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▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| | I'm just a man, I'm not a hero
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#Apples and questions --- answering any questions you might have!
⋆.˚when JJ hands Spencer your photograph, announcing you as the most recent victim in a kidnapping case, he is thrown into a race against the clock to save your life from a killer who is becoming more erratic and dangerous by the second.
ellie talks- i did way too much research on soil properties, quarries and brickworks in Virginia for someone who lives in the rural north west of england. anyways... enjoy!
wc- 4.6k
cw- S1!Spencer, reader is a kidnapping victim, angst, reader and Spencer are high school exes, Spencer loses his shit.
Everything blurred, the air around you freezing, smelling of damp earth, rusted iron. The walls were brick, dark, dingy and crawling with moss. Your back pressed hard against the cold metal of the chair, coarse rope biting into your wrists, chafing your cheeks. Every breath was a battle, fighting against the panic clawing up your throat. The heavy, rhythmic drip of water leaking from the ceiling was your only clock, measuring out the agonizingly short amount of time you had left. You closed your eyes, trying desperately to dissociate from the pain in your bruised ribs, and the terrifying sound of footsteps pacing in the next room.
The bullpen of the Behavioural Analysis Unit was usually a cacophony of controlled chaos, phones ringing endlessly, papers shuffling hurriedly. But the moment the latest victim’s photograph was handed to the team, the room fell dead silent.
Spencer Reid dropped his pen. It rolled off the edge of the mahogany table, clattering against the linoleum floor, but he didn’t even blink. Your name barely pierced through the ringing in his ears as JJ announced it to the team, his fingers curled tighter around the photograph until his knuckles were white.
“... Twenty four. She was taken from her apartment parking lot in Alexandria late last night. If the unsub’s timeline holds, we have less than six hours before he-”
“Four hours.” Spencer interrupted. His voice was hoarse, but it cut through the room like glass, his eyes still didn’t lift. He stood so fast that his chair scraped violently against the floor.
Hotch’s eyes locked onto him, “Reid, what do you mean?”
“The geographical distribution of the dump sites indicates a comfort zone with a radius of no more than twelve miles, but the escalation in his cooling off period suggests a severe increase in his disorganized erraticism," Spencer rambled, his eyes still locked onto your photograph, your smile, your bright eyes. “He isn’t going to keep her for twelve hours like the others. He’s spiraling. He’s going to kill her in four. Maybe less.”
Gideon leaned forward, his dark eyes studying Spencer’s erratic pacing, the way he hadn’t looked away from the photograph in his hand once since JJ had given it to him. “How do you know her?” He asked in his calm, quiet tone.
Spencer’s chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths. Everyone’s eyes turned to him, a shocked silence settling over the group as his eyes finally lifted to Gideon.
“She’s… She was my girlfriend.” He said, the word sounding foreign yet heavy on his tongue. “In Vegas, before Caltech.”
A look exchanged throughout the room, one of understanding as Morgan stood, placing his hand on Spencer’s shoulder, he flinched gently under the touch, and lifted your photograph to look at your smile again. “You never…”
“We broke up because she was… she got into her dream program, I got into Caltech,” He swallowed, a hard lump forming in his throat. “I didn’t want to hold her back.”
Hotch caught up with Spencer as they walked towards the jet, a firm hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks. His face had drained of colour, pale and terrified. Hotch was trained to look for cracks, and right now, Spencer was fracturing right in front of him.
“Reid,” his voice dropped to a low and steady tone. “If you’re too close to this, I need to know now. I can’t have you in the field if you’re compromised.”
“I’m not compromised.” Spencer shot back instantly, his voice rising a pitch, he looked around at the teammates ahead, his chest heaving. “I’m the only one who can do the probability modeling on this unsub’s geographic regression fast enough. I know her baseline behavior. I know how she reacts under stress, she’s highly resilient, she won't panic immediately, which means she might buy us time, but we don’t have time. If you sideline me, you’re losing thirty percent of your analytical speed!”
Silence settled between them, Hotch held his gaze, Spencer’s chest heaving. “I won't miss anything.” He said, his voice cracking as his brows furrowed, almost pleading, “I promise you. I won’t miss a thing.”
Hotch swallowed, before nodding once. “Okay.” He said calmly, patting Spencer’s shoulder before the two of them jogged to catch up to the others.
Spencer’s fingers leafed through the crime scene photos, the photograph of you safely tucked into the breast pocket of his shirt. He was running numbers, calculating probabilities, mapping the unsub’s previous movements with frantic energy.
“Reid, you need to take a breath,” Elle said gently, “We’re going to find her.”
“I can’t breathe, Elle,” Spencer said, his voice cracking as he looked up, his wide brown eyes swimming with a rare, raw terror. “Do you know what she did when I was twelve years old, and the kids at school zip-tied me to a goal post? She didn’t laugh. She sat on the grass next to me and read me The Count of Monte Cristo until the janitor came with a wire cutter. She saw me. Not a freak. Just me.” He gripped his hair, pulling slightly as if he could force his brain to work faster. “Now he has her. If she dies because I was too scared to-”
“Hey. Look at me.” Morgan said, leaning over the table to force Spencer’s eyes to him. “That is not going to happen. Focus. What is your brain telling you about this guy? Where is he keeping her?”
Spencer forced his eyes closed. He shut out the rumble of the engine, the flicking of pages and murmuring of agents, the phantom scent of your perfume and feel of your hair in his hands that always seemed to linger in his memories.
Think.
“Police sent over the security footage from her apartment complex. The abduction took less than forty seconds. He was waiting for her.” Hotch said as he scanned the file in front of him, his eyes momentarily flicking to Spencer, his knee anxiously bouncing and his jaw tight as he stared out of the plane window.
“Did he target her specifically, or was it a crime of opportunity?” Morgan asked, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
“Opportunity.” Spencer said, taking a deep breath in before turning to Morgan. “He doesn't know me, and he doesn’t know her. The previous three victims all shared the same physical profile and were taken from transit points within a three mile radius of the interstate ninety-five corridor. It’s random. It’s entirely random… The unsub uses a white van with rusted wheel wells,” Spencer murmured, his thoughts tumbling out. “The soil transfer on the victims shoes was rich in iron oxide.”
Hotch stared at Spencer for three long seconds, the tension in the plane palpable. Finally, he gave a single firm nod. “Alright, you stay on the geographical profiling, JJ, get on the phone with local field office and pull every traffic camera feed within five miles of her apartment. Gideon and I are going to her place to walk the scene.”
The air in the concrete cell grew colder as the afternoon bled into evening.
Your head throbbed, a dull, agonizing pulse behind your eyes. You tried to shift your weight, but a sharp spike of pain in your ribs made you gasp, the sound muffled by the rough rope tied around your mouth. Through the high, barred slit near the ceiling, the weak Virginia sunlight was beginning to fade, casting skeletal shadows across the damp brick walls. Three hours. By your own estimate, you had been in this room for at least three hours. In the next room, the pacing had stopped, replaced by the heavy, dragging sound of metal scraping against concrete. You swallowed the dryness in your throat, forcing yourself to focus on the ceiling, on the rhythmic, maddening drip of water. One drip every four seconds, you calculated, your mind clinging to the structure of the math because it was the only thing keeping the terror from consuming you entirely. It was a habit you picked up years ago, from a boy who used to explain the mathematical probability of rain just to calm you down during summer thunderstorms in Nevada.
“If you look at the cloud density and the barometric pressure, it’s actually a beautiful equation,” his voice echoed in your mind, so clear that it made your chest ache.
Suddenly, the heavy wooden door to the kiln chamber creaked open. Your breath hitched, your eyes squeezed closed for a fraction of a second, then you forced them open, you wouldn’t let him see you vulnerable. He stepped into the room, large, imposing, with clothes stained with grease and dried mud, his eyes vacant and deeply bloodshot. He didn’t look angry, he looked frantic, his hands shaking as he carried a heavy roll of wire and a rusted iron pipe. His movements too fast, his breathing too shallow. He stopped in front of you, staring down with an unsettling, detached curiosity. He reached out, his dirty thumb tracing the line of your jaw, and you flinched away, your teeth clenching. “You aren’t screaming. Why aren’t you screaming?”
You glared at him through your tangled hair, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird, but you kept your gaze steady. The man grunted, a dark, frustrated sound, and raised the heavy iron pipe. “We’ll have to fix that.”
“She lived alone, but she didn’t live isolated.” Gideon murmured, tracing his fingers along the edge of a neatly arranged bookshelf. “She was organised, careful, The neighbours said she kept to herself, but she was always polite. She moved here six months ago. Why Alexandria?”
“Maybe a fresh start.” Hotch suggested, stepping into the small hallway that led to the bedroom. “Had a break-up, fell out with a friend.” He theorised. The bedroom was modest. A neatly made bed, a dresser with a few framed photos of your family, a small writing desk near the window. Hotch approached the closet, pulling it open, while Gideon walked over to the bed. He knelt, his eyes catching on something tucked just beneath the dust ruffle. He reached under and pulled out a faded, purple cardboard shoebox.
“Hotch.” Gideon called out softly.
Hotch turned, watching as Gideon sat on the edge of the mattress and removed the lid. Inside the box were dozens of envelopes, bundled neatly with a blue piece of twine. Gideon slid the top envelope out from under the string. The paper was slightly worn at the edges, handles many times. He turned it over, his eyes narrowing slightly as he read the postmark.
Pasadena, CA. October 2000
Then his gaze fell on the sender’s handwriting. It was incredibly precise, small and frantically slanted. “Reid.” Hotch murmured, stepping closer. It wasn’t a question. He recognised the erratic, rapid-fire flow of the penmanship instantly. Gideon untied the string and opened the most recent letter in the pile. It was dated nearly four years ago. He skimmed the page, his eyes softening as he read the dense paragraphs, a dizzying mix of complex astrophysical theories, ramblings about Caltech’s library, and, woven between the lines, a profound, aching vulnerability.
…I tried to calculate the probability of us staying together despite the geographic distance, but the variables are too volatile. I don’t want to be the gravity that pulls you away from your own orbit. You deserve to fly. But please know that even if the universe expands forever, my coordinates will always find yours.
“She kept every single one of them.” Gideon said quietly, folding the paper back into its creases. “He stopped writing because he thought he was protecting her.” He paused as he looked at Hotch. “She moved here to be closer to him.”
“But she never called him,” Hotch observed, his voice tinged with a rare touch of solemnity. “She wanted to see if he would reach out first.”
Before Gideon could reply, Hotch’s cell phone rang, cutting sharply through the quiet apartment. Hotch held the receiver to his ear. “Hotch.”
On the other end, Morgan’s voice crackled through, thick with urgency. “Hotch, we have a location. Reid cracked the soil analysis. The iron oxide and calcium carbonate point to the old Lorton Brickworks kiln chambers, right off Interstate ninety-five. We’re five minutes out.”
“We’re on our way.” Hotch said, his eyes locking onto the purple shoebox. “We’ll meet you there.”
The sirens of the local police cruisers wailed in the distance, but the tactical team moved in absolute, synchronized silence.
The old Lorton Brickworks loomed in the gray evening light, a crumbling monolith of rusted steel and decaying masonry. Heavy rain began to pelt the concrete as the SWAT team, flanked by Morgan, Elle, and a visibly trembling Spencer, stacked up against the primary entrance to the underground kilns.
