look like a dandelion!” She laughs as if it was the funniest joke she’s ever heard.

Asatrion smashes the last bottle and the fire and liquid mixes with blood. 

Tiriel raises her hand, trying to cast a fireball.

“No!” He shuts her mouth. “Are you stupid? The whole place is soaked in wine and this gnome shit!”

Tiriel bites his palm. And then starts laughing and snorting.

Astarion grabs her waist and lifts her on his shoulder. She keeps laughing and insulting Cazador, calling him a miserable dork with no imagination.

“Like, he was immortal and powerful… But he didn’t bother to go hunting himself! What was wrong with him? I mean, was he afraid of people? Astarion, you fed him dirty drunk homeless idiots who haven’t washed in decades! And he was all right with it? I mean, I know there are idiots! But this is some new level for me!”

Astarion approaches the main door. Turns back. Sees the mansion for the last time.

“Burn in hell,” he says. “Burn!”

Then he opens the door with his leg and gets outside.  They walk a few yards then he places Tiriel on the ground (she barely can walk by herself) and she immediately opens the cork of the wine bottle.

“You said you didn’t like it.”

“But you did.”

Astarion raises his hand and feels the fey fire prickling his fingers.

“IGNIS!”

A fire ball is thrown through the open door into the hall.

And the vampire mansion is set on fire. 

Astarion watches the fire consuming his past, destroying his misery.

And he cries.

He cries out loud like a lost child, clinging to Tiriel as his source of comfort and warmth. And Tiriel drunkenly starts singing him a lullaby.

“Tsk. It’s all right, my love,” she whispers. “It’s all right. We are starting anew tomorrow. We will see so many places together that you will forget that mansion. And I will touch you so many times it will make all the dirt you’ve been through fade away.”

Astarion keeps crying as they walk back to the inn. And Tiriel, drunk and dizzy, falls asleep in his arms in their bed.

**

The touches don’t burn his skin and he doesn't feel disgusting. It's something new. Astarion turns back to see naked Tiriel napping on the grass. She sleeps shamelessly, her legs half open and the fresh bite mark barely healed,

Astarion knows it’s a reverie. A weird memory he doesn’t know how to feel about. It's the first time Tiriel was his. He kissed her, he hugged her, he had sex with her. It was all a game for him but something else for her. 

The memories slowly set him free and he realizes Tiriel is still in his arms. She doesn’t sleep, that’s for sure, but she also doesn’t move, allowing him to relax in her embrace.

He reaches out for her ear and tugs it, forcing her to squirm.

“Half-elves do have sensitive ears!” he laughs. 

“That was weird,” she mutters. “Do it again.”

“You don’t need to ask twice,” he repeats the same motion. “Are we leaving today?”

“Yes,” she puts her arms on his back. “And we aren’t coming back, love.”

--

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@dajeong

A hand was rubbing up and down your back. Soothing you and relaxing your posture. You don’t think you could’ve cared if a demon had burst through the door at that very moment.

“I was wondering when you would finally wake up.” The blonde said.

“The bed's comfortable.” You replied in a whisper.

“You mean my bed is comfortable.”

You looked around the room in confusion. Sure enough, you were in Jace's room.

Your brain scanned for memories of last night.

“What happened?” You asked, turning around to face him.

Jace was propped up on his elbow, his face in his palm as he looked down on you.

“We nearly got killed by a demon. We got back to the institute and ordered some dinner, you crashed after dinner. Typical night.” Jace shrugged.

You nodded, half awake. A yawn left your mouth.

“So,” you began, “what’s for breakfast?”

Jace smiled, an easy, soft smile. Not like the sharp, sarcastic ones he often gave others. These smiles were reserved only for when it was the two of you.

“Well, Alec’s at the old warlocks, Izzy went out with fangs, and Clary’s at the abandoned police station, meeting with some werewolves. Something apparently happened last weekend that we needed to be bothered about, so Clary went to check it out. So we could order in or-”

“Should we have sent someone with her?” You asked.

“Luke is there, of course. Besides, Clary can hold her own.”

You hummed in agreement. Clary might be small, but she is one feisty girl. Especially when you beat her at a board game while drunk.

Jace cleared his throat teasingly, “As I was saying, we could order something, or I could make something.”

You raised your eyebrows, “You can cook?”

“And bake,” Jace added, seemingly not at all offended by his partner's words.

“Since when?”

“Since forever. My father wanted me to be very diverse in my skills, which includes culinary arts.” He stopped for a moment, “And how to sing the entire alphabet in fifteen seconds…”

You were going to comment on that, but Jace sat up, and you closed your mouth.

