Summary: Cozy routine you’ve adopted with your boyfriend.
CW: Fluff. NOT EDITED! Reader is LOVESICK!! LOVES HER MAN. Maybe ooc Spencer. Im trying to to write him as accurate as i can. (First time writing a kissing scene sorry if it sucks)
The first rays of morning light filtered through the window, warming the blankets as you blinked awake. Rubbing the blur from your eyes, you turn over and squint at the clock at Spencer’s bedside table.
It blinked, 5:30 AM, in blocky red letters. Looking closer your eyes blearily find your boyfriend of 6 months, Spencer Reid. He’s laid on his back, His curls unruly against his pillowcase. an arm thrown over his stomach, as his breaths softly puff into the air.
Slowly you shuffle from beneath the sheets and comforter, trying your best to make as little noise as possible. Once free, you stalk over to his side of the bed. A traitorous panel creaks under your barefoot. You wince as he shuffles further into the bed. Waiting until he settled once more, you reached the alarm. With a few soft clicks Spence’s usual alarm for 6:00 am was canceled.
Minding the creaky floor, you shuffle into the bathroom. Getting ready for the day. After finishing your shower, choosing your outfit, brushing your teeth, and finishing your skin care routine it was 6:10. You sighed in relief. Spencer had been too tired last night to set a second alarm.
Smiling at your small victory, you shut the door softly, before releasing the handle. Putting the kettle on and turning on the stove, you turn towards your other task. Assembling lunch. After trial and error, you found a solid meal to keep your boyfriend healthy and fed.
You split your time between heating up the leftover soup, and beginning to assemble Reid’s sandwich. You had learned pretty quickly that making Spencer a sandwich the “normal” way was a waste of time.
The first time you had packed one, he’d thanked you, eaten it, and insisted everything was fine. But you’d notice. You always did. The lettuce was pushed to the side, tomatoes untouched, and little rips of soggy bread left out.
While he never complained, he’d also never looked particularly happy to eat it. So, you adapted. Every morning, as if you were a professional food scientist, you tried something new. Concocted a new formula to keep the food just as he liked it. Eventually you made what you’d jokingly called your “Make-it-your-own” sandwich.
The bread went into one sandwich bag, the turkey and provolone into another. Lettuce into a small container, tomatoes into their own small tub to keep them and their moisture away from everything else.
The strawberries’ tops cut off and washed along with blueberries, before being put into their own small section. Two small condiment packets of mayo and one of mustard. You’d wrapped the ice pack in paper towels before placing all your cold items into the small insulated box.
Finally you added your finishing touch, a small container of grape jello. Prepackaged because, apparently no matter how hard you tried, you’d never beat the original recipe.
With the sandwich done, soup steaming, and thermos prepped and ready. You ladled the soup into the thermos. It was slightly dented, but you knew Spencer would never trade it for the world. These little things and small work around others would find burdensome filled you with purpose.
Every day you continued to learn, and every time you fell in love as if putting pieces into a puzzle, one little bit of information at a time.
Tightening the lid to the thermos, you moved the kettle before it started to scream, the bubbling clue enough that it was finished. You grabbed his favorite mug, chipped on the lip, but his all the same. Pouring the liquid you allowed it to steep as you began to clean up.
Giving the tea enough time to bloom, the scent slowly unfurls throughout the apartment. Bergamot rises and swirled with the deep aroma of black tea leaves. Lavender a soft whisper, and beneath it all, the cedar of your shelves lining your apartment.
You focused on the table first. The case files he had been going over scattered around the small rounded surface. You gathered them up, careful to keep them coordinated to his notes. Grabbing both his lunch and the corrected and fixed files, you put them into his messenger bag sitting next to the door.
Milo, your Angora ferret, has decided that today’s mission is to jump around your feet as you begin taking care of cleaning up around. You only got to finish his litter box before you checked the time. Swiping the wriggling noodle of fluff up, you set him into a box filled with his favorite toys. It would keep him entertained for awhile, you smiled at Milo. You continued your journey, carrying the mug of tea into the bedroom.
Spencer had shifted while you were busy. Curling in on himself away from the sunlight. An arm out and reaching into where you had laid. Without a doubt the warmth had left, however it was still a cute sight to see.
A fond smile tugged at your lips. Setting the steaming tea carefully on the bedside table, you sat on the edge of the mattress. Spencer didn’t stir.
Whispering his name and when answered with nothing, you smiled. Suppressing a laugh, you leaned down. Pressing a gentle kiss against his forehead. Then against his temple. Then his cheek. The tip of his nose. His jaw. The last one got his eyes to scrunch and his jaw to clench. The tic in it announced his reluctance to wake up.
“Wake up honey,” you whispered. He sighed, a groan escaping him. He opened one bleary eye to look up at you. leaning down to plant a kiss to his closed one. His smile that greeted you was so sweet. It made you wanna punch him. But instead you stroked the darkness beneath his hazel eyes. They were your favorite even if they were closed.
Even if you knew it wasn't normal, or romantic, you couldn’t help yourself. Dipping your fingers into the corners of Spencer’s eyes, you swipe the crust and whispered a small, “eye boogies.”
which caused him to release a soft startled chuckle and softly push your arms away. He turned his head with a moan of, “Rheum.”
You smiled, you could listen to his voice after he woke up for hours. It didn’t matter what the subject was. You were always entranced. It was rough, a little scratchy. You began to settle back into the bed to stare at him, the alarm blinking 7:30. Your smile faded into a frown and you leaned into him. After a few moments of silence. Spencer’s arm suddenly snatched you and with a startled shriek you were violently pulled into his chest.
You groaned as you looked at his smug smirk and his still closed eyes.
“Spence.” You petulantly sighed. He had an eye open a moment ago. When had he closed it?
“I have to go. I wanna kiss before I leave” As much as you hated to admit it, you did have to leave in ten minutes if you wanted to be on time, and you haven’t even looked at traffic yet.