“Breaching in three… two… one…”
The heavy iron door was blown open with a deafening metallic screech. Spencer didn’t wait. He pushed past the tactical shield, his flashlight beam slicing frantically through the darkness of the subterranean corridor, screaming your name into the abyss, his voice cracking with sheer desperation. The team swept through the chambers, the beams of their flashlights illuminating nothing but empty space, piles of discarded gravel, and decades of undisturbed dust. There were no chairs, no ropes. No signs of recent life.
“Clear!” a SWAT officer shouted.
“Clear!” another echoed from the back.
Spencer froze in the center of the main kiln chamber. He shone his flashlight at the ground. The dust on the concrete floor was thick, even, and completely undisturbed. No footprints.
“No.” Spencer murmured, his eyes wide and frantic. “No, no, no… this is wrong. This is all wrong.”
Morgan stopped at his side, his hand landing on his shoulder. “Reid, talk to me. What do you mean it’s wrong? The soil report-”
“The soil report in Sarah Jenkins’ shoes had calcium carbonate-” he paused, bending to run his fingers through the soil, “but the Lorton Clay Pit has a high concentration of alumina.” He rambled, his voice climbing to a panicked breathless pitch. He stared at his dirty fingers as if they held every answer he was looking for. “Aluminia is acidic. But the soil on Sarah’s shoes was alkaline. The calcium carbonate wasn’t from the clay itself… It was a shifting agent from limestone runoff. From the Occoquan River.”
He scrambled backward, pulling his folded paper maps from his pocket with shaking hands, tearing the edges. “The Occoquan Clay and Brick Manufactory,” Spencer gasped, a tear of pure horror spilling over his eyelashes. “It’s six miles south. It closed in ninety-four when the quarry flooded. It’s the exact same architectural layout, built by the same parent company, but the geological runoff is entirely different. I miscalculated the geographic regression because I assumed he was staying close to the interstate corridor, but he isn’t trying to stay near the highway, he's trying to stay near the water.”
Hotch and Gideon sprinted into the chamber, their faces grim. “Reid, what is it?” Hotch demanded.
Spencer looked up, his face entirely drained of colour. “We’re in the wrong place. He has her at the Occoquan facility. It’s twelve minutes from here.”
“How much time do we have left on your timeline, Reid?” Gideon asked, his voice steady but urgent.
Spencer looked at his watch. The ticking of the second hand felt like a physical hammer to his skull. “Eight minutes.” Spencer whispered, his chest heaving as he stared at Gideon. “In eight minutes, he kills her.”
Twelve minutes of driving had to be forced into six. The black SUV roared down the rain slicked, winding roads toward the Occoquan River, tires skimming over deep puddles. Inside, the silence was suffocating, punctuated only by the furious, rapid-fire tapping of Spencer's fingers against his knees. “Four minutes,” Spencer murmured, his eyes fixed on the dashboard clock. “We have four minutes.”
“I’m driving as fast as the road allows, Reid,” Morgan growled, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as he navigated a sharp, blind curve.
“It’s not fast enough!” Spencer suddenly yelled, a rare, uncharacteristic burst of anger cracking through his panic. He slammed a hand onto the dashboard. “He’s going to kill her, Morgan! He’s going to kill her because I spent three years hiding from my own feelings in California!”
No one in the car spoke. Elle reached forward from the backseat, gently squeezing Spencer’s shoulder, but he was too far gone to feel it, drowning in the mathematics of his own failures. Up ahead, through the heavy downpour, the dark outline of the Occoquan Clay and Brick Manufactory finally broke through the trees.
Inside the concrete kiln, the shadows had stretched so long that they swallowed the room. Your chest burned with every shallow breath. The pacing in the corridor had stopped. There was only the low, wet drag of boots stepping through the shallow puddles of groundwater on the brick floor. You pulled against your bonds, the harsh rope tearing through the skin of your wrists, but the knots were professional, unyielding. The heavy metal door of the chamber groaned on its hinges. The man stepped inside, carrying the same rusted iron pipe. The weapon scraped against the wet brick with a high pitched, metallic screech that made your stomach roll. “The water’s rising.” He muttered, his voice hollow and frantic. He looked up at the ceiling, then back at you. “They’re close. I can feel them. They’re trying to take you away from me, but I have to keep the sequence clean. Three, then four. It has to be complete.”
You didn’t close your eyes, staring straight at him, your jaw trembling but your gaze fierce. You thought of a boy under a starry Vegas sky.
The pipe began its downward swing-
The SUV hadn’t even fully stopped before Spencer threw his door open. He hit the gravel running, his boots skidding as he sprinted toward the gaping, dark mouth of the Occoquan kiln entrance. “Reid! Wait for tactical!” Hotch’s voice echoed through the storm, but Spencer couldn’t hear him over the roaring of his own pulse.
Spencer burst into the cavernous, pitch-black underground network. His flashlight beam swept wildly over crumbling brick arches and deep, stagnant pools of flooded water. The labyrinth of identical corridors stretched out before him like a physical manifestation of his worst nightmare. He stopped, holding his breath, desperately trying to listen over the sound of the rain hammering the roof above. A muffled, metallic clang rang out from the deep left corridor.
Spencer took off. He rounded a corner, his foot catching on a piece of debris, sending him crashing hard onto his shoulder against the wet brick wall. Pain shot through his arm, but he barely registered it. He scrambled back to his feet, throwing his weight against a rotting wooden door at the end of the hall. The door splintered inward.
The beam of his flashlight caught the terrifying tableau in an instant, the unsub, the raised steel pipe, and you. Tied to a chair, eyes wide with terror.
“FBI! Hands where I can see them!” Spencer screamed, his voice raw, completely devoid of his usual restraint.
The unsub swung around, his face twisting in rage as he charged at the lanky agent with the pipe. Spencer didn’t retreat. He didn’t wait for Morgan, or Hotch. With a desperate cry, he tackled the larger man, the two of them slamming violently into the muddy floor. The pipe clattered away into the dark as the unsub clawed at Spencer’s face, pinning him down, but Spencer fought back with an agonizing, furious strength, driving his elbow into the man’s ribs. Just as the unsub grabbed Spencer’s throat, Morgan and Hotch burst into the room. Morgan threw himself onto the suspect, ripping him off Spencer and slamming him face first into the wet brick to cuff him.
Spencer lay on the ground for a fraction of a second, gasping for air, before scrambling on his hands and knees over to your chair. His hands shook violently as he pulled at the knot around your wrists. “I’m here, I- I’m here, I’ve got you.” He choked out as the knot came free. The moment your arms were free, you threw them around his neck. His hands moved to the rope at the back of your head and pulled, releasing the gag from your mouth as you collapsed against him, sending him back to the floor. “Spencer-” You sobbed, your voice a broken whisper against his ear. His long arms wrapped around you, burying his face in your wet hair as he cradled you in his lap, holding on so tightly it felt as if he were trying to pull you directly into his chest, away from the cold, away from the horror, away from the years you had spent apart.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his eyes swimming with tears when you pulled back to look at him. They flicked over your face, the lines of grease and dirt where the unsub had touched you, the drip of blood from a cut above your eyebrow, the skin rubbed raw by the rope gag around your mouth. “I’m so sorry, I- I…” His hand moved from your head to your jaw, his thumb gently tracing your cheek. You leaned into his touch, a small, bruised smile pulling at your lips. “Are you okay?”
Paramedics rushed in, sirens wailed in the distance. “Let’s get her to the ambulance, Reid.” Hotch said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Let the EMTs look her over.”
The back of the ambulance was relatively quiet, a stark contrast to the storm outside. The rain hammered a steady, muted rhythm against the metal roof. The doors were pulled shut, leaving the two of you in the warm, sterile glow of the interior lights. You sat on the gurney, a heavy, orange blanket dread over your shoulders. The paramedic had finished cleaning the cuts on your lip and eyebrow, and bandaging the raw, chafed skin of your wrists, leaving you with a small cup of water before stepping out to give you some space. Spencer stood just inside the doors, shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot. He had a white blanket wrapped around his own shoulders to combat the chill of his soaked clothes, his wet hair curling at the ends. He stared at his mismatched socks, suddenly feeling very vulnerable, and very lost.
“Spence?” You said, your voice soft and scratchy. He looked up, his brown eyes wide as he walked over to the edge of the gurney, his movements hesitant, as if he were afraid to startle you if he moved too quickly.
“Are you… are you okay?” He asked, gently settling next to you on the edge of the gurney. “The medical examiner- I mean, paramedic said your ribs are only bruised and not fractured, and your wrists…” He trailed off, his eyes dropping to the white gauze wrapping your wrists. He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I miscalculated the Lorton put. I should have realised the soil runoff variable sooner. I cost us twelve minutes. I almost-”
“Spencer.” You reached out, your bandaged hand cutting off his rambling as you gently took hold of his fingers. “You saved my life.” He let out a shaky breath, his fingers slowly curling around yours. “And with a hell of a tackle too.” You added, smiling gently. He looked down at your joined hands as he let out an exhale that could have been a laugh if not for the circumstances, and the dam finally broke.
“I was so scared.” He murmured, his voice cracking. “When JJ handed me your photo, my entire brain just… stopped. I’ve spent years training myself to be objective, to compartmentalise, to analyze everything through mathematical probability. But the moment I saw you, the math didn't work anymore. I couldn’t breathe.” He swallowed, eyes locked on the way your fingers slotted perfectly between his. “Gideon found the letters under your bed.” He confessed quietly, his eyes lifting to meet yours, swimming with tears. “He showed them to me while they were…” He gestured at your wrists with his free hand. “I… I stopped writing because I thought I was doing the logical thing. I thought I was saving you from having to choose between your dream and a boy who was too weird, too complicated, too… broken to keep up with you.”
You felt a tear slip down your cheek, but you didn’t look away. “Spence…” You whispered. “I moved here because I hoped that if I was close enough, maybe the universe would find a way to slide us back into the same orbit. But I was… I thought the letters stopped because you had moved on.”
“I could never move on from you.” He answered instantly, reaching up with his free hand, his long, slender fingers trembling as he gently brushed a damp strand of hair behind your ear. His touch was incredibly light, as if you were made of glass. “I love you. I never stopped, not for a single second.”
A soft smile broke through the pain on your face, watching as a tear finally fell over his lashes. “I never stopped either.” You whispered, watching his whole face soften, his shoulder turned as he moved to face you. He was still trembling slightly, the residual adrenaline of the rescue humming through his veins. He looked down at you, the shadows of the ambulance cast soft lines across your face, highlighting the dark bruise on your cheekbone, the spit on your lip. To anyone else, you looked battered, the victim of a terrible crime. But to Spencer, you were the same girl who had sat in the dusty desert grass, holding his hand when the rest of the world felt too loud. There was no hesitation, no distance of four lost years, no unanswered letters between you anymore. Just the undeniable, magnetic pull that had always existed.
His fingers gently cradled your jawline, so careful, his thumb lightly tracing just below the bruise on your cheek, treating you like something infinitely precious. When he leaned down, you met him halfway.
The kiss was soft, tentative at first, as if he was terrified of hurting you. He pressed his lips to yours with a quiet, aching reverence, a silent apology for every day he had spent letting the silence stretch between you. But as your hand moved to cup the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in his damp hair, the hesitation dissolved. He let out a shaky, ragged sigh against your mouth, deepening the kiss. It was a chaotic rush of warmth, of relief, of a profound love that had survived years of distance and the brink of death. He pulled you closer, his other hand splaying flat against your back, holding you to him as if to convince himself that you were truly here, safe and alive.
When you finally parted, neither of you moved away. Spencer rested his forehead against yours, your breaths mingling in the space. He smiled, a small, genuine expression that reached his eyes, making them crinkle at the corners. “My heart rate is currently one hundred and forty-two beats per minute,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion but carrying a hint of his familiar, nerdy charm. “Which is physiologically consistent with acute cardiovascular arousal, but I’m fairly certain ninety percent of it is just because of you.”