“Shall we?” He held out his hand for you

You chuckled and took his hand, “I suppose we shall.”

//————//————//————//————//

The kitchen was reasonably enormous. With the number of rooms the institute held, it only made the kitchen such an extended space.

Jace let go of your hand and went over to the fridge.

When you saw him eyeing the leftovers, you spoke up, “I thought you were supposed to be showing off your excellent chef skills.”

Jace looked towards, amused, “I am, but that doesn’t mean I can’t think about lunch in the process.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled nonetheless.

Jace looked at the fridge, deep in thought, then he grinned.

You raised your eyebrows, “What’s that look?”

Jace looked at you, “What look?”

You point at him, “That one. It makes me nervous.”

He smirked, “I make you nervous?”

“Wha- You know what I mean.” You said.

His smirk didn’t fade, “Of course I do.”

You watched him as he walked to the cabinets and began searching through them.

He glanced back at you, “Make yourself comfortable, darling. Perfection takes time.”

//————//————//————//————//

You lost track of the time. You mostly talked to Jace while he worked. Jace was a good multitasker. He told you some old stories (some you were sure he made up) as he continued his work.

Like fighting, Jace moved smoothly throughout the kitchen. Never knocking anything over, or burning himself, or stopping to make sure he had added the right thing into the pan. You were a little jealous.

“Go sit at the table,” Jace said.

Twenty minutes later, he brought over a tray of food. You felt a bit like royalty in that moment.

The food looked amazing, you had believed him when he said he could cook and bake, but you were very pleasantly surprised.

If it looked amazing, it certainly smelled even better.

The tray was full of the kind of food you’d see in a movie. There was a mixture of fruits, fluffy pancakes, a little cup full of syrup, and another of chocolate chips. It even had a little cup full of your favorite candy. There was chocolate syrup in another cup.

Jace leaned over you with a whipped cream can in hand and made a little swirl on top of your pancakes. He kissed you on the cheek as well.

You looked up at him, jaw dropped. He only smirked in return, validated by your expression.

“Wow, Jace, this is…amazing.” You said, for lack of a better word.

“I told you.” He said.

He took a couple of the mixed fruits from your plate and popped them into his mouth.

You raised an eyebrow at him, but he only took another, keeping eye contact with you the entire time.

“Now,” He pushed the tray towards you, “try it so you can tell me more about how jaw-dropping I am.”

“I did not say jaw-dropping.” You said.

His smirk was still ever so present, “You didn’t have to, darling.”

You cast one more glare towards him before adding what you wanted to your pancakes and taking a bite.

It was really good.

You couldn’t help but moan in delight.

“I take it I am as good as I know I am,” Jace said, smirking.

“I admit, this is really fantastic.” You said.

“Fantastic, hm? I like that.” He said, “Since I made it, I suppose it’s only fair if I try it, right?”

You shrugged. He had made a lot of food.

You expected him to take the fork and dig into the pancakes, not to pull you into his lap and kiss you.

He swallowed your gasp of surprise, passionately kissing you until you couldn’t remember the taste of the food.

When he pulled back, you were confused.

He looked at you in thought before saying, “My food is fantastic.”

But the look in his eyes told you he didn’t care at all for the food.

His hands that rested on your hips pulled your lips back to his.

The leftovers from breakfast were put in the fridge for later.

//————//————//————//————//

edited on 05/16/2024

You're a mess. You can't see, you can't hear, you can't feel

It hurts. It hurts so bad and it only adds to the salty tears running down your blotchy cheeks

His heart feels like it's being squeezed with an iron fist. The longer he looks at you, the more his body hurts. It's worse than the burning ache of freshly drawn runes, it's worse than a demon bite

Kisses. So, so many kisses

He drops to his knees in front of you, his hands finding yours. He tangles your fingers together, bringing your hands up to his mouth, pressing little kisses over your knuckles

He's doing anything, everything to ground you, to bring you back to him

His lips are spewing words of comfort between each kiss

"Come on, darling."

"Breathe for me now, angel."

"It's okay, it's okay. I've got you, it's okay."

"You're alright. I'm here, I've got you. Deep breaths for me, yeah?"

"There we go, just like that."