For a moment, silence. Then he opened his eyes and simply stared at you, still half asleep, one arm wrapped securely around his waist. “One kiss?” He asked.
”one kiss.” You confirmed. You smiled and leaned in. The second you did, his grip tightened. Something dangerous, mischievous flashed across his face. “Spencer—“
before you could even finish, he buried his face against your neck and blew a loud raspberry. You shrieked his name.
after wrestling free (he let you go) you started pressing sloppy, spit-slicked kisses all over his face, in retaliation. Laugh filled breaths intermingling. Shoulders shaking as you exact your revenge on the man who you adore but betrayed you just a moment prior.
Even when he let you go, dragging over his face dramatically, he couldn’t wipe the smile from his lips.
Before you could run even more late you leaned in. Lips slotting against his.
Spencer smiled into the kiss. A soft hum escaping and vibrating gently against your lips. There was something genuinely unfair about how quickly he could make you forget about everything as soon as your lips connected.
You felt his hand slide up your arm, gripping softly against your skin as it made its way to rest on your shoulder. He tilted his head slightly, chasing your lips as you started to pull away. You planted your hands against his jaw, and gave him a quick peck.
While his big hazel eyes looked so sad and wet from sleep, you couldn’t help but give him a few more while stroking his jaw. “I gotta go honey” you murmured into the last kiss before leaving his warmth. The smell of him clinging to your nose.
You wished you could bottle the smell and turn it into a candle. You love him. As you left the bedroom, you heard a sleepy, “Drive safe”
You signed ‘I love you’
and his tired face lit up.
“You’ve been practicing,” his voice chased you as you went to the door. Wistfully you looked back, wishing you could spend more time with Spencer and Milo, who currently jumping in his basket, and would without a doubt forget your existence when Spencer got up to start the day.
You wished you could stay, but work called. Grabbing your tote bag, filled with case files, PPE, and an assortment of necessities for your job at the forensics lab. You slung it over your shoulder before, stuffing your keys into your pocket.
Today would be a good day, because you got a cute man and a cute moment to replay over and over again. Playing behind your eyelids when they closed, and spinning in your head as you worked. You’re excited to see him after work. To get all of his attention and see his reaction to his favorite treat you deed to today’s lunch. You sure do love your boyfriend.
Summary: you go on a date with Spencer, but he forgets about dinner. We also learn more about reader :) there hopefully will be a part three. I was always planning to make this a series.
Wc: 1507
CW: no edits :(, fluffy, a part where Spencer lowkey runs away. A little ooc Spencer (he forgets dinner), Bold for text messages, Angola ferret named Milo. smarty pants reader!!! Early-mid seasons. (Also I fleshed out the reader a little more sorry if it sounds a lil different than pt 1)
The next afternoon, you had arrived at the café early. Not because you were eager. A small but fascinating library resided beside the date spot. One where you had bought a fascinating book all about Palynology!
So in casual you fashion, you came early to smooth some nerves by doing your favorite activity. Learning, and upon closer examination of the layout, you had found a rather cozy spot to reside in. (one coincidentally close to Spencer's location from the day you had asked him out)
For the next fifteen minutes, you, a small worn journal, a set of highlighters, assorted colors of pens, and sticky notes we’re your best friend. Anything you were curious about was jotted down, whether for further research or out of fascination.
You had already began to annotate the book at home, various printed papers of academic research papers and notes. Each attached to a corresponding paragraph with a small heart, star, or smiley face.
You were currently halfway through annotating a page about pollen morphology when the bell above the door chimed. The little twinkle melodic within the mumble of people talking through the room.
Looking up to see Spencer standing in the doorway. A dark green cardigan sliding off his shoulders. A brown messenger bag, slung over his shoulders. His hair looked just as soft and uncooperative as yesterday, a small section falling into his eyes as he scanned the room.
There was a nervousness to him that made your heart squeeze in your chest. One hand adjusting his sleeve, shifting his weight slightly as he looked around
Then he spotted you and smiled. You weren’t prepared. It was so warm, and made your hands shake and sweat. The feeling of nervousness that was washed away by task-oriented concentration was once again instilled within you as you watched him walk closer.
Each step is like a fever dream. By the time he had reached your table, you were pretending to be very deeply invested into the book about pollen, and not how lethally handsome he was for your date.
”Hi.” The smile in his voice was glaringly obvious. You glanced up as he at down across from you. For a second neither of you spoke. Then his eyes zeroed on your textbook.
“What is that?” He asked curiously.
“A textbook” you stated, smoothing your palms on the knit of your sweater.
“I gathered, what is it about?” He said more directly, with a hint of sarcasm. The smile tugged at the edges of your lips, his annoyed face was as handsome as his smile.
“Palynology, its the—“ you began as you watched him carefully. You didnt want to be boring on your first date.
”—Study of pollen and spores. I know,” he said, as if it wasn’t a niche fact that you stumbled upon at the book store a few days ago.
But instead of annoyance, you could only feel the spark of excitement beginning to burn within your cheeks. “You know what it is?” You hoped you sounded more calm than you felt.
”A little.” He said casually. and your entire face lit up.
The conversation after that flowed easier. Well easier than yesterday. Your palms were no longer sweaty, just moving in and out of your peripherals as you began gesturing around as you word-vomited the exciting information you had learned.
That mostly one sided conversation somehow brought you to explaining about forensic palynology. It’s uses and little facts you learned. Crime scenes, evidence, and then came the dreaded question.
”what do you do? Like-“ he paused searching. “-as a job.”
“..hmm….. i work in forensics.” You said, wincing slightly at the vagueness.
The answer sat between you, deliberately vague, and you hoped and prayed he wouldn’t be able to see into that. But from the sharpness of his eyes you could tell he probably could tell.
Your eyes flitted around him instead, the pressure of keeping eye contact turned your stomach sour. Towards the window, then a cabinet. A nervous habit you never could break.
”interesting.” He said easily.
“Yep.” You nodded quickly.
His lack of conversation made you feel analyzed, like he was reading into every single reaction or lack there of you were offering.