You let out a soft, breathless laugh, your eyes shining with fresh tears as you pulled on the back of his neck again. “Shut up.”
“Okay.” He mumbled against you as you brought his lips back to yours.
summary: you accidentally walk in on what seems to be your boyfriend calling you “clingy”, leading to you avoiding him for a week. michael basically falls apart
content: miscommunication/misunderstanding, hurt/comfort, fluff in the end guys!! i cant deal with sad michael :((
word count: around 2k
a/n: YES i got inspiration to make this from after all by jimmy osmond! i love that song lol ok anyways enjoy the fic bye
It was a lazy Sunday afternoon.
The kind where everything moves slower and no ones in a rush to be anywhere.
You knew that michael had rehearsal earlier in the day and was probably eating lunch with his family given that you had spoken on the phone with him the night before.
Oh how you were so in love with him.
Even with Michael's busy schedule, he always found some way to make time for you. Whether it was hours spent on the phone after a long day or quiet afternoons together at home, you had become his comfort just as much as he had become yours.
The two of you were constantly on the phone which is why you knew he was finishing up some of his work right around this time.
Because of this, you decided to head down to Hayvenhurst. Maybe you could have lunch with him, steal a few hours of his afternoon, and have some much needed time with your oh so loving boyfriend.
When you finally reached his house, you let yourself in with the key Michael insisted you have.
“I want you to know you’re welcome here anytime, baby” “Come over whenever you want. Don’t even worry about knocking.”
“Are you sure, Michael? I wouldn't want to intrude-”
“Of course I’m sure,” “You could never intrude.”
A small smile had tugged at his lips as he squeezed your hand.
“I’m always gonna want you here with me.”
And he meant it.
Atleast you thought he did.
That was why you never hesitated now when you walked through those doors.
You could hear the laughs of some of the brothers in the kitchen so you made your way there assuming thats where you would find your boyfriend.
And as you were about to step into the kitchen you heard your name.
You stopped.
Not because you were trying to listen.
But Michael’s voice caught your attention before you even had the chance to announce yourself.
“She’s just…. really clingy sometimes.”
Your smile slowly faded.
Clingy.
The word sat heavy in your chest in a way you didn’t expect. You weren’t clingy, were you? I mean sure you did love spending all your free time with Michael and sure, you checked in on him throughout the day but you assumed he liked it too, right?
Apparently not.
So you quietly turned around and drove home before you could even hear what he had to say next.
Normally, you would have called Michael as soon as you got home.
But your phone stayed untouched on your nightstand by your bed.
You set your things down, changed into something more comfortable, and sat on the edge of your bed for longer than you meant to.
It was silly.
You knew that.
But the word kept replaying in your mind.
Clingy.
A small tear slipped down your cheek before you even realized you were crying and you stayed like that for awhile.
It wasn’t until the next day that michael finally decided to call you.
You still answered, but you weren’t as eager to fill the silence afterward.
“Hello?”
“Baby!” He sounded so excited, why was he so excited?
His voice immediately softened something in you.
“Hi, Michael.” There was a small pause on the other end of the line, and even though you couldn’t see him, you could already imagine the way his brows furrow slightly when something was bothering him.
“You okay?” The question made your fingers tighten slightly around your phone. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
It came out too quickly.
“I’m just tired,” you added, trying to make it sound more believable. Another quiet moment passed. Normally, neither of you ever struggled to find something to say. There was always another reason to keep the conversation going.
“You’re quiet,” he finally said.
“I’m just tired.” you reemphasized.
Michael hummed, clearly not completely convinced, but he didn’t push.“You’re not coming over today?”
You looked down at your hands. “I don’t know. I figured you were probably tired.”
“I am tired,” Michael admitted, a small laugh slipping into his voice. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to see you.”
“..”
“Baby…”
You could hear the concern in his voice, and that almost made it harder.
“I’m okay, Michael,” you said quickly. “Really. I think I’m just gonna rest today.”
Normally, Michael would have asked what was wrong and kept asking until you finally opened up. But something about the way you said it made him hesitate, leaving him unsure whether he should push or give you the space you seemed to be asking for.
“You sure you don’t want me to come by?” “I’m sure.”
A pause.
“Okay.” The disappointment in his voice was small, but you still noticed it.
“I’ll call you later, okay?” he said. “Okay.”
Another silence followed, one that felt too long for two people who were usually so comfortable with each other.
“Alright, baby. Get some rest.”
“Bye, Michael.” You hung up before he could say anything else and for a moment, you just stared at the phone in your hand.
The rest of your days during the week consisted of you and Michael basically playing cat and mouse.
He would call, like he always did, but you would let the phone ring a few extra times before finally answering. The conversations were never long anymore, your replies careful and excuses ready whenever there was a chance he might ask what had changed.
Michael noticed.
Eventually, he started coming by your house, sometimes with flowers or something small he thought you would like, hoping you would open the door and tell him what was wrong. But every time, you found yourself staying quiet, pretending you weren’t home until he finally left.
You knew you were avoiding him.
You also knew you didn’t really know how else to handle the hurt you were carrying.
Mike on the other hand, had spent the entire week trying to convince himself that he was overthinking it.
That maybe you really were just tired. Maybe you were busy. Maybe there was some simple explanation for why your voice sounded different every time he called and why you suddenly seemed like you were always finding a reason not to see him.
But the more days that passed, the harder it became to believe that.
By the end of the week, it had become impossible for Michael to convince himself that everything was fine.
He tried throwing himself into work the way he always did. Dance rehearsals, recording sessions, meetings. Normally, they were enough to keep his mind occupied.
This time, they weren't.
His thoughts always seemed to find their way back to you.
He replayed your conversations over and over, searching for something he might have missed. Had he forgotten something important? Had he said something carelessly? Was he working too much? He couldn't think of a single reason why the person who he revolved his days to be around suddenly couldn't bear to look at him.
His brothers noticed too.
"You alright?" Marlon asked one afternoon as the two of them sat around the kitchen island.
Michael looked up from the plate he had barely touched.
"Yeah."
Marlon raised an eyebrow.
"You don't sound too sure."
Michael sighed quietly, bringing his hands up to cover his face. "I think... I think something's wrong."
"What happened?"
"I don't know."
That was the part that bothered him most.
"I keep asking her if she's okay, and she says she is, but she barely answers my calls anymore. When she does, she's off the phone in five minutes." He looked down at the table, "I went by her apartment twice this week."
"And?"
"She didn't answer."
A silence filled the room.
"I don't think she's mad at me," Michael admitted after a moment. "If she was mad, she'd tell me. She always tells me… she’s just, distant."
Marlon frowned.
"So what are you gonna do?"
Michael didn't answer right away.
After a long moment, he looked up.
"I'm going back."
"And if she still doesn't answer?"
He stood from the table, ready to ask Bill to take him to what was naturally his second home.
"Then I'll keep trying til’ she does."
────୨ৎ────
The knock came just after lunch.
You didn't have to look through the window to know who it was. For a long moment you stared at the front door while the house remained completely silent around you.
Another knock.
Gentler this time.
You closed your eyes for a second before letting out a quiet breath and reaching for the doorknob. When the door opened, Michael was standing exactly where you expected him to be.
He looked tired.
Not the kind of tired that came from rehearsals or long nights in the studio, but the kind that settled behind someone's eyes after they had spent too many nights wondering what they had done wrong.
His expression softened the moment he saw you.
"...Hi sweetheart."
"Hi."
Neither of you moved.
"I, um..." Michael glanced down for a second before holding out the small bouquet he'd been carrying. "These are for you."
You hesitated before taking them.
"Thank you."
"Can I come in?"
You stepped aside without saying a word.
Now he stood awkwardly in the middle of your living room, unsure if he should sit down or keep standing.
You placed the flowers on the counter and folded your arms loosely across yourself.
Michael looked down for a moment, his fingers brushing over the edge of his sleeve before he finally looked back at you.
"I don't really know where to start.. I just know that something's different."
The words were softer than you expected.
"I've been trying to figure it out all week, and I keep thinking maybe I did something wrong. Maybe I said something, or maybe I haven't been making enough time for you, or maybe..." He paused, letting out a quiet breath as he shook his head. "I don't know. I keep going over everything, but I can't find anything."
You looked away.
Michael noticed.
He always noticed.
"I miss you," he admitted. "And I know that probably sounds so stupid because it's only been a week, but it feels like you've been pulling away from me for so much longer than that."
"I didn't want to bother you."
Michael's eyebrows pulled together.
"Bother me?"
You swallowed.
"I just thought maybe you needed some space."
The confusion on his face only grew.
"Space from you?"
You didn't answer.
The silence told him more than words did.
Michael took a small step closer, his hands coming up to cup your jawline.
"Baby, why would you think that?"
You looked at him, trying to find the right words.
"I heard you."
Michael went still.
"What?"
"At your house Michael."
The room suddenly felt much quieter.
"I wasn't trying to listen," you rushed to explain. "I was just coming over for lunch, and I heard you talking with your brothers."
Michael's expression shifted, confusion slowly replacing itself with realization. "What did you hear?" he says your name softly.
You hesitated.
"I heard you say I was clingy."
For a moment, Michael didn't say anything.
Then his face softened.
"Oh, mama."
The way he said it almost made it harder.
"I thought..." Your voice caught slightly. "I thought I was too much for you."
Michael immediately shook his head.
"No."
"No, no, that's not what I meant."
He pulled your head close to his, making sure you were looking at him, his expression filled with regret.
"Y/n, you didn't hear the rest of it."
You frowned slightly.
"The rest?"
Michael nodded.
"I was talking to my brothers because I was trying to explain how much I love having you around. I was telling them that you're always here, that you always want to spend time with me, and I was laughing because I realized I'm the exact same way."
A small, sad smile crossed his face. "I said you were clingy because I love that about you."
You stared at him. "I love that you call me after a long day. I love that you come over so we can watch movies together. I love that I get to know all the little things about your life because you want to tell me."
His voice softened.
"I didn't mean clingy like it was a bad thing."
You looked away, feeling the weight of the misunderstanding finally start to lift.
"I thought you were getting tired of me."
Michael's expression changed immediately. "Sweetheart, I spent this entire week thinking you were leaving me."
The honesty in his voice made you really look at him.
"I thought maybe you had finally realized that being with me is too much. I thought maybe I was asking too much from you, that with the album and my career.. It was getting too intense for you."
You stared at him for a moment, your heart aching at the thought that he had spent the entire week carrying that fear by himself.
“Michael,” you said softly.
His eyes lifted back to yours.
“I wasn’t leaving you.”
The words came out immediately, because you needed him to hear them.
“I wasn’t thinking about ending anything. I was just hurt and I thought I was giving you what you wanted. I just misunderstood you. I should’ve talked to you instead of disappearing, i’m sorry.”
Michael looked down at your intertwined hands, his thumb brushing over yours.
“I missed you.”
A small smile tugged at your lips.
“I missed you too.”
“Really?”
You almost laughed.
“Mikey, I spent the whole week trying not to call you. Do you know how hard that was?”
That finally got a real smile out of him.
“I had a feeling.”
You rolled your eyes softly.
For the first time in days, you both looked completely at ease.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you too.” you repeated back again.
And finally, after a week of missed calls and avoiding each other, you closed the space between you.
The kiss was soft, like both of you were making sure this was real. But it didn’t take long for the relief of having each other back to settle in.