After a while, you start to calm down. Your heart slows, your lungs aren't constricted, blood isn't roaring in your ears

Despite that, your hands stay clasped together with his. You don't let go, even when he tries to pull away so he can wrap his arms around you

You bring his hands up to your face and hide. You kiss them, hide yourself from him in them. His hands are cool and it feels nice against your hot skin

He coos, sitting closer to you. His darling girl

He sits beside you and pulls you to his chest, somehow managing to sneak his hands free

He wraps his arms around you and holds you close, petting your hair, pressing kisses to your hairline, whispering little reassurances in your ear

You stay there with him for who knows how long. An hour, two, three

Neither of you cares. You stay sitting there, you in his embrace. His scent, clean and fresh, surrounds you, clouds your senses

It lulls you to sleep after a bit. Your head falls limp and he chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head

He brushes your hair back, away from your face. He tucks the strands behind your ears, wipes your cheeks dry. He presses little kisses under your eyes, now adorned with red circles

He is such a kissy boy you can't change my mind

"Good morning!" Kiss

"Are you okay??" Kiss

"You could've died." Kiss

"Please help me." Kiss

He kisses you to reassure himself. Reassuring you is just an amazing bonus

Kisses help to ground him, make him realise you're real and with him

Angels can't kiss anyone, but you're his angel and he kisses you

After the crying situation, he doesn't mention it again because you don't

But his lingering touches, gentle brushes of fingertips let you know that he is here and that he cares

You appreciate it more than anything. You don't want to talk about it, but you thank him with kisses of your own

His love language is physical touch for a reason

Mostly because he didn't get much of it as a boy

He doesn't like words, he can't figure them out

He also hates emotions. He thinks they're stupid and not really needed

But he cherishes everything he feels for you like an ancient relic that needs the best of the best protection

He's so sassy, too

If anyone asks what happened that night, be ready to get at least 3 comments thrown your way

"None of your business, thanks!"

"Since when did asking stupid questions become a shadowhunters job, enlighten me please."

"We did your mum. Fuck off."

It never fails to make you giggle

He flashes you a wink after every comment

He's like a 14 year old boy trying to impress an older girl

“The room darkens around you as the lights are suddenly blown out. The sound of footsteps around you is the only noise you can hear from the intruders. Roll for initiative!”

The group around you groans, grabbing their D20s to roll. You can’t seem to focus as your party calls out their numbers, eyes trained on Chance’s hand. It peeks out from behind the DM screen, forefinger flashing with a new ring. Chance’s fingers drum on the table, noting the numbers he’s hearing. Your eyes stay trained on his fingers, imagining what he could do with them. Trailing along your body, sliding into your mouth, moving inside-

Your train of thought is interrupted by a kick under the table. Snapping out of it, you see a smirk on Chance’s face. You blink and turn to your dice, rolling your D20.

“Seven. Plus three, so ten.” Your face burns, and you stare down at your dice, the eyes around the group moving to Chance. 

Chance continues the game, and your eyes burn a hole in the table. Determined to pay attention to this session, you listen intently. Even though you’re not staring at Chance, his voice keeps you out of the game. He just gets so excited about the roleplay that it bleeds into your mind. 

Despite your effort to stay focused, you realize you’ve zoned out again as Chance clears his throat. You glance up at him, cheeks flushing.

“What’s your move?”

“Um, I…” You stare down at your sheet, remembering just enough about your circumstances to stammer out a plan of attack. Chance nods, rolling the dice and calling out the damages done.

The session continues, and you do your best to stay invested in the game, rather than the man behind it. You manage to keep up, but aren’t as involved with the roleplay as usual. Everybody in the group notices, giving you space. The game seems to drag on, and is only ended when one of the party members speaks up.

“This has been fun, but it’s getting a bit late,” someone says. Your attention has been trained on your dice for a while, stacking and messing around with them, so you don’t know who it is. You’re grateful for the reprieve, though, quickly packing your bag and standing up. Before you can leave, Chance grabs your arm.

“Can I talk to you?” He murmurs, pulling you aside. The rest of the group packs up, chattering as they file out. You’d much rather be on your way home right now, but Chance’s grip isn’t letting up. He holds you gently but firmly, like he’s afraid you’ll run. Chance had been your best friend for a while, and you’re not surprised he’s a bit concerned.

You met Chance in your freshman year of college through a DND group. Technically, you had started it with him. A month into classes, you were struggling to make friends until you saw a flyer tacked onto a corkboard in one of the buildings you frequented. It advertised a new DND campaign, listing a date and a location on campus. You ignored it at first, but as the date neared, you took a picture of the flyer and told yourself to finally step out of your shell. Right before you were supposed to leave, you were sitting on the edge of your bed. The idea of meeting a whole group of people overwhelmed you. But you had to meet people one way or another, right? You’ll go once, and if it sucks, you’ll never show up again.