”So what made you so interested in palynology?” The relief was almost instantaneous. The speed in which you brightened was almost comical.
“Okay, so the thing about pollen is—“ you began rambling, not noticing how Spencer smiled into his coffee.
-
Hours somehow passed. Neither of you had noticed a the minutes ticked away. Well your journal noticed, now filled with many, many, new facts.
Conversation drifted, from work, to hobbies, to likes and dislikes, to book, to technology. This was the first and only strong difference of opinion you had all day.
”You dislike technology?” you stared at him. Technology was the only reason you were able to work.
Spencer nodded like he wasn’t more serious and sure about anything in his life. Strong affirmative on the whole, hating technology thing.
“It isn’t as reliable as books.” He stated plainly.
“Okay, true,” you said, pointing at him lazily. “But a mas spec was and is a very useful if not necessary for forensics”
Spencer paused before narrowing his eyes slightly.
You folded your lips guiltily, as if caught red handed. You winced as the subtle sharpness returned to his eyes.
“If ‘mas spec’ is what i think it is, what are you doing using a mass spectrometer?” Her questioned, a neat eyebrow raising.
The answer that slipped out was embarrassing, “Mass spec things.” As if you couldn’t make it worse. You just shrugged helplessly as if it was something you heard off the street and not a piece of fine machinery you used and watched over people using.
His questioning expression only deepened.
“Hah.. haha. Did you know its been five hours since the date started.” You laughed nervously. The fact spilled out before you could rein it in. Your finger pointing to the clock perched on the counter top. as if checking if the statement were true.
his eyes widened as if he forgot something important.
”Oh.”
you frowned at his tone. That oh felt very concerning.
“Oh?” You repeated gently, like it would break a really, really good dream.
Spencer immediately checked his watch. Then the clock. Back to the watch.
“I forgot something— i—I have to go.” He stood, moving awkwardly and swiftly from around his chair
He watched as your expression had lost its glow, the brightness and flush leaving your cheeks as dejection settled in. That and how you all of a sudden became very interested in organizing the papers spread out on the table from your rant earlier.
“I—“ you cleared your throat. “I should let you go then.” Something softened in his expression
”Yeah..” even with that confirmation he isn’t move. Stayed for a second to watch you collect your notes. Finally Spencer nodded and turned toward the door.
The bell twinkled again, but this time it was as he disappeared outside. You huffed a sigh into the air. At least you didn’t accidentally disclose any confidential information.
Another thirty minutes and you probably would’ve started talking about laboratory procedures… Or evidence processing.
The door opened again.
You jumped and snapped your head up, just to watch as Spencer walked back into the café with hurried steps. His cheeks flushed and hair a little more tousled than before.
”i forgot something..” he breathed. before you could even overthink, he pulled out his phone and turned it toward you.
”i forgot to ask for your number.” He was serious. The knots that twisted themselves into your stomach loosened. A sigh escaping you as you smiled again.
You reached over and typed it into the phone, and texted yourself, waiting until the familiar jingle rattled from your own device as confimation. Simple. Easy.
When he glanced down at your contact, he smiled again.
”Good. Thank you” he said before he hurried out the door.
Even if he wasn’t as perfect as you expected, somehow that human made him even more attractive.
-
Later when you got home, changed clothes, cooked something small, and set the textbook on your table, your phone buzzed. a text flashing across the open screen.
it was from Spencer.
Dr Reid
I made it
You smiled, of course his first text was formal.
I was only forty-three minutes late to a team dinner.
You laughed.
I have been informed that it’s apparently my personal record
I was also inclined to ask if you were interested in a second date. There is a meuseum exhibit opening this week end.
There was pause before he texted again. for someone who hated technology he sure texts a lot. (You still couldn’t believe he was interested in you.
You strike me as someone who reads every informational plaque
You stared at it before giggling. The noise causing a small scampering ferret, your baby Milo to come running onto your lap. Your fingers rested in his long fur before you started typing back.
You
Thats the nicest thing anyone has ever said or noticed about me.
Dr Reid
Good. It was intended to be a compliment.
And somehow, with a five-hour date, endless talking, and the stack of notes you’d taken while talking to him… he wanted another date. That idea made you smile into your wiggling noodle of a son.
Summary: For the past few weeks you’ve seen a cute man at the same time and cafe. You’ve finally gotten the courage to ask him out, with a note that gives Spencer Reid to choice but to say yes.
Spencer Reid x Awkward!Reader
(This is my first time writing for Reid and posting on tumblr in general (PLS BE NICE EVEN IF ITS A LIE) be warned reader stumbles a lot meaning a lot of “word-“ or “wor-“ (This work is not AI and i dont consent running it through AI)
WC:1k-ish words
Warnings: Fluff, Awkward reader, A lot of stuttering, open ending sentences, not edited (sorry!), lowkey self insert, This is a oneshot but will be the beginning of BAU!reader >:)
(Found all my dividers, png, pictures, ect on Pinterest creds to creator. (If you are the creator and want me to not use them comment and i will change or take it down when i see it!!!))
The Café was warm, the sounds of the machines buzzing lowly. Fairy lights twinkled across the walls. The smell of roasted coffee beans and cinnamon, warm and comforting in a way that made it easy to linger.
You had been lingering a lot lately. Well ever since you started to notice him.
He always sat in the same small corner table near a window, long legs tucked almost awkwardly under it. A book always open and wither on the table or in a palm. A mug he barely touched rest on the table. A careful finger dragging down the page gracefully, almost in reverance.
His lips moving in a mumble as he absorbed the words on a page like a sponge, Like he couldn’t help himself. Most of the time he flipped the pages far too fast for it to be normal.
Many times you reminded yourself not too stare, but who were you kidding you were totally staring.
He was a total looker and, unfortunately for you, totally your type.
It first it was nothing, just a flicker of movement that you barely registered, a stranger sitting by the window s you ordered your usual fruity drink. Then it became something you noticed in your peripherals, the soft blur of someone tall, usually hunched over a book.