A week without him had felt much longer than it should have.
When you pulled away, Michael kept his arms around your waist, holding you close like he was making up for every moment he spent thinking he was losing you.
“I really missed this,” he murmured.
You smiled against him.
“I did too.”
“No more secretly disappearing because you think I need space.”
You laughed. “Okay.”
“Good,” he said, pulling you closer. “Because I was starting to think my girlfriend was trying to break up with me without telling me.”
“Michael,” you giggled harder this time.
“I’m just saying,” he teased. “Very rude way to find out.”
a/n: OKAY would yall believe me if I said I sat down for like 8 hours today trying to finish this bc i did! im like actually proud of myself lol like omg especially w my adhd too like wow im amazing but anyways lets just ignore any grammer mistakes here bc im too lazy to fix them rn
summary: spencer accidentally let it slip that he has a wife, but he thought that they knew
The bullpen is louder than usual.
A case just closed — messy, exhausting, emotionally draining — but closed. And that always brings a certain kind of restless energy to the team.
“Alright,” Derek announces, spinning slightly in his chair. “We deserve a drink. Real one. Not whatever’s been fermenting in the break room coffee pot.”
Emily snorts. “Seconded.”
“Thirded,” JJ adds, already grabbing her bag.
Spencer doesn’t look up at first. He’s reorganizing his go-bag with that meticulous focus he gets when he’s trying to decompress.
Hotch gives a small nod. “One hour. Then home.”
Morgan leans back in his chair and eyes Spencer. “You in, Pretty Boy?”
Spencer finally looks up, blinking like he just remembered he’s in a room full of people.
“Oh, um.” He glances at his watch. “I actually should probably head home.”
Morgan frowns dramatically. “Since when do you skip celebratory drinks?”
Spencer shrugs. Casual, almost too casual.
“My wife doesn’t love when I get back too late after a case. It messes with our routine.”
Silence.
Not the normal end-of-shift shuffle silence.
The kind where the air changes.
Emily freezes mid-zip of her purse. JJ slowly turns around. Morgan’s smile drops.
“…Your what?” he asks carefully.
Spencer blinks at him, “My wife.”
Morgan stands up fully now. “Your what?”
Spencer looks genuinely confused. “My wife? Why are you repeating it like that?”
“Reid,” Emily says slowly, “you don’t have a wife.”
Spencer stares at her, “Yes, I do.”
JJ’s eyebrows shoot up. “Since when?”
Spencer’s forehead creases like they’re the ones being ridiculous, “Since 2012.”
Morgan’s mouth actually falls open. “Two thousand and— Reid that was years ago.”
“Yes,” Spencer says patiently. “That’s generally how time works.”
“Spencer,” JJ says gently, “we would know if you were married.”
Spencer’s lips press together in mild disbelief, “I assumed you did know.”
“How?” Morgan practically shouts.
Spencer gestures vaguely. “I wear a ring?”
All of them look down. He does. A simple silver band. Always has. They just never clocked it. It blended in with his watch and the ink stains and the everything else that is Spencer Reid.
Emily steps closer. “You’re serious.”
Spencer exhales softly. “Of course I’m serious. Why would I joke about that?”
Morgan runs a hand over his head. “Okay, okay. Hold up. You’re married. To who?”
Emily crosses her arms. “So let me get this straight. You’ve been married for over a decade and we’ve never met her?”
Spencer blinks. “Well… yes.”
Morgan points at him. “That’s insane.”
Spencer looks offended. “It’s not insane.”
“It’s a little insane,” JJ says gently.
Spencer shakes his head, standing now, suddenly protective in a way they’ve never seen before.
“She’s not a secret,” he insists. “I just… I don’t bring her into this.”
Morgan narrows his eyes. “Why not?”
Spencer goes quiet for a moment.
And when he speaks again, his voice is softer. Not defensive anymore. Just honest.
“Because this job takes things.”
The room stills.
“She met me when I was just starting at the BAU. Before any of the… really bad stuff.” He swallows. “She’s seen what this job does. To all of us.”
Emily’s expression softens.
Spencer continues.
“She was there when I couldn’t sleep after my first execution-style case. She sat with me and read out loud because I couldn’t get the images out of my head.”
JJ’s eyes glisten.
“She was there when my mom’s condition got worse. When I didn’t know how to handle it. She learned about schizophrenia just so she could understand what I grew up with.”
Morgan shifts, quieter now.
“And when I—”
Spencer stops.
The prison memory hangs heavy in the air without him even saying it.
His jaw tightens.
“When I was in prison,” he finishes softly, “she visited every week. Even when I told her not to.”
Emily inhales slowly.
Spencer’s voice steadies, “She wrote to me every day. She memorized the visitor protocols. She advocated for me when no one else could. She never once doubted that I’d come home.”
Morgan’s teasing expression is completely gone now.
“She kept our apartment exactly the same,” Spencer continues, almost like he’s replaying it in his mind. “She said she didn’t want me walking into something unfamiliar.”
JJ wipes at her eye discreetly.
Spencer looks down at his ring, “She’s been there for every version of me. The anxious twenty-something. The grieving son. The addict. The inmate. The profiler who can’t always leave work at work.”
His lips twitch faintly, “She’s the only constant I’ve ever had.”
The room is completely silent.
Morgan finally speaks, softer than they’ve ever heard him.
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
Spencer hesitates, “Because this job makes enemies,” he says quietly. “And I could never forgive myself if something happened to her because of me.”
That lands harder than expected.
Hotch nods once. He understands that logic more than anyone.
Emily steps forward slightly. “So you just… what? Go home every night and we never knew?”
Spencer gives a small shrug, “Yes.”
Morgan exhales slowly. “Reid, that’s not something small.”
Spencer tilts his head, “It’s not small to me.”
There’s no arrogance in it. Just certainty.
“She makes me dinner when I forget to eat. She leaves sticky notes in my books when she knows I’ll be stressed. She reminds me that I’m more than my IQ and my trauma.”
His voice softens again, “She married me when I was still figuring out how to exist in the world. That’s not small.”
JJ smiles through tears. “Does she know what you do?”
“Yes.”
“And she’s okay with it?”
Spencer nods, “She worries. But she says she’d rather love me in a dangerous world than not love me at all.”
Morgan shakes his head slowly, “Reid, that’s real.”
Spencer frowns slightly. “Of course it’s real.”
Emily laughs weakly. “We just didn’t know you had that.”
Spencer looks genuinely confused again.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
And there it is, the quiet confidence.
He doesn’t see himself as someone unworthy of love because someone has loved him consistently for years.
Morgan finally smirks faintly. “Alright, so when are we meeting her?”
Summary: After months of growing distance, you and Michael's relationship is on its last legs. But when Michael accidentally finds a lyric sheet you wrote about your fading connection, the truth absolutely breaks him.
now playing: evergreen (he didn't deserve me at all) by Omar Apollo <3
꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂
Lately, the silence between you and Michael in your shared home was deafening.
For the past two months, Michael’s presence had felt like a ghost haunting the hallways. When he was home, he was distant, his eyes glued to his phone, his thoughts locked away in some studio booth you weren't invited into anymore. And when he was gone, he was everywhere.
Every time you opened your phone, a new tabloid headline stared back at you:
Michael spotted leaving a VIP lounge in Soho with Brooke Shields.
Out on the town: Michael dines with Europe’s elite.
Deep down, you knew him. You knew the boy behind the superstar, and you knew he wouldn't cheat on you. He loved you. But knowing he wasn't cheating didn't stop the quiet, suffocating ache in your chest. It didn't stop the humiliation of sitting alone in your living room, scrolling through photos of him surrounded by gorgeous, laughing women, while you - his girlfriend, his partner, the one who had held him before the stadiums were full, sat waiting in the dark.
༻✦༺
The blowout fight happened on a rainy Tuesday night. He had walked through the door at 2:00 AM, smelling of expensive cologne and premium liquor, eyes heavy with fatigue.
"Where were you, Michael?" you asked softly from the kitchen counter.
He let out a long, irritated sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "A release party, babe. I told you. My manager wanted me there."
"Your manager wanted you to get photographed leaving through the back alley with a group of Victoria’s Secret models?" Your voice trembled, the weeks of suppressed hurt finally breaking through. "Because that’s what’s online right now. Again."
Michael’s posture stiffened. "They're friends of the label. It’s PR, it’s networking. You know how this industry works. Why are you doing this right now? I’m exhausted."
"When else can I do it!? You're never here anymore, and when you are you don't even look at me!"
"I am trying to build a career!" he shouted back, his face flushing with a mix of defensive anger and stress. "I'm under a mountain of pressure, and when I come home, I just want some peace. Not an interrogation!"
"Peace? You want peace from me? That isn't what a relationship should be like" The words felt like a physical blow.
"You know what? I can't do this tonight," Michael muttered, his eyes dark with frustration. He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. "I’m going for a drive."
"Michael, don't walk out," you warned, your voice cracking. "If you walk out that door right now..."
He didn't let you finish. The heavy front door slammed shut, the sound echoing through the empty house.
༻✦༺
When Michael returned a few hours later, the rain had stopped, leaving a grey, oppressive overcast. The anger had faded, replaced by a hollow, nauseating guilt. He knew he had been cold. He knew he was pushing you away because his own anxieties were suffocating him, but he didn't know how to stop.
He unlocked the front door, expecting to find you on the couch, or perhaps in the kitchen where you could quietly resolve the lingering tension.
"Baby?" he called out, his voice slightly hoarse.
No answer.
He walked into the living room. It was spotless, but weirdly empty. His heart did a sudden, violent flip. He ran up the stairs, his breathing shallow, and pushed open the master bedroom door.
The closet doors were wide open.
Your suitcases were gone.
Panic, raw, cold, and absolute - seized his throat. He couldn't breathe. She left me, the thought screamed in his head, a terrifying realization crashing down on him. I pushed her too far, and she’s gone.
He stumbled back down to the kitchen, his hands shaking, and that's when he saw it. A single piece of folded notebook paper sitting on the marble island, next to your keys.
With trembling fingers, he unfolded it.
I'm not leaving you, but I can't stay here right now. We keep repeating the same cycle. I need some space to breathe and think. I'm going to stay with a friend for a bit. Don't call me.
He let out a shaky, ragged breath, leaning heavily against the counter. She hadn't left for good. But as he looked around the massive, quiet house, the relief was incredibly short-lived. The silence here was yours now, and it felt like a prison.
༻✦༺
Restless and miserable, Michael wandered the house. He eventually ended up in your personal music room, the small studio space where you kept your piano, your guitars, and your journals. He just wanted to feel close to you.
He sat on the piano bench, running a hand over the keys. On the music stand lay a messy, tear-stained sheet of staff paper. Your handwriting, usually so neat, was rushed and uneven.
At the top of the page, a title was scribbled and crossed out twice, before you had settled on one word: Evergreen.
Michael’s eyes scanned down the page, reading the lyrics you had poured out in his absence.
Evergreen, he don't love me no more
A lump formed in his throat. He swallowed hard, his eyes burning as he kept reading. You had written down the chords, the melody lines, and the raw thoughts of a girl who felt completely abandoned by the person who was supposed to protect her.
Was there something wrong with my body?
Am I not what you wanted babe?
If I ever tired, if I ever tried, I would.
Evergreen
He tears me to pieces
He remembered the red carpets. He remembered wrapping his arm around you for the cameras, flashing his million-dollar smile, and then immediately turning cold and silent the moment you got into the car. He had treated you like an accessory to his lifestyle rather than the keeper of his heart.