Forcing your anxieties away, you made your way to the room listed on the sheet. Upon opening the door, you see a flustered man behind a stack of papers. He looks up at you as you enter, a grin spreading across his face.

“Hi! Oh, I’m so- sorry, I’m just-” The man stands, knocking papers down as he rises. The papers were scattered across the floor, making the stranger more flustered than he already was. He frantically leans down to pick up the papers. Maybe he’s just as nervous as you. You glance around the room, realizing the two of you were alone. The thought of being alone with someone new makes you just as anxious as being with a whole group of people, but you reach down to help pick up the papers anyway. Character sheets and lined notebook paper with scribbled notes stack up in your hands, and you set them on the table. The stranger stands up, pushing his glasses up. His face is red, and there’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“What a horrible introduction,” He laughs nervously. He stretches his hand out to you, and you can see a slight tremble. “I’m Chance.”

You smile awkwardly, introducing yourself as you shake his hand. Your hand is clammy as you pull away, and you wipe it on your pants, unsure whether the sweat is from you or Chance.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Chance sits down at the head of the table, sorting through his papers. A few quiet minutes pass between you as Chance sorts out his papers. Nobody arrives, and you check the time to see it’s long past when the flyer listed the start. Chance clears his throat, checking the clock and turning to you.

“Well, it seems like you’re the only one coming.” Chance chuckles awkwardly.

“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” You offer. “I’ve never played DND before, and getting right into a game would be pretty overwhelming.”

Chance’s eyes light up at this. He sits up straighter, rifling through his papers. He pulls out a character sheet, setting it in front of you and scooting close.

“I’d be happy to explain it to you! Knowledgeable players are good, but it’s even better with new players. It’s like they’re untainted by bad DMs and can find love for the game in a fun way.” Chance grins, pointing to the character sheet, beginning to go over all the numbers.

Time passes as Chance explains the game, helping you create a character and preparing you for what might happen in a session. There’s a knock at the door, and someone peeks their head in.

“Just wanted to let you know you’re reaching the end of your reserved time.” The stranger says as you and Chance look up. Chance nods, scooting his chair away to pick up the mess you’ve made. He stacks his paper as you put the dice in a bag, holding it out to Chance. 

“Take them! It’ll be a nice memory. I mean, I hope you think this was fun and educational. I hope I didn’t unload too much on you.” Chance laughs nervously.

“It was great. Thank you for your help.” You smile at Chance as you stand. He smiles back, packing his overstuffed bag. The two of you leave together, chatting as you walk.

“Where are you headed?” Chance asks as you leave the building.

“Edwards Hall.” You nod towards the large building across the campus.

“Me too! What floor?”

“Floor 3, north side.” 

Chance’s eyebrows raise. “Me too. I’m surprised I haven’t run into you yet.”

“I don’t leave my room very often.” You chuckle, keeping your steps in time with Chance. He’s quite a bit taller than you now that you’re standing together. You have to pick up your pace to keep up with him.

The two of you continue the conversation easily as you walk towards your dorm. Tonight has been so much better than you expected, and you’re happy you found the courage to come, even if nobody else showed up. Eventually, you reach your door, pausing to say goodbye. Chance glances at your door, eyebrows raised.

“This is yours?” He asks, smiling.

“Yeah. Home sweet home. Well, for as long as I’m on campus.”

He points to the door next to yours. “That’s mine.”

“Seriously? So it’s you that’s been blasting medieval music late at night.” The walls were pretty thin, so most noises carried through. Chance laughs nervously.

“It helps me get into the zone. Being a DM is no easy feat.” Chance puffs his chest out. You chuckle and shake your head.

“Tonight was a lot of fun. Thank you.” You offer a small smile to Chance, who gives one in return.

“Thank you! I love getting new people into this game, even if it was just us today. Maybe I’ll see you next week, same time?”

You nod eagerly. “I’ll be there.”

Chance smiles softly, face flushed. “I’ll see you, then.”

He turns towards his room, fumbling a bit with the keys. You step into your dorm, collapsing on your bed. You were looking forward to next week.

You’re brought out of your memory when Chance’s hand lands on your shoulder. A concerned look on his face greets you, his eyebrows furrowed and lips pressed together.

“Are you alright?”

You nod, refusing to face his eyes. You’ve had a crush on him for a while now, but it’s become overwhelming. It seems obvious to everyone except Chance. The man in front of you grabs your chin, making you meet his eyes.

“What’s wrong? You can tell me.”

“Seriously, I’m fine! Don’t worry about me.” You give Chance a halfhearted smile, and he softens a bit.