After that you looked, really looked, and realized it was always the same man. His unruly hair became recognizable. Sometimes he wore cardigans, other it was knitted sweaters. Normally it was they were muted colors. One thing that wasn’t muted were his socks. Each day they were mismatched, whether in pattern or color, sometimes both.
You shook your head to stop that train of thought. For the past week you have ran through the thought of pilling as much courage as you could possibly have and ask him out. It was without a doubt that he never noticed you. Not that you weren’t attractive, to someone at least.
You kept telling yourself you’d do it next time you saw him. Then the next time—and then the next. But that hesitation was slowly being replaced by something stronger. Something firm and stable. Something that made your nerves feel less like a warning and more like a push forward. Even if that was wishful thinking.
Before you could second guess and wait another week. You walked.
At first it was one foot in front of another. The folded napkin in your hands felt heavier than it should as you approached his table. He didn’t notice you at first. completely absorbed in a book seemed to be written entirely in Russian. That for sure made you almost take a step back. what if he didn’t speak english? The rejection wouldn’t even be as embarrassing as asking a man who didn’t even speak the same language as you.
“Um..” you breathed out.
You didn’t even think he’d register you. But he startled, eyes snapping up to meet yours. They were wide and curious. “Oh—hi. Sorry, i didn’t see you there.”
“It’s okay,” you replied quickly. You took a shaky breath. “I just—this is going to sound weird, so I’m going to commit and leave.”
He blinked, “That’s… quite an introduction.”
You huffed a small laugh and quickly slid the folded napkin across the table.
“its—uh. It’s for you,” You said. Then instead of leaving, you stepped back, rocking lightly on your heels. Anxiety tingling at your fingertips.
For a moment he didn’t move. His eyes darting between you and the napkin like it might either explode, or tell him the secrets of the universe. You couldn’t really tell. Until he carefully unfolded it.
His lips parted as he read. (Faster than you ever could.)
And then he pursed his lips, in a futile attempt to conceal the smile rising on his face. His face began to dimple as smile lines began parting the waves of skin on his face. He released the warmest giggle ever. As if this man couldn’t get better. His smile was dazzling, enough to stick you straight into a stupor and bring a flush of heat to both your cheeks and ears.
His laugh wasn’t restrained or polite. No, this was genuine, and real and so so so swoon worthy. It made your palms sweat with how much his face light up in pure delight.
“What?’ You asked. As you rubbed your palms together, already smiling despite the heavy pounding of your heart in your chest.
He held up the napkin, smile still stretching his lips. “It says, ‘Will you go on a date with me? Breathe if yes, backflip for no.’”
You shrugged, shying away from his gorgeous hazel eyes.
He laughed again, softer this time, shaking his head as he pushed his hair back. “That’s not entirely fair”
“Why not?” You looked back at him.
“Well,” he gestured to himself, “i am—statistically speaking, not athletically capable of executing a backflip”
You breathe out a shaky sigh, the sting of rejection started sticking its little cold needles into your beating heart. A surge of courage filling your veins, “Well..” you paused, “I think that means you have to go on a date with me.”
There was the smallest pause. Then he ducked his head, smiling, almost shy. “I guess i will.”
Relief flooded through you. “Great. Good. That’s—good.”
He folded the napkin carefully and slid it between the pages of his book like it mattered.
“I’m Spencer, by the way,” he added.
“i know,” you said automatically.
You made a soft, almost strangled noise and covered your face with both hands. “Oh my gosh.”
Spencer blinked, startled
“I—that sounded creepy,” you mumbled into your palms. “I didnt men it like that, I’m not—I’m not stalking you or anything i—“
Your hands hovered in front of your face as you started talking too fast.
“I’ve seen you here, like… sometimes—but it’s a café so thats completely normal and i heard them call your name—when your uhm.. order is ready. An—and i saw that you read really fast, which i noticed, and is again normal to notice. Not like a weird observation—well, it’s a little weird, but impressive nonetheless…” You paused, slightly mortified.
His mouth twitched, trying not to smile
“And i told myself,” you rushed on gesturing vaguely. “That if i saw you again today, i would just do it and ask you out, and then you were here again—which, obviously, because you’re always here, which sounds worse than it did in my head.” You abruptly stop. Squeezing your eyes shut and mental berating yourself to spilling your guts to the handsome guy at the cafe.
“I should stop talking.” You sighed into defeat. That’s it. You definitely ruined your chances.
After a beat, he let out another soft laugh. You slowly lowered your hands.
“If anything,” his expression became a little sheepish, “It’s consistent behavior. Repeated exposure to the same environment increases the likelihood of noticing patterns. Patterns including people.”
You stared at Spencer. His list getting longer and longer. Not only was he drop dead gorgeous, but smart, and knew how to laugh and ease the awkwardness.
Then, without thinking you blurted out, “I just thought you were handsome.”
The words were soft and honest. His entire face changed. Not dramatically, just a small pause. almost a flicker of surprise. Than was overtaken by something warm. Something honest. Almost a fragility to him as if he were handed something made of glass rather than a compliment. The word was on the tip of your tongue. Almost as if he were in disbelief that you thought that of him.
“Oh,” he said quieter now.
You winced slightly. “Sorry— that was—“
“No,” he said quickly. “No that’s… nice. That’s really nice.”
You laughed nervously. “Cool. Great. This is totallyyy normal.”
He reached out, almost like he was going to comfort you, but his fingers grasped the lip of the table instead. “You’re doing fine,” he said, and it sounded like he meant it.
That steadied you, at least a little. Enough to remember that you haven’t even introduced yourself. Wincing you turned around and sheepishly said your name, and a hurried apology for forgetting. Earning you another soft smile.
“Anyways,” you continued, rocking back on your heels again. “Tomorrow. Same café. Less nerves—well maybe. I guess.”
He smiled. “I’ll be here.”