A tear slipped from Michael's eye, splashing onto the paper. He stared at the words.
She don't know you like me
She could never love you more
more than me.
Then he thought about all the countless magazines, pasting photos of him too close to another woman for a taken man. Of course he never did it with ill intent, but he had never stopped and considered how that would make you feel. Hell, if it was the other way around, and you were the one being photographed with countless men, he would go crazy.
You know you really made me hate myself
had to stop before I break myself
Should have broke it off to date myself
You didn't deserve me at all, at all, at all.
One last time
I see, evergreen
Oh, sweet evergreen
he don't love me no more.
༻✦༺
Michael let out a broken, choked sob, burying his face in his hands. The sheer weight of his neglect crashed over him. You actually wondered if he had fallen out of love with you. He was too proud, too stubborn, and too stressed to just hold you and tell you he loved you. he had failed you.
He had broken you. The girl who loved him when he had nothing, was writing a eulogy for their love because he had been too selfish to pay attention.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered to the empty room, his chest aching with a pain he had never felt before. "I'm so, so sorry."
༻✦༺
He couldn't lose you. He refused to let this be the end of your song.
Michael wiped his eyes, his gaze locking onto the lyrics of Evergreen. He carefully folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket. He wasn't going to cross your boundary and show up at your friend's house to drag you back, he knew you needed the space you asked for. But he was going to spend every single second of that space proving to you that he was ready to change.
He pulled out his phone, his hands steady now. He called his manager.
"Cancel the press dinner on Friday," Michael said, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. "And cancel the shoot on Sunday. In fact, clear my schedule for the next two weeks. I don't care what it costs."
"Michael, what's going on?" his manager asked, startled.
"I'm fixing my life," Michael said quietly, looking at the empty piano bench where you usually sat.
"Michael this next week is important for you" his manager argued.
Can we have a joker x reader who got like WAY too affected at awakening their persona? (Like for an example they used a mask their entire life not letting anyone peek through so it was more exhausting for them or smthing?)
With things like not wanting to talk to others on the next day (even if it’s the explain all meeting) etc
Well, you’re free to decline! :)
You look so out of it (pull it together)
Ren Amamiya x Reader
♯ Alex g - Forever
Synopsis: when you had no choice but to rip off the mask that had formed on your face, you were forced to show everyone the real person underneath all of the facades that you carefully built up throughout the years. No one seemed to care much, though it affected you a lot more than you'd like to admit. Unbeknownst to you, Ren was affected as well.
Genre: hurt/comfort
Tags: blood and violence (Persona awakening). Original palace ruler but only briefly mentioned. Emotional breakdown. Crying. Soft confessions.
Wc: 1.5k
Every inch of your brain felt like it was going to explode to their own individual bits. Your head recoiled in pain as the back of your skull hit the wall behind you harshly. Hands shot up to grasp onto your forehead as you shouted in pain.
Your knees started to tremble. Legs giving out as it hit the floor. Banging the front of your skull down to the concrete-- foolishly thinking that hurting yourself further would make everything less painful.
The surprised gasps from the palace ruler fell deaf in and out through your ears. Along with the shouts of your team far in front of you.
The only thing you could hear was the ominous voice echoing throughout the room. Bouncing from one corner to the other, until it reached your ears.
'Are you finally showing yourself?'
Your eyes remained shut from the intense throbs that followed your headache. No matter how much you wanted to open them to see where the voice was coming from.
'You've always tried so hard to hide...
It's time to let them see
See everything.'
You muttered a choked out "no.." shaking your head side to side frantically. You weren't sure what this voice would show your team, but you knew that you didn't want them to see anything.
'You say you don't
but you know well that you'll suffer further if you hold back'
Something started to course through your veins. A burning fire shooting through every part of your body. As if someone had stabbed your back with a welding stick.
You felt something form on your face, right around your eyes. The feeling much too claustrophobic, as if you were getting choked. Your fingers moved around to feel what you were wearing. Trailing it to the side of the mask. You didn't think twice before you ripped it clean off of your head.
Blood flooding from the skin beneath where the mask was. Dripping rapidly on the floor, forming a crimson puddle right by your knees.
'It's time you accept you as you'
In a split second, your mind felt clearer. A contrasting feather-like lightness that followed right after those words flew through your head. Very well.
'I am thou, thou art I'
Joker watched as you awakened your persona. Your outfit changing into the Phantom Thieves costume that every other member of the team had on.
He wasn't sure why his heart ached when he saw you on the ground like that. It wasn't as if the other didn't go through the exact same thing. But something about your particular awakening, made him think that it was much deeper that he assumed.
What with the way you were going absolutely batshit insane over the shadows that were surrounding you. Jumping on their shoulders and pulling up on their chin and beating them silly.
"Woah." Ryuji stated flatly. His eyes might as well have sparkles in them with how hard he was admiring you.
The rest of the Phantom Thieves around him agreed. Shouting out compliments and yells of enthusiasms to you.
Ren would admit-- you looked badass as hell. He wasn't sure if you already possessed an absurd amount of strength suitable enough to beat up two giant creatures at the same time. But it certainly looked like you did.
Eyes fierce and narrow. He didn't know for sure, but he could feel the rage that was flowing through every inch of your body. It was different from when every other persona awakening that he had seen.
After a minute or so, you landed on your feet only a few inches away from the team. Chest rising rapidly as your lungs struggled to grasp air.
═══════
Even after all that fighting, you were still pissed.
You were back in Ren's attic-- room-- house. Curling in on yourself on the very edge of his couch.
You weren't sure why. It certainly wasn't because of Morgana standing in the middle of the table, explaining the next course of action for your upcoming mission. It wasn't because of Ann explaining to you what the hell just happened. And it definitely wasn't because the team were absolutely hyping you up after your battle showcase.
But you were.
You were seething. Fuming out of your ears you were so mad.
You opted not to speak. Not to contribute anything into the conversation, worried that you might say something that you didn't mean. You weren't sure if the 'show your true self' bit that your persona told you meant that you wouldn't know how to hide who you really were anymore.
Trying to sort out your thoughts, you simply crossed your arms and tried your best to listen.
"I'll buy some stuff we could use to keep our stamina and energy up tomorrow." Ren started to speak. Leading the conversation like the leader that he is. "And then we can return to the palace either tomorrow evening, or the day after." He gave you a glance. Noticing how you were practically caving in on yourself. Arms wrapped loosely around your torso.
"Actually-- we can take a breather for a few days." He said, waving his hands as if to dismiss everyone else. "Let's get some rest. I'm tired."
Everyone nodded, standing up and making their way out the door. You followed right behind the crowd, being the last one to leave. Right before Ren stood directly in front of you. Preventing you from taking another step.
He stared at Morgana from behind you. Giving him a look that told him to scram. To which he thankfully listened this time. Jumping off of the table and making his way down the stairs.
"Y/n." He called softly, testing the waters.
He watched as your head twitched up to his direction, eyes remained low and cast on the ground.
He called your name once again, a little louder this time.
You looked up, meeting his eyes. "Hm?"
"You okay?" He asked, searching your face for any hints of.... something. Because so far, he couldn't read your expression.
You nodded once-- barely. "Yeah."
"Sure?"
You nodded again. Yet for some reason, you could feel your throat begin to tighten. Eyebrows furrowing down as your eyes began to sting.
He noticed, of course he did. "You're not."
"I'm not." You were shocked at your own honesty. Hands flying up to hover over your mouth. Lightly gasping at your own admission. "I'm not okay." The words flew past your lips before you could stop yourself.
"Tell me." Ren reached for your wrist, walking to his bed, guiding you to sit next to him. "I'm listening. I always am."
"I--" your cleared your throat. Attempting to blink away the sadness from your eyes. "I don't know." You muttered. "I don't know what's going on. Everything's just happening all at once, and I feel so--" you grabbed onto your knees, trying to stop it from shaking. "-- overwhelmed."
Ren didn't speak, not yet. He was true to his word, he was listening.
"I'm not used to...-- to expressing myself like this." You couldn't stop yourself from breaking. Tears now flowing out of your eyes. "I don't feel safe like this."
His eyes widened slightly. "With us?"
You shook your head almost too quickly. "No. Like in general. Everything's new to me. I feel.." you choked out, racking your brain in a attempt to find the words. "I feel so vulnerable"
You looked at him, trying to find any sign of him being uninterested. He wouldn't be the first person if he was. No one you knew bothered to listen to you whenever you were feeling emotionally tired. So you learned how to keep to yourself. Learning how to never mention the things bothering you.
But right now, he was looking at you so attentively, it even surprised you with how interested he was.
"I've never... let anyone see me like this. I've never let my anger out like I did earlier." You averted your eyes back to your lap. "I've always lied to myself, to make people like me a little bit more."
Ren's heart cracked just a bit. Devastated that you felt like you had to hide who you were.
"And I'm just worried." Your voice cracked along with the last word. "Worried that you wouldn't like who I really am."
"Hey." He whispered, butting in to the conversation, cutting you off. "You're free now. Free from those lies." He shifted his body to face yours. "You don't have to hide anymore."
"I don't know.. if I know how to get used to it."
"And that's okay." He lifted his hand, running his fingers along your hair. "Take as much time as you want. We'll be here to help you."
You smiled slowly, through your tears. "It's gonna take a while."
"And that's alright."
You were thankful for him. For his understanding and patience. "I don't get why you care a lot about me."
He paused for a second. Hand freezing just a few inches above your head. Before smiling. "Because I like you."
Hello!! May i request a part 2 of your ryuji angst fic 😖 it was too good and I loved it soso much! Thank you!!
As I lay sleeping, I dreamed I held you
Ryuji Sakamoto x Fem!Reader
♯ You are my sunshine - Christina Perri
Part 1
Synopsis: Ryuji doesn't know what to do now that he believes he's fucked up this relationship. He decides not to go to his friends for advice, and instead went to do what he knows in his heart is right. Needing to fix it by himself.
Genre: hurt/comfort
Tags: crying. Mentions of breakup but they don't. Happy ending. SPOILERRSSSS FOR SEMESTER 3!!!!. Tiny bit of Shuake action. I (personally) am not good with apologies so I'm not sure if his is like good.
Wc: 2.3k
A/n: on par with another request -->
'Ryuji x Reader Request: Comfort involving the song “you’re my sunshine” (yeah stupid I know)'
Ryuji didn't leave. Feet glued to the concrete of the floor in front of your apartment. His face right by the door you had closed shut.
Shut with the softest click. As if you were still a child, trying not to make their parents mad. He would much rather you slam it, or you yell at him the moment he appeared at your home. Because then he would actually know what it was that you were feeling.
Instead, the empty stare he was met with told him everything he really needed to know; how tired he had made you.
He debated on what to do. Unsure on which step would be the most smartest. Whether he should pound on your door, sit on the ground and wait until you open it next, or flood your phone with calls.
All of those options were definitely off the table. Bothering you would make it much worse, you probably wouldn't even want to look at his face right now. Not when it was one in the morning and with how much he hurt you.
Slumping his back further down, he sighed, placing his palm on your door before slowly making his way to the staircase of your apartment.
Each foot landed shakily on the steps, his body trying to stabilise himself. Somehow, the pain that followed his heart intensified along with his emotions. Hurting as your saddened face flashed before his eyes every time he blinked. His stomach felt as if it was threatening to spill bile out of his mouth in nausea.
What the fuck does he do. Who does he even go to when he messes up this bad? He didn't even realise that he was messing up-- which was the point in it of itself-- and now he's worried that he'd lose you forever.
Rushing out the parking lot of your apartment, sped to the only person he knew to go to when things got wrong.