“If you say so. Are you ready to go?” You and Chance had made a habit of walking back to your dorms together, but you were hoping to dash out before he grabbed you. Not that you didn’t want to walk with him, you wanted that more than anything. You were afraid that you’d finally gain the courage to make a move. Risking your friendship was the last thing you wanted to do.

You nod, walking out of the room with Chance on your heels. Your walk is normally filled with chatter, but tonight it’s silent and tense. Halfway through the walk, Chance speaks up.

“Can I show you something?” He says softly. You nod, following him as he goes off the path. Chance leads you to a small bridge, pausing and leaning against the rail. The moon shines down on you, illuminating Chance’s face. You’re struck by how beautiful he looks under the light of the moon and the stars. What you wouldn’t give to grab his face and just kiss him. You almost gain the courage to do it before Chance turns to you, smiling softly.

“I love this spot. It’s a good place to sit and think.” 

You look around, breathing in the night air. The small river beneath you glimmers in the moonlight, and the trees sway softly with the breeze. It’s such a romantic spot, and you’re surprised you’ve never come across it before. Chance clears his throat, gently picking at the splintered wood of the rail.

“I have something to say, and I’m sorry if this is dumb. Please tell me to shut up if it’s too much.” Chance murmurs, turning his eyes back to the river. He clears his throat again as your heart hammers in your chest. 

“I… I think I’m kinda in love with you. Well, I don’t think, I know. And maybe I am in love with you, but it’s a big feeling and scary to admit.” He chuckles nervously. “I’m just… I’ve never done this sort of thing before. I don’t know the… proper way to do it.”

Your heart races as you look at Chance. He refuses to meet your eyes, looking down at the rail. Your gaze trails over him, the beautiful man lit softly by the moon. His jewelry sparkles, the usual dice bracelets and his new ring glittering. You don’t think you could be more attracted to him at this moment, and you want to voice your mutual feelings, but you feel frozen.

“You’re not saying anything.” Chance says, turning to you. His face is flushed, and you’ve never seen him more nervous.

“I’m sorry, I just… don’t know what to say.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, words caught in your throat.

Chance lets out a breath, hands trembling against the bridge’s rail. “I’m sorry if that’s not what you wanted to hear. I just don’t think I could miss the opportunity to see if you feel the same way.”

“I just-”

“No, I’m sorry. This was dumb. I shouldn’t have-” You cut Chance off by grabbing his face and kissing him. He freezes at first, but softens against you after a moment. His hands rest on your hips as he meets your kiss, returning your motions passionately. You’re the first to pull away, breathing deeply. Chance’s eyes are half-lidded, his entire face flushed. He lets out a chuckle, running a hand through his hair.

“So do you-”

“I’m sorry I-”

You speak at the same time, laughing as you’re both cut off. You rest your head against Chance’s shoulder, breathing in his cologne. He smells of old paper and pine, and you’d love to do nothing else but stay here forever. 

“I take it you feel the same way?” Chance murmurs, resting his hand on your waist. You nod against him, letting out a breath.

“Yes. Very much so.” You say, looking up at Chance. He smiles down at you, sending a rush of adoration through you. 

“How long?” He whispers, running a hand through your hair. You lean into his touch, trying to remember the first time you felt butterflies in your stomach.

“Probably… that time you came over to my dorm to work on a new session. I was trying to do homework, but I couldn’t focus with you there.” That night was a fond memory. You remember Chance meticulously flipping through his notebook, scribbling down everything he thought of and asking for your opinions.

“Me too.” Chance laughs, stepping back to look at you. “Is that why you were off tonight?”

You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I couldn’t get you out of my mind.”

Chance presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, sending a shudder of pleasure through you. His touch is so soft, and you’re not sure how you could manage without feeling it again. Your hands trail into his hair, scratching his scalp. You’re not sure how long you stay like this, the air growing cold, but you’re feeling warm in his presence.

After a while, you lean in to press another kiss to Chance’s lips. It feels like you’re kissing forever, but when Chance pulls away, even that feels too soon.

“We should probably get home. I have an exam tomorrow morning that I can’t miss.” 

You begrudgingly step back, turning back towards the main path. Chance walks next to you, slowing his pace to drag out the walk. You talk a bit as you walk, feeling alight with everything that has happened. Chance slips his hand in yours, squeezing gently as you stroll across campus.

Once you get to your dorm, Chance turns and gives you one last kiss before parting. He smiles softly at you, fumbling to grab his keys.

“I’ll see you later?”