“I hope— i mean i know,” you started, then caught yourself, squeezing your eyes shut for another second. “—not in a creepy way of course.”
He laughed, softer this time. “I know.”
You pointed at him as you started backing away. “And please—“ you cleared your throat,” i mean no practicing gymnastics to get out of it.”
“i promise,” he said. “I will rely exclusively on breathing.”
“Good.”
You turned and began making your way toward the exit. Only making it a few steps before you paused. Glancing back at him with a shy smile tugging at your lips, a soft flush overtaking the apple of your cheeks.
“Im really.. really glad you were here again.”
He held your gaze, something gentle settling into his expression.
alright, i'll be the one to say it. ao3 and tumblr becoming "mainstream" did so much damage to the community and the writers. i have seen loads of videos and posts about:
1. people hating on writers and fics. writing is something we do for free and for fun. if you stumble upon a fanfic that isn't necessarily your cup of tea or you just don't like, scroll. dont read it. literally leave their page. you don't know if this could be the author's first work that they're so excited about, you dont know if the language they're writing in isn't their first language, you dont know that the writer could be a literal teen and loads of other reasons. fanfictions don't HAVE to be perfect. you write what you want to write because we do it for fun and enjoyment and we want to share that to the world. seriously, what is the wrong with that?..
2. x reader consumers getting WAY too entitled. the number of tiktoks i've seen that say "i run a strict program when it comes to reading fanfics." girl you aint running shit. this is FAN FICTION you're reading. F A N F I C T I O N. there is no denying that most fanfiction writes are beyond talented but just because you read one fanfic that exceeds your expectations doesn't give you the right to talk down on others that don't. people have their own personal writing style, their way of doing things and you talking shit on that isn't right.
at the end of the day, we are all humans, reading and writing is what we do and what we're meant to do. and for you to talk shit about a person WRITING is so insane. we are humans. not some robots that you can tell what to do so you can consume it.
i've seen so so many authors take down their fanfics and losing all motivation to write because of a hate comment. DONT LIKE DONT READ‼️
and to every author reading this, this community values your work and your contribution. we love u and, please, never let anyone's negative words have an effect on you.
Speak on it. I saw someone on this here platform that spoke about how they wanted the reader to be in order to read it. Then had the audacity to say “ofc you can write what you wanna write” like girl. You just tore down someone else because they’re writing how they want to write 😭😭
Gathering herbs deep in the forest, Y/n heard a child crying, her thoughts involuntarily turning to her own. But she knew her child slept soundly in its cradle after its activity.
The girl hurried towards the sound, sunlight filtering through the leaves, trying to light the young mother's path. Y/n thought that one of the village girls might have abandoned the child; it was an unwanted pregnancy. This was a common practice: when a girl became pregnant but no one would marry her, the child was left in the forest to preserve the family's reputation. Y/n herself had once been ordered to do the same. Her parents were furious, shouting and beating her. But the girl refused, and they took her to the forest, where a small house stood. Her parents didn't want to shame the entire family, so they left her there. In the end, her parents wanted to know the father's name, but by the grace of heaven, it was the king's knight. They were passing through their lands and decided to stay in the village. Y/n vaguely remembered the man's face, but he had whispered so seductively, promised love so tenderly, that the girl surrendered and lay on his bed. Soon after, the detachment left. That year, many innocent girls "suffered" at the hands of seductive knights, and many were shamefully cast out. Y/n was no exception.
The infant's cry grew louder, and the girl ran out into a clearing where a bundle lay. She hurried to it, and when she pulled back a corner of the blanket, she recoiled in fear. It was a dark elf child. Y/n looked around, listening to the forest sounds, but realized the child's parents were not there. The infant's head had darkened from crying, and the girl understood it was hungry. Y/n couldn't abandon the child, so she unlaced her bodice and gently brought the baby to her right breast. The child finally quieted, having received nourishment. But Y/n still scanned her surroundings, ready to place the child back and flee if she saw anyone of its kind.
Y/n realized the infant's parents were absent, unsure if the child was abandoned or if something had happened to them. But Y/n made a decision that would change her fate forever! She took the child and returned home.
Several days passed, and now two babies lay nestled together in a spacious crib, having bonded with each other. Y/n cooed over them, continuing to leave them alone at home after tending to them, and went to the forest to gather herbs. It was a hot summer, but autumn was approaching, and supplies were needed, especially medicinal herbs. In the evenings, from time to time, she also went into the forest with a bow on her shoulder to hunt rabbits, and if lucky, a larger animal. The girl wouldn't have had to hunt; if she hadn't been driven from home, her father would have done it, and then her husband. But fate decreed otherwise, and using the skills she observed in the settlement, she independently crafted a bow and arrows and trained herself. Y/n was quite good at it, considering the game she brought home. And she herself didn't need much. Just something to put in her mouth to avoid starving and to stay healthy for the children.
The worst began after the past week. Moon Day started with the dark elf's loud crying. Y/n realized the infant was ill. She gave him various tinctures; the raspberry tincture didn't help the fever, and the baby cried more, seeming to burn. Linden was needed, but it had run out, so the girl quickly gave a chamomile tincture, which helped the child calm down. Taking her basket, she ran to the other end of the forest. She probably fell a few times on the way, but nothing could stop her. She gathered a whole basket of linden flowers and, just as quickly, wanted to get home.
As she approached the cottage, she saw the open door, and fear pierced her entire body. Somewhere, she tried to calm herself, telling herself it was likely her parents, who rarely visited, but her gut told her it wasn't her parents.
Quietly and slowly, she approached the door and peeked inside. All was silent. No one. Only the cooing of her baby. She rushed to the cradle and saw only her child. But where was the second?
She swallowed loudly, carefully turning towards the door. The girl understood that she now needed to go out and survey the area.
Y/N wanted to grab a bow for protection, but to her horror, realized it was broken. Now, unarmed, she went outside. She stopped, trying to listen to the sounds, but the gusts of wind rustling the treetops made it difficult.