═══════
The door to LeBlanc slammed open with a loud bang. The mini bells by the top swinging violently with the wind.
Ryuji wiped a droplet of sweat off of his forehead. Making his way towards the startled boy behind the counter.
"Ryuji?" Ren looked up from the kitchen sink. The last coffee mug under his sponge was being cleaned. "What are you..--" he cut himself off when finally got a good look of the blonde boy panting by the table. "What happened?" Ren asked, taking off his gloves and wiping his hands on his apron.
"Man--" Ryuji gasped, landing his hands on his knees and he tried to catch his breath. "Man I fucked up." A simple phrase all to familiar coming from him. Ryuji was the typical person that would fuck up. What made Ren worried was how truly panicked he looked. "I really did I-- I'm such an idiot! How could I be so stupid and ignorant. And-- and negligent!"
"Woah, woah, woah." Ren placed his hands on the wooden counter. "Calm down." He moved to turn behind him, grabbing a glass and retreating back to the kitchen. Returning with a full glass of water. He set it in front of him. Watching as it got grabbed with the small splashes landing on the table.
"Y/n." Ryuji stated. Eyes turning red with the tears that was beginning to well up in his eyes. "Y/n." He repeated. Struggling to find the words on how to explain the events that led up to his situation. "I fucked up." He downed the drink in an instant. "I really fucked up, man."
"Okay." Ren tried his best to calm him down. "Take a deep breath, and then tell me what happened. Slower this time."
Ryuji nodded once. "Okay-- I've been a horrible boyfriend." He sighed, running a frantic hand up and down his head. Messing up his hair.
"What else is new." An unimpressed voice came from the booth behind the two boys.
"Hey!" Ryuji nudged his foot to stomp on the floor. "I'm serious." Without even sparing Akechi another glance, he continued on speaking with Ren.
"-- and I've just been so focused on the team, I just haven't-- I haven't given her so much as more than thirty minutes of my time just for a damn conversation!" Slamming his fists on the wood in frustration.
Ren leaned his body onto his side of the table. Hand tapping on his leg. To say he was confused was a complete understatement.
Morgana was still a human in front of him. Futaba's mother was sleeping soundly in her house. Shiho was up and about. And Ryuji's track team was back together again.
So he was fighting not to scratch his head on why your relationship with Ryuji wasn't the best as it could be.
If this was Maruki's reality, and if this was the reality that Ryuji wanted, then why was there seemingly a wrench in the relationship?
Ren had no idea what to do.
"--- and then she slammed the door in front of me. And I deserved it." Hands now slapping onto his face and sliding down. "I deserve all the shit that she's giving me."
He folded his arms onto the table. Now resting his head on them and sniffling slightly as he shook. "The fuck do I do now.." he murmured.
To Ren, this is an opportunity. A way to slap him back to reality. "You know what to do." He told him sternly. Final.
Ryuji still hadn't lifted his head up.
"Go to her." He paused. "And tell her how much you mean to her."
"I have." Ryuji's voice came out muffled from his sleeve.
"No." Ren shook his head. "You were making excuses for yourself." Even he was fairly surprised by the words that came out of his mouth. "Did you give her a reason for her to not feel how she does?" When he heard the silence around him, was when he knew that reality hit Ryuji like a truck.
"I told her I was sorry." He lifted his head only slightly. "I pleaded for us to talk it out."
"And what did she say?"
"That we will."
"She needs time, Ryuji." A hand on his. "She needs time, because these feelings have been building up for a long time coming."
Both his hands flew up to grasp on Ren's. "What do I do?"
"What do you think you should do?"
He needs to show you how much he cares. How much he wants you in his life. How he's going to put you first over his career.
Ren noticed the realisation slowly forming on his face. Nodding slowly in relief.
"I gotta go." Another slam on the table as a good number of footsteps could be heard. Hurriedly rushing towards the door, shoving it open, followed by even harsher footsteps.
Ren turned to the brunette that was sitting in the booth right behind Ryuji. "Lovely contribution you had."
Akechi let out a soft chuckle. "I had nothing to say." Placing down the newspaper he was barely reading. "Do you think Maruki's power is slipping on him?"
Ren could only shrug his shoulder. "We'll see."
═══════
Your crying session was broken by the banging on your apartment door. Flicking your headphones flooding with sad music away from your ears, waiting a moment to confirm it was either coming from your door, or from the song.
Standing up, you wiped your eyes with your sleeves. Glancing at the clock as you made your way to the front door, sighing at the '02:00' blinking back at you in red.
Your brain didn't bother to speculate on who would be knocking on your door this late at night, it just needed some movement that wasn't just weeping and sobbing. Much like you did for the past two hours.
You didn't think that it would be the very boy that made you cry in the first place. You just thought that he'd go back to his own home. That he'd just go and run or something to shake off his problems.
You shut the door quickly the second you saw him outside your door. Both your wide eyes meeting each other for a split second. Your hand lingering on the handle as you heard the knocks echo through once more. Softer this time.
"Y/n." his voice came out muffled from the other side.
Your eyes remained fixated at your hand, still tight around the handle.
"Please let me in." he pleaded, forehead resting on the other side of your door. "I'm sorry. I really am. I didn't mean to neglect ya' like that. And there ain't no way in hell I'd want us to end because I had to be such a dumbass." His hand hovering over the door handle from his side. "Please." He pleaded. "Lemme make this right."
On his end, he couldn't hear the way your breaths came out ragged and shaky out of your lungs. If he didn't know any better, he would've thought that you had left entirely. Away from the door and back to your bedroom. Leaving him outside like you did just hours ago.
He wouldn't even be mad if you did-- not like he had any right to be mad in the first place-- but he'd be willing to sit outside for as long as he has to. He just wants to make it up to you. To prove to you how much you mean to him.
You caught your breath, psyching yourself up. Another hand brought up to your chest, patting it softly. Trying your best to stabilise your heart, which was beating a mile a minute.
You opened the door swiftly, hoping that the dark of the night would hide the puffiness on your face. Ryuji tumbled in head first, catching himself before he could fall. His eyes widened even more once again.
"Y/n." He muttered in disbelief. Disbelief that you were actually willing to speak to him. He stopped staring with his mouth agape when you leaned your side to the doorway with your arms folded.
"Ryuji." You mimicked back to him.
'I- I" he stuttered up a storm, unsure how to begin. "I'm sorry." He landed. "I'm really, really sorry."
You only stared at him while he was trying to find his words. You didn't say anything, you just opened your door a little bit bigger, signalling him to walk in.
He hesitated, unsure if he was even welcome in your home now that he hurt you so much. Only slowly inching his way inside when you nudged towards the living room with your head.
He followed you further inside, taking a seat on your couch. Curling in on yourself, you stared at him plainly, waiting for an explanation.
"Uhm." Ryuji took a deep breath. Making his way to the couch, not daring to sit next to you. Instead, he slowly dropped to his knees in front of you. "Listen."
You didn't expect this much pleading coming from him, but you didn't say anything yet.
"I was an idiot. I've been an idiot for months." He continued. "My head's only been full of the race, and the marathon, and the competition. And everything else except for you." He admitted guiltily. Not wanting to waste your time with meaningless excuses. "And I shoulda seen how me neglecting you was.. well affecting you." His eyes downcast.
You didn't interrupt him. Only remained listening to his explanation.
"And... and I don't care if you hate me for that. 'Cause you should, I deserve it." He couldn't find the courage to meet your eyes. Unsure if he would be met with hurt, or even worse-- hate.
"You--" the words came out choked from your throat. Clearing it before attempting to start again. "You're finally getting everything you've ever wanted." You watched as his head slowly lifted up to you. "You have your team, you have your track, you have the finals coming up soon--"
He cut you off frustrated, more so at himself. "-- I'm so fuckiin' sorry that I ignored you for my team, I shouldn't hav--"
You placed a hand in front of his face, signalling for him to shut up and listen to you. To which he obliged. "Your biggest dream was to make it. And you are." You paused for a second. "... So then why does it have to be at the cost of me?"
His eyes widened in panic, hating himself that he made him feel like that. "It-- it's not! Well-- maybe it was, but I swear I won't ever let that happen again!" Seeing how you weren't responding to him. "I love you." He said, final. The word flew out in an attempt to be calm. "I love you so damn much. And I hate that I made you feel like I never did." He dropped his head to your lap, his knees aching on the floor.
You couldn't hold in the tears any longer. Letting it flow out of your eyes as you cried as silently as you could. "You hurt me." You said with a crack of your voice.
His heart cracked along with it. "Nononono, please don't cry-- fuck, I mean it's alright if ya' do, but please don't cry 'cause of me." He said in a panic. Lifting both his hands to rub on your thighs in an attempt to soothe you. "Don't cry, beautiful, you don't deserve to cry over me."
"Damn right I don't." You sniffled, raising your sleeve to wipe on your tears.
"I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I didn't care enough to see you hurting. I'm sorry for all the stupid things I've said. I'm so fucking sorry." He murmured through the fabric of your pants, his own tears threatening to fall out.
You brought a hand down to his face, lifting it up to face you. Wiping the edge of his eye rid of his tears. "Look at me." And he did. Meeting your equally saddened eyes. "I was hurt by what you did." You told him softly. "And I love you, but if you do that again, then I don't think I can stay in this relationship when your mind clearly prioritises your track team over me." You felt his head shake in your hands.
Michael Jackson x Singer!Reader
♯ Xdinary Heroes - Dear H
Synopsis: he sees the amount of depressing songs that you've been releasing and gets ridiculously concerned that it's because of him. But you were really just an angsty teen back then with great lyricism that you couldn't let go to waste.
Genre: fluff! Angsty. Happy endiing.
Tags: implied fem reader!!! Mentions of childhood bullying and all around childhood angst (nothing in depth though!). Established relationship. Insecurity. Implications of self-harm (lyric). Any era Michael. Idk the process of releasing an album.
Wc: 2k
A/n: stream You Seem Pretty Sad for a Girl So in Love RIGHT NOW. Count how many song references you found lmao. This is just a compilation of my fav sad songs HAHAHA. This is also just me glazing.
Your new album released just a few hours ago. Already garnering huge sales of your CDs and vinyls during said time stamp.
Song after song reflected the voice of your thirteen year old self-- the one that nobody ever bothered to offer a shoulder to.
The album cover was plastered on billboards all over the state. Radio stations were already playing all twelve tracks. Almost everyone had already heard the words from your adolescence.
Almost everyone.
Michael sat on his sofa, his own signed (with kiss marks, in his favourite lipstick shade as well) gifted to him courtesy of yours truly. You sent him a personal copy, accompanied with behind-the-scene polaroids from your photoshoots.
He's been ecstatic waiting for you to come home. Staying up wayy past midnight just for you. Obviously wanting to listen to your creation alongside the creator, wanting to shower you in compliments and kisses with how talented you are. Despite you insisting that he listen to it on his own.
Especially since you wouldn't let him sit with you while you worked on the album like you always did. A few pouts and whines later ---that coursed over multiple days with how persistent he was, mind you--- he left you alone in your studio with his shoulders slumped and back bent.
Though, right now, he was worried to death. Over analysing the lyric sheet provided. Not because it was bad, hell no, nothing you make can ever be bad.
But because it was just... sad.
He skimmed the first song. 'Something's gotten into you. You don't really look at me the way you used to.' Michael swallowed thickly. This wasn't about him.. was it? It couldn't have been. He wouldn't let you feel this way.
Then came the other songs.
'I made a bloody mess in the kitchen sink.'
'Guess it's not far from the ordinary, they do say love is blind.'
'You are just a fool to keep pretendin' that you're lovin' me.'
'I haven't stopped crying.'
They were all about love and heartbreak. It couldn't have been about him. Could it? Who else would it be about? Who broke your heart this badly? These lyrics had so much emotion, it couldn't have been that much of a past event.
The more he read the more he grew nervous.
Without a second thought, he stood up from his seat and made his way to his room. Taking out the vinyl from it's sleeve, he hovered it above his vinyl player. Something that was a mix of excitement and anxiety washing over him.
Setting it down and bringing the cartridge to the grooves. He stepped back, making his way to sit on his bed. Listening to the first few seconds of static pop and crackle around the room.
He fell in love with your album within the first ten seconds.
Every track were beautiful pieces of art.
But it was so sad.
Not as if he found a problem with majority sad songs, but this was all of them. Amazingly written, with so much raw emotion, he could feel it through the melodies.
All twelve were about heartbreak, whether that was platonic or romantic, insecurity, body images, your family dynamic. All around tragic stuff.
Though he was glad that you were brave enough to share your stories.
He knew a bunch of those stories too. He was more concerned about the heartbreak aspect of your songs. He didn't think that he was doing anything wrong in the relationship that lead you to write this extreme level of angst.
What if he was?
Maybe the reason you insisted that he sit out on watching the production of this one, or the reason you insisted he listen to it on his own, was because this was your way of revenge? That you'd make him rethink his role as your boyfriend from your perspective.
What if you leave him after that?
--- oh dear, he was spiralling.
Catching himself before he could slip too far away, he sped to the bathroom and splashed himself with icy cold water. This is ridiculous, it must be. He needs to see you.
═══════
You let out the most outrageous groan as you stretched your arms out right at the entrance of your home. Kicking of the uncomfortable shoes that you've been standing on for the events that came with releasing a new album.
Breaking free from the uncomfortable rigid and stiff posture that's been burning a muscle knot on your back as you made your way to the living room. Not bothered to take off your makeup and ready to just knock out.
You turned the lights on, only to jump mid-yawn with a small gasp.
"Hey sweetheart." You huffed out a relieved laugh, smiling softly as your hand reached your chest. Now looking at the man sat on your couch. "Oh, you scared me."
Michael gave you a smile in return. "Sorry, angel." He jumped from his seat, making his way to you in two quick strides. "I just wanted to see you." He leaned closer to plant a kiss to your lips.
He could feel the tremble in his hands as he hesitantly moved it down to your hips. Something you fortunately didn't catch on.
Pulling away, he brought your head to his chest. Holding it impossibly closer. "Wanted to congratulate you on your album." He buried his face to your shoulder.
Your face lit up, suddenly rid of any exhaustion. “Did u like it??”
“Of course I liked it." He murmurs, placing a kiss on your neck. "All of your songs were absolutely beautiful and I’m so proud of you..." Dragging his hands to trace along your jaw.
His head shook with your shoulder as you let out a small laugh. "Aw, thank you." Bringing your hand up to scratch the back of his neck. Pulling away from the hug and now manoeuvring your hand to hold his cheek. It only took a second for you to pause.
“I can sense a ‘but’ in there somewhere.” You said suspiciously, eyebrows now knitted together.
He shook his head almost too quickly. "Why would you think that, baby?" Trying to force a smile. Trying to shove the insecurity to the back of his mind.
"Sweetheart, you look like you're about to throw up."
He shook his head again.
"What's wrong with the album, Michael?" You asked softly.
"You know that you can talk to me about anything, right? I'll never be mad at you, angel." He looked back at you, now holding your hand in his.
You nodded in even more confusion. "What's going on?" Your heart was dropping bit by bit. So incredibly worried.
"Your songs.." he trailed off, moving his head to avoid your eyes. ".. they're beautiful.."
"..but?"
"But I can't help but wonder what happened to make you write songs so sad." He finally stated.
Your mouth was opening bit by bit in disbelief. Not moving your gaze from him.
"Especially the one's about.. y'know, relationships and all'at. And about how sad you were because of 'em." He tapped his fingers on his upper thigh. "And I-- I trust that you'd tell me if I were to do anything to you."
You attempted to open your mouth, trying to get a word out.
“Butmyheadisfullofpoisonandmymindisfullofdoubtsigottoxinsinmybloodstreamyoutriedhardtosuckthemoutanditfeelslike—-“ he cuts himself off with a shake of his head, catching his breath. "I just.. want you to know that I'm here for you, y'know? And if you think I'm breakin' your heart then I want you to tell me." He finally gained the courage to look you in the eyes. "And-- you didn't want me to be there when you made them, did you not want me to see it? And... and get mad or somethin'?"
And if your eyes weren't soft already, it softened even more. Melting to his gaze. Your heart swelling up in some sort of... cuteness aggression?
"Fuck, you're so cute." You whispered under your breath.
"What?"
"Nothing--" you stepped back a bit, taking your time to think for a while. "Okayokayokay--" your brought your hands down to his arms, rubbing up and down soothingly. "I promise you, the songs weren't about our relationship."
His eyes threatened to light up. Before he hesitate once again.
"Okay--" you stepped back. "Come with me for a second." Your lips twitched upwards, threatening to let out a smile.
He recites more lyrics as the both of you make your way upstairs. "Is she all that you want Is she all that you need. I love you more than anything Y/n, you know that." He was talking to you, yet his eyes were elsewhere. Disassociating while you pulled him upstairs by his wrist.
The both of you were now in your room. He stood awkwardly in the middle of it while you dug through your piles of notebooks and clothes.
"You can talk about anything, though. Especially to me. I'd never judge you, ever." His brows furrowed in frustration at himself. Mad that he didn't let you feel as loved as he thought you were.
You grabbed his hands, snapping him out of his imagination. To which you dropped a notebook in his hands.
His gaze dropped down to it; two giant illustrated kittens placed on the front. Neon purple as the background behind them. The most popular glittery, scented notebook from when you were a child.
"I got it for my twelfth birthday." You smiled, jumping on your bed stomach first, groaning loudly as you felt the air bubbles in your joints pop. Sighing loudly as they all disappeared.
He opened the notebook, flipping through the pages while he mindlessly follows you to your bed.
Pages upon pages of crossed out lines, messy penmanship, and what he believed to be tear stains. Along with few pages of hand-drawn music sheets. Notes with messy lines and horribly drawn treble clefs.
"Those songs you heard." You started, "I wrote them years ago, when I was like.. thirteen." You flopped to your stomach, placing both hands to your chin and resting your head on your palms.
"Thirteen..." he murmured in shock, ".. you were already such a lyrical genius by thirteen." He showed the softest grin.
"Duh." Your grin was wide. "But I was also a depressed preteen with so many things going on." You explained. "Bullying, my crush didn't like me-- that bastard-- the obvious body image problem that literally every kid had. Like anything a kid in middle school could go through." You laughed. "And.. the only reason why I didn't want you there was because I didn't want you to hear the cringe bullshit I wrote before present me polished them."
Though, he didn't find it funny.
"You went through all of this." Grabbing the cover of the notebook with his thumb, and flipped through all of the pages. Randomly landing on the words that he recognised to be the fifth track.
"I have twenty more of those notebooks." You smirked. "So I have the next twenty years of my career all set."
"Twenty more books about how you were horribly treated?" He looked at you now, devastated by the topics you had talked about at such a young age.
"Well-- " you squinted. "I mean, yeah." You sighed out. "I had maybe three notebooks a year. Being a teenager was the worst." You groaned. "I think I zoomed through ten at sixteen." The both of you laughed together. Though, his didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Was it really that bad?" He set the notebook down. Now bringing a hand to rest against your own.
"Oh it was the absolute worst!" You started to chuckle once again, though it quieted down when you noticed how he didn't match. "Hey." You called out. "You should see the one I had last year. Now that one's all about you."
He whipped his body to face you completely. "Is it now?" He asked breathlessly.
"Yeah, and you cannot even begin to believe the amount of corny shit I wrote in that thing."
He dropped his head down to the mattress. "Like what?" Mood now flipped completely.
"Oh you know," you leaned in closer. "The typical lovey dovey shit."
You both laughed once again.
"I still mean it though." His voice was rid of any of the previous worries. "I'm here for you. No matter what it is, I'd never make you feel like.. whoever those songs were about."
Michael Jackson x Alt!Reader
♯ Green Day - Black Eyeliner
Synopsis: Michael watches you apply your eyeliner to your waterline in fear for the safety of your eyeballs.
Genre: fluff! Very short blurb!!!!!!
Tags: my method of eyeliner application. A lot of eyes. Mentions of eye damage; eye poking, eyeliner inside da eye. Kissing.
Wc: 583
A/n: up 2 u what era but this is before he got his eyeliner tattooed. I'm ngl I kinda hate this but it's a creative dump.
You sat by your vanity table, fingers pulling your lower eyelid down. Staring intently at your own reflection. Your eyes welling up with tears immediately as your body's instinct.
Behind you, Michael was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching you through the gaps of his fingers. Cringing when he saw you bring a crumpled up tissue to swipe over the water forming from your tear ducts.
You nearly missed the way he hissed back into the palms of his hand when you brought the sharp, black pencil to the fleshy line. You huffed out in amusement. "Stop looking if you're so scared!" A grin tugging on your lips.
"'m not scared!" He retaliated, though the way his shoulders tensed when the sharp bit of that pencil teetered dangerously close to your iris proved him otherwise. "You gotta be careful not to poke yourself, sweetheart."
You lowered your hand, turning your body to face him, the grin now wide on your face. "You've seen me do this a thousand times already." This conversation had happened a thousand times before as well. "I know what I'm doing, I've been doing this since I was a baby."
He brought his hands down as well, smoothing the fabric on his knees. "I just get so worried whenever you bring a pencil up to your eye."
You continued to work on your other eye. "Yours was literally heavier than mine yesterday." You fought the urge to roll them, knowing that it would ruin how concentrated you were.
"That's 'cause my stylist did it for me." He started to stand up, inching closer to you. "I can't imagine doing all that by myself."
"If you don't start, then you'll never be able to do it." You mumbled through your already slightly agape mouth. Swiftly adding more black to each eye.
"Baby." He called out, "the last time I used eyeliner, the whites of 'em went black."
The sudden throwback caught you off guard, letting out a laugh. He frowned, setting his hands on your shoulders and bending down to the point that his forehead met the crook of your neck. "Do you know how scared I was that I would get some kinda eye infection?" His head now moving to bring his lips down.
"I don't want your pretty eyes to get all damaged now." He muttered sweetly, turning his head to know press his cheek to your shoulder. You stared at him through the reflection. Heart swelling up with how concerned he was.
"How 'bout you stop watching me do this, then?" You met his gaze through the mirror. Makeup now all finished.
Michael slides his hands down to your forearms. Letting out a hum. "Nah." Pressing a kiss to your cheek. "You're too cute when you're focused." He gave you another kiss. "Also... you don't even wash 'em out properly."
"Okay now--" you spun on your chair. "I'm saving product!" Throwing your hands out to defend yourself. "And it looks so, so, so much better when I leave it overnight."
"Mhm." He started trailing kisses up your temple, to your forehead. "It does look good." He agreed, pulling away and eyeing your finished look with pure adoration. It's the same look that you've put on every day for the past decade or so, but it seems to astonish him all the same.
"Maybe I'll have to do it your way then." Another kiss, now to your neck. "Or maybe you should do mine for me."
taglist!