She understood that a dark elf had come here and taken his child, but had he left? Perhaps he would realize she hadn't done him any harm, only protected the child?
She looked around, spinning, and at the last moment noticed a man who had unexpectedly appeared among the trees. His dark skin and bright eyes frightened Y/N, causing her to involuntarily yelp. The man held a baby in his arms, who calmly rested his head against his father's chest, looking peaceful.
"I… I… I didn't hurt him…" Y/N decided to start her defense.
The elf smiled slyly, and then… disappeared. Y/N merely blinked, and the man was gone.
The following days passed peacefully, the only change being that Y/N began to notice baskets with various fruits and vegetables, and sometimes fish or game, on her doorstep.
She knew this wouldn't go unacknowledged; she would be obligated to give something in return. And on the other hand, she had cared for his child… And Y/N accepted the gifts, enjoying the peace.
The next morning, the woman noticed how the nature around her trembled nervously. Strong gusts of wind reached her cottage, leaden clouds hung over the forest, thunder rumbled in the distance, and lightning even flashed.
Y/N closed the window shutters, pressing them tightly against the frame, and securing them with a latch. She moved the cradle further from the window, deeper into the house.
While the woman was busy preparing food and caring for the child, evening had already arrived, and there was a loud knock at the door. She heard a couple of male voices and Y/N thought of her family, who had decided to pay her a visit. She hurried to open the door to let her soaked family into the house. But to her horror, the ones at the door were two men, one a burly fellow with an eyepatch, and the other thin with an overbite.
"What do you need?" the woman asked, slightly closing the door.
"Oh, darling, are you alone?" the big man replied.
"What's it to you? I asked a question," Y/n frowned as the man placed his hand on the door, pushing it slightly.
"We got lost in the woods and stumbled upon this cabin. Let us in, we're soaked," his voice was deep but grating.
"I can't," Y/n relaxed a little.
The man didn't like the answer and shoved the door with all his might. Y/n unexpectedly fell to the floor. The men brazenly entered the house, looking around. They smelled unpleasantly of alcohol, sweat, and tobacco. Most likely, they were bandits or hunters. But their arrival made the woman nervous. She stood up, awaiting further actions.
"Oh, look, Bon, we were expected," the big man brazenly sat at the table where a bowl of stew was.
"I told you there'd be something to get here," the lanky guy finally spoke, he was thin, almost squeaking. He also brazenly started rummaging through the cupboards, collecting all the supplies.
"What are you doing!? Get out of my house!" Y/n screamed hysterically, and a second later dodged a sharp knife that Bon threw.
"Shut your mouth, whore! Boss, should we kill her!?" the man squeaked similarly.
"Come on, what are you waiting for? She'll warm our bed," the Boss chuckled, a few pieces of meat falling from his mouth.
The door was open, a downpour raging behind it, forming deep puddles. Y/n couldn't escape because of her baby, who began to stir, disliking the loud voices and the cold, so he started whimpering. The men noticed him.
The lanky guy approached the cradle inside the house, and Y/n's heart clenched and filled with fear.
"Yeah, she's mommy!" Bon exclaimed, and yanked the baby out by the leg, the child dangling, crying louder.
"Please! Put him back! You're hurting him!" Y/n lunged at the man, but he pushed her away, and the girl fell to the floor again.
"She's so loud! Boss! Why do we need her!?" The sniveler unceremoniously tossed the baby into the crib, and Y/n's head began to throb. Her child was only a few months old, too fragile!
"Hey! I don't care, you don't have to stick your junk in her. I'm going to stick it in her, I haven't had a woman in a year!" The boss, who had been eating meat the whole time, stood up, grabbed Y/n by the hair with his dirty hands, and dragged her across the floor.
To the sounds of the baby's crying, and her own, Y/n struggled, scratching her attacker's hands, but it was all useless.
"Ah, you slut! Well, nothing, I'll calm you down now! Why are you kicking, it's clearly not your first time! I'll give you another baby, for good measure! Did you hear that, Bon!?" The men laughed obscenely, the brute began to pull down his pants, but the belt wouldn't budge.
Y/n crawled towards the door. She somehow got up and ran outside. The woman ran a short distance and stopped halfway when she noticed a familiar figure among the trees. The rain continued to pour, she was getting wet and pathetic. She noticed her secret acquaintance holding a basket with something in it, he clearly wanted to visit her at such an hour.
"Where are you running!? Do you want me to kill your worm!?" roared the bandit, stepping outside, his pants already down, "I'll take care of this quickly! Or are you, such a dirty girl, that you decided to entertain me outside in the rain!?" he laughed obscenely again.
"Please…" Y/n wanted to beg the dark elf, but a thick black shadow flashed past her.
This magic began to form into hands with claws, it headed towards the bandit, who fearfully tried to escape, but failed. These hands grabbed him, sinking their claws into his flesh, they moved to his neck, squeezing it, and then, amidst the sound of the rain, a snap was heard. The magic snapped his neck. As the force was about to retreat, a displeased companion appeared in the doorway, picking his nose.
"Boss, what were you doing…?" he froze.
The claws went into a new battle, grabbed the skinny man, suspended him above the ground, and then flung him with all their might towards the trees.
The dark elf skillfully controlled this power, moving his hands through the air. And the claws obeyed him, finishing off the man.
Y/n remained standing, looking only at him. The elf also continued to look. A moment passed, and it became dark in her eyes, and Y/n fell onto the wet ground, not caring about anything.
The girl woke up to birdsong. She opened her eyes slightly and realized she was in her room, her baby cooing beside her. She got up carefully, wearing a nightgown, and a blush of embarrassment spread across her cheeks, realizing the mysterious elf had changed her clothes.
To her surprise, she noticed that besides her child, a dark elf's baby was also in the cradle, happily reaching out to her.
The girl shook her head and quickly went outside. Not far away, under a tree, sat an elf, his eyes closed, humming softly.
"Thank you," the girl said quietly but clearly as she approached the stranger.
"ɦ໐ຟ ໓໐ นู໐น ʄﻉﻉɭ?" a similarly quiet and deep voice asked. The girl faltered slightly.
"Sorry, I don't understand... I think I hear familiar words, but I can't put them together," Y/n smiled awkwardly, and the elf nodded.
"Y/n," the girl pointed to herself. The man did the same.
"Elowen."
The elf fell silent again and closed his eyes. Y/n understood that he would stay, and she wouldn't mind.
Summary: Taken by the Yautja at twenty years old, you have spent years working quietly as a maid within the household of an honoured hunter. Your days are spent caring for the home and its younglings. Life is controlled but predictable. That changes the moment Vorkath’ren, the clan’s feared Enforcer, returns from a hunt.
You woke before the suns rose, as you always did.
The house was still and cool, the walls humming with the noise of Yautja technology that you had learned to live beside.
You gathered water, prepared food for the younglings, and tidied the common room before the first of them padded sleepily into the halls.
The children of the clan always found you amusing. You were small to them, soft, and fragile.
They adored you for it.
One clung to your leg as you tried to sweep the floor. Another demanded to be carried.
You obliged, lifting the smallest and settling him on your hip. His low purr vibrated against your shoulder.
This was your place. This was your life. It was not easy, but it was safe enough.
Until today.
The rumble of returning hunters echoed through the compound long before the door slid open.
The heads of the younglings snapped up. Their eyes widened with excitement.
“They are back,” one chirped, hopping from foot to foot.
The returning party always presented themselves to the tribe's Elder, and you were expected to greet them as part of your duties. You steadied your breathing and stepped into the main hall.
The air grew heavier as the hunters entered. The first few were familiar to you, masked warriors you had tended to after training sessions.
They smelled of iron and smoke, their hides marked with fresh paint and newly earned scars.
Then he stepped through the doorway.
Vorkath’ren.
You knew his title long before you ever saw his face.
The Enforcer.
The executioner of the Elder.
The one even seasoned hunters whispered about in low tones. His armour was plated in obsidian metal and decorated with bones from creatures you could not name.
His dreadlocks were bound with trophies, each one telling a story of violence and dominance. His presence filled the hall like a storm rolling in from distant mountains.
He carried the skull of a slain bad blood in one massive hand and dropped it into the centre of the room as proof that his task had been completed.
The warriors roared their approval.
You should have been able to stay invisible. You never made noise, never drew attention.
Yet as the Elder stepped forward to praise the returning party, Vorkath’ren’s gaze moved.
It landed on you.
For a moment, your body forgot how to move.
His mask turned fully in your direction, the glow of his eyes sharp and focused.
He had been looking at the Elder a moment before. Now, every line of his towering form faced you, as if pulled by an instinct he did not understand.
You lowered your eyes.
It was improper to hold a hunter’s stare for too long, especially one like him.
It was considered rude and a challenge between Yautja.
The weight of his attention. The force of it.
Your pulse quickened at the way he stood utterly still, observing you as though you were the only living thing in the hall.
Another hunter approached him, speaking of the fallen bad bloods. Vorkath’ren did not respond.
His focus rarely lingered.
The Elder noticed and followed the line of his sight, landing on you. His expression tightened with curiosity.
“You.” The Elder called out.
Your steps were quiet as you approached. You kept your hands folded, your head bowed.
“Offer greetings to the hunters,” the Elder instructed.
You did, voice steady despite the tremor beneath your ribs.
“Welcome home. May your hunts continue to honour the clan.”
A respectful sentence. One you had spoken many times.
Vorkath’ren tilted his head as though memorising the sound of your voice. His mask retracted with a sharp click.
You had never seen him unmasked.
His mandibles framed a mouth full of sharp, gleaming teeth.
Scars crossed his lower jaw. His eyes were a molten shade of amber, intense and almost strange in their depth.
He looked at you. He really looked.
Your breath caught.
Something flickered in those eyes.
He inhaled, sampling your scent.
You were not supposed to react, yet your heart thudded so loudly that you feared every hunter in the hall could hear it.
The Elder spoke again, addressing Vorkath’ren.
“Your hunt was successful, Enforcer. The clan is safer with the bad bloods destroyed.”
Vorkath’ren did not answer.
His gaze remained locked with yours.
The Elder’s eyes narrowed with thought.
“Does something interest you?”
A low, rumbling sound left Vorkath’ren’s chest. Not a threat. Not entirely. It was something far more complicated.
You took a small step back.
That was when he moved.
Only an inch forward, barely noticeable to anyone who did not know Yautja body language. But you knew enough. He was closing distance.
The Elder lifted a hand, halting whatever shift had started in the air.
“Return to your quarters, Enforcer. We will discuss the hunt later.”
Vorkath’ren hesitated.
A feared executioner. A brutal enforcer whose word was law to the lower ranks.
He hesitated.
But eventually he obeyed, turning away.
As he passed you, he looked down at you one last time, pupils wide, breath warm and heavy.
You felt it like a touch. A warning. A promise.
Something you did not yet have a name for.
You were supposed to return to your duties. You were supposed to forget this moment.
But long after he left the hall, you could still feel the burn of his eyes on your skin.
And deep in your chest, something answered.
You tried to tell yourself that nothing had changed.
You tried to believe it.
But from the moment Vorkath’ren returned from the hunt, the walls of the house felt different, as though something had awakened in the shadows and refused to rest again.
He watched you.
You first noticed it the very next morning.
You were carrying herbal infusions to the balcony to dry in the weak sunlight when you sensed it.
A shift in the air. A weight. The unmistakable feeling of being watched.
You lifted your head.
Vorkath’ren stood on the far side of the balcony, silent as a carved idol. His arms were folded behind him, skull trophies hanging across his broad chest. His eyes were fixed on you with that same intensity from the hall.
You almost dropped the tray.
He did not move. He did not speak. He watched.
You gave a small bow, unsure what else to do, and hurried away.
The moment you stepped inside, your skin prickled again. You looked over your shoulder.