I'm not even lying, I wrote this with paranoia that MJ's ghost is looking over my shoulder.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꒰ঌ ♡ ໒꒱ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ michael jackson x spouse! reader
summary 𖹭 a late-night grocery run turns mildly catastrophic when michael gets recognised in the produce section. while security suffers in the background and the crowd outside keeps growing, his spouse is far more concerned with determining which pasta sauce has the best volume-to-price ratio. somehow, arguing over tomato percentages ends up calming michael down more than anything else could.
content 𖹭 2.05k words, married! michael jackson, gn! reader, domestic fluff, grocery store date, humour, paparazzi, mildly overwhelmed michael, famous people trying to be normal, i need more fluff for my man
author's note 𖹭 guys that bio-pic has really taken over my life, i need to get a job. I HAVEN'T HAD A CRUSH ON MICHAEL JACKSON SINCE I WAS 5 WHY DID IT HAVE TO RELIVE IT NOW. I HAVE STUFF TO DO WHYYYY.
every once in a while, you insist on grocery shopping yourselves. is it practical? fuck no. but there was an incident in 1999 where you watched an assistant confidently purchase twelve avocados that were somehow simultaneously rock hard, bruised, and expired. you had stared at the bag in silent anguish before declaring, “i refuse to become so far up my own ass that i forget how to pick fruit.” from that point onward, despite constant protests from security, management, and anyone else logistically responsible for your safety, you and michael occasionally snuck out to buy groceries late at night. adorned in hoodies, baseball caps, sunglasses at objectively unreasonable hours, face masks — basically anything that looked like it would hide your identities when in reality it just made the two of you look significantly more suspicious. note to self, next time, consider trying the clark kent glasses approach instead.
nonetheless, usually it worked.
the important word is usually.
as tonight, it did not.
you stand in the pasta aisle, skin pale beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, holding two jars of marinara up at eye level with the unwavering concentration of a surgeon evaluating donor organs. the glass feels cool against your fingertips as you tilt each bottle slightly, watching the sauce slide sluggishly against the sides. one boasts a higher tomato percentage and fewer preservatives, its deep red colour rich and velvety beneath the artificial supermarket lighting. the other is cheaper by nearly two dollars, though its thinner consistency and suspiciously orange undertones suggest a much lower quality. you narrow your eyes at the ingredients list, lips pursed in thought. too much water. too much sugar. not enough garlic.
i mean what even is ‘arrabiata’ anyway…?
around you, the supermarket hums quietly. refrigerators buzz, the sound reverberating against the tiled floors, lights flicker faintly overhead, and somewhere nearby a trolley with a most definitely broken wheel squeaks with irritating persistence. the scent of bakery bread and industrial floor cleaner mixes together strangely in the cold air. somewhere in the distance, a small commotion begins to stir near the front entrance of the store, voices rising faintly above the mechanical drone of refrigerators and rattling carts, but you barely register it. right now, your full attention is devoted entirely to determining which pasta sauce offers the most financially efficient ratio of authenticity to price.
then suddenly one of your security guards speed walks past the aisle looking visibly stressed. immediately after, another one. you glance up briefly. “…hm.”
from somewhere in the distance you hear it: “oh my god, that’s michael jackson.”
ah. there it is.
you sigh lightly to yourself and continue examining labels. honestly, this is why you told him not to wear those sunglasses.
“michael, nobody wears massive black aviators inside a grocery store at eleven o’clock at night unless they are either famous or actively shoplifting.”
“they complete the outfit.”
“you’re going to get mobbed or arrested.”
“that’s mean.”
five minutes later, you hear the unmistakable squeak of your husband’s rubber soles against the linoleum floor before michael appears at the end of the aisle, moving with the cautious restraint of somebody trying very hard not to attract attention while already knowing it is far too late for that. the brim of his baseball cap sits low over the dark curls spilling out beneath it, oversized sunglasses still stubbornly fixed across his face, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie as though he could physically fold himself smaller against the growing awareness around him. his expression is carefully composed, deliberately neutral, though you can still recognise the faint tension lingering beneath it immediately; the slight stiffness in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly whenever too many strangers begin looking at him all at once. behind him, somewhere near the frozen foods section, the ordinary rhythm of the supermarket has started mutating into something far more discordant: trolley wheels screeching abruptly to a stop, hurried whispers multiplying into overlapping voices, the unmistakable plague of public recognition spreading from person to person with an incomprehensible speed. like dominos falling one after another, somebody gasps, “oh my god, that’s him,” followed almost instantly by another voice insisting they shouldn’t stare while very obviously continuing to do exactly that.
you don’t even look up immediately.
“hi, love,” you say absently, still studying the labels with furrowed concentration. “which one do you think gives you more sauce per dollar without sacrificing its integrity?”
michael blinks behind his sunglasses.
“…what?”
you hold up two jars of pasta sauce.
“this one’s nearly twenty percent more expensive per ounce,” you explain, squinting at the sticker, “but it actually lists real tomatoes first. the other one is basically tomato-flavoured water. i’m trying to determine whether the extra dollar ish justifies purchasing it over the one with the questionable tomato origins.”
for a second he just stares at you. then he visibly exhales, the tight line of his shoulders softening slightly as his attention shifts away from the growing noise near the front of the store and toward the jars still balanced carefully in your hands.
“baby,” he says finally, somewhere between the worlds of amused and bewildered, “we can afford the extra dollar.”
you look up at him like he’s fundamentally misunderstood the point.
“that’s not the issue,” you say immediately. “it’s the principle of the thing. if we keep letting them get away with this, eventually we’re all going to end up eating ‘tomato sauce…?’ yes, the question mark comes with the jar.”
you hold up the cheaper bottle, thrusting the thing toward michael with the indignation of a prosecutor presenting exhibit A.
“like this one has corn syrup in it.”
michael leans in, peering at the tiny print. “…is that bad?”
you stare at him.
for a single beat you are genuinely speechless.
“…michael.”
“what?” he asks, all wide eyed in innocence.
“it’s pasta sauce.”
“yes?”
“why is there corn syrup in pasta sauce?”
he glances back at the sticker again with a sincere, thoughtful expression, as if the ingredients list might suddenly rearrange itself into something reasonable. “…to make it sweeter?”
“that is not the point,” you say, voice climbing slightly with the full weight of your emotional investment. “if i wanted sweet tomato sludge, i’d just go buy ketchup.”
michael’s shoulders begin to shake beneath the hoodie. he presses his lips together in an attempt to prevent its escape, but the laughter is already winning, spilling out in soft, helpless bursts that make his comically large aviator glasses slide down the bridge of his nose. the growing chaos surrounding the rest of the store—the rising voices, the hurried footsteps of security—fades even further into the background. right now the only crisis in the universe is the culinary crime happening in your hand, and michael is looking at you like you are the most fascinating, unicorn-esque thing he has ever seen.
“…maybe they’re balancing acidity,” he offers, clearly fighting for composure.
you look at him in outright betrayal, eyes wide with theatrical horror.
“oh my god,” you whisper, “not you defending big pasta.”
and that does it. michael’s quiet laughter breaks fully into something warm and unguarded, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him duck his head slightly under his hat. he reaches out and gently lowers the offending jar in your hand, as if removing the evidence of the crime.
“you’re being ridiculous,” he says softly, though the grin still lingering across his face ruins any possibility of genuine criticism.
“it’s called having standards,” you reply, tilting your head with mock severity. “you should try it sometime.”
michael’s quiet merriment breaks into another laugh as he dabs at the corner of his eye, drying an unapologetic, stray tear. his loafers click audibly against the linoleum as he shifts his weight to shield you from the surrounding aisle. “standards,” he repeats, letting the word settle on his toungue as if he were tasting it. “i married you, baby. i’m pretty sure that fulfills my excellence quota for at least the next decade.”
the words hit you like warm honey poured straight into your chest. heat floods your face so fast you actually feel your ears burn. you open your mouth, close it again, suddenly unable to find a single clever comeback while your heart does an embarrassing little flip behind the prison bars of your ribs. he’s looking at you with that half-smile — the one that made the entire world fall in love with him while somehow making your own world feel utterly, completely irrelevant. and all you can think is how unfairly charming he is even in a hoodie and baseball cap, standing mildly panicked in the middle of a damn grocery store.
flustered beyond recovery, you forcefully blurt out, “just choose something already or we’ll be here all night.”
“alright, alright,” michael says through lingering chuckles, reaching for another jar from the shelf with exaggerated seriousness. he turns it slowly in his hands, scanning the marker, suddenly becoming emotionally invested in the outcome too. then, triumphantly: “…this one has basil.”
you stare at him flatly.
“all pasta sauce has basil.”
“but this one says imported basil,” he counters, tapping the word with a long finger.
you narrow your eyes immediately. “propaganda.”
“it sounds fancy.”
“it SOUNDS like a large carbon footprint.”
his smirk widens, brows raising upwards in entertainment as he studies the ingredients again. “…maybe the basil travelled a long way.”
a horrible strangled noise escapes you, a mix of a laugh and genuine despair. “baby, please be serious.”
“i am serious,” he insists, though the tickled look on his face suggests otherwise.
“no, because now i’m imagining little passport stamps for herbs,” you mutter, pressing a hand to your forehead.
beyond the aisle, the commotion continues swelling into something increasingly unmanageable — whispers multiplying into growing shouts at a volume that absolutely should not exist at eleven o’clock at night, all held back hysterically by a team of large, burly security guards frantically blocking the entrance to the pasta aisle. every few seconds the noise threatens to pull michael back into that familiar guardedness the world is constantly demanding from him, breath tightening beneath the careful disguise he’d donned on. but somehow, every single time it begins creeping back in, you pull him straight out of it again with absurdly passionate debates about fraudulent tomatoes and whatever else you'd suddenly become enthralled about. and so he keeps looking at you, the chaos surrounding him fading into little more than distant static compared to whatever thing you’re saying next.
you shake your head, fighting your own smile as you take the jar from his hands and set it firmly back on the shelf. “we’re getting the one without corn syrup and without basil that needed a visa. end of discussion.”
“yes, ma’am,” michael murmurs, lips still curved as he nudges the cart forward with his hip. his hand finds yours on the handle, warm and steady.
“oh my god.”
“what?”
“michael.”
“what?”
you point toward the shelf ahead in genuine disbelief.
“this pasta is six dollars.”
he leans slightly closer to inspect the price.
“…that’s insane.”
“who are they trying to impress with noodles?”
michael laughs again, low and quiet, the sound entirely his own. a moment later one of the security guards appears at the end of the aisle, face flushed and exhausted from dealing with the hordes of teenage girls and ogling mothers pressing against his barricade. why so many people decided to go grocery shopping past midnight? we shall never know.
“sir,” he says with a noticeable tinge of desperation, “we should probably head out soon.”
michael gives him a small, polite nod. you, however, are still glaring at the shelf like it’s insulted your entire bloodline. “six dollars. for noodles. this country is insane.”
michael slips his fingers between yours beneath the cart handle. for a beat the noise of the crowd recedes. the two of you stay there — him in his ridiculous gargantuan sunglasses, you still clutching the decently (still fairly overexpensive) priced jar — before he leans down and presses a brief kiss to your temple.
“next time,” he says against your hair, voice soft with amusement, “we’re definitely getting the corn syrup, imported basil one. i'll prove to you it's actually good.”
you huff a laugh, taking on his challenge. “deal.”
author's note 𖹭 WHOO THIS WAS WAY LONGER THAN I ANTICIPATED IT BEING, it started off as a little "imagine if michael and you went grocery shopping" and somehow turned into this. i mean its not that long way but its way longer than a drabble should be. anyway ENJOY!