He followed you.
Not close. Not enough to appear threatening. But he stood at the next doorway, gaze anchored to your retreating form.
You felt heat rise in your face.
He continued like this for days.
Everywhere you went, he was there.
In the training yard, standing against a pillar as you passed by with supplies.
By the nursery, observing quietly as you soothed a crying youngling.
In the market corridor, his towering form blocked a group of rowdy hunters from brushing too close to you.
The first time he did that, the younger hunter attempted to challenge him, puffing his chest and hissing a complaint.
Vorkath’ren turned his head slowly.
The young hunter froze. Whatever he saw in those amber eyes made him drop his gaze and step back at once.
No one bothered you after that.
You should have been relieved, but your heart raced whenever Vorkath’ren was near. Sometimes you caught him scenting the air when you walked past, a low inhale that made something stir deep in your stomach.
You had never been so intensely noticed in your life.
One afternoon, while trying to stack storage crates, you lost your footing. You braced for the impact, but it never came. A huge hand caught your arm, lifting you upright as though you weighed nothing.
Vorkath’ren.
He crouched, bringing his face level with yours. His eyes scanned you from head to toe, checking for injury.
“I am fine. Thank you.”
He did not release your arm immediately. His grasp was warm, steady, careful.
When he finally let go, his fingers traced lightly across your wrist as though reluctant to break contact.
He rumbled something in his own language. A sound low and soft. You had heard Yautja hunters speak many times, but none of them ever used a tone like that.
Then he rose to his full height and walked away, leaving you breathless.
Later that night, when you returned to your quarters, something waited on your sleeping furs.
A charm.
Bone carved into the shape of a curved talon, polished to a soft shine. A traditional token used by Yautja males when they wished to express interest.
Your breath stopped in your throat.
You lifted it with shaking fingers.
The air carried a faint scent that did not belong to you.
Him.
Footsteps echoed down the hall outside your door. Heavy. Controlled. You knew the sound now.
He paused outside your quarters.
Waiting.
Listening.
You clutched the charm to your chest, unsure whether to hide it or cherish it.
The footsteps moved on.
You sank onto your bed, the charm still resting in your palm, glowing faintly in the dim light.
You should fear this. You should return the token immediately.
Yet warmth bloomed in your chest. A slow, hesitant flutter that made you press your other hand to your heart as if you could calm it.
The Enforcer watched you. Protected you. Desired you.
And no matter how much you tried to ignore it, a part of you felt strangely safe when his shadow fell over yours.
A part of you wondered what it meant to receive a token from a male like him.
A part of you wanted to know what he would do if you kept it.
The gift weighed on your mind for days.
Every time you tucked the carved talon beneath your tunic, every time your fingers brushed its polished surface, you felt the same gentle ache in your chest. You should have returned it. You told yourself that many times. Yet each morning you found it still resting above your heart.
You noticed changes in Vorkath’ren too.
He no longer lurked in distant doorways. He approached you with deliberate steps, closing the distance inch by inch until there was no ignoring his presence.
He found you by the feeding hall one morning, sorting through herbs for the younglings. His shadow covered the table before you realised he was there.
“Enforcer,” you greeted softly, bowing your head.
His mask was clipped to his hip today. His face was bare. His eyes studied you with the precision of a hunter tracking something precious.
“Vorkath’ren,” he corrected, voice deep and gravelled.
You startled. He had never spoken his name to you before.
“I mean no disrespect,” you murmured.
He lowered himself until he was crouched at your level, movements slow and deliberate, as if approaching something fragile.
“You do not disrespect,” he said. The words were heavily accented, but the meaning was clear. “You speak. I listen.”
Your stomach fluttered. You had spoken to many hunters before, but Vorkath’ren was different.
His attention felt heavy, purposeful. His gaze tracked your eyes, your hands, the subtle rise and fall of your chest when you breathed.
You cleared your throat. “I should return to work.”
He tilted his head, mandibles flexing faintly in what you were beginning to recognise as curiosity.
“If I am too near, you speak. I move.”
The offer stunned you. Yautja were not known for yielding to humans. Yet here he was, offering you the ability to push him away.
You hesitated.
“I will tell you if I need space.”
He nodded once. A promise.
True to his word, he respected every boundary you set. When he stepped too close, you gently lifted your hand. He backed away immediately. When his looming presence became too much, you told him, voice shaking.
He bowed his head and stepped aside.
Each time he listened, something inside you softened.
But even with distance, he watched.
He watched you braid a youngling’s hair.
He watched you carry a basket of fruits across the courtyard.
He watched you walk home at twilight, standing sentry on the rooftop above as if guarding your path.
You should have been frightened. Yet somehow, every time your eyes found his towering silhouette, your heart steadied instead of racing away.
The change came on the night of the storm.
The world outside the house raged with thunder. The walls shuddered with each strike of lightning, the sound echoing in your chest.
You hated storms here.
The atmosphere felt different, heavier, more violent than storms on Earth.
You sat curled on your sleeping furs, arms wrapped around your knees, fighting the urge to hide beneath the blankets like a child.
A crash shook the compound so violently that you flinched and covered your ears.
Something moved outside your door.
Footsteps. Heavy, steady, unmistakable.
Your breath hitched.
The door opened with a quiet hiss.
Vorkath’ren stood in the doorway, his silhouette framed by flashes of white lightning.
He looked at you, then at the trembling doorframe, then back to you. A low hum vibrated in his chest, something warm and unthreatening.
“Fear. Your scent.”
You swallowed hard.
“The storm is loud. That is all.”
He stepped forward slowly, giving you time to refuse. You did not.
He lowered himself to sit beside your bed, his back against the wall, arms resting on his bent knees.
“I remain here. If you wish.”
Your heart fluttered.
“You are not needed.”
“No. But I remain.”
Another crash shook the house. You jerked, breath quickening. Vorkath’ren glanced at the ceiling, then back at you.
“You rest, I watch.”
There was no demand in his tone. Only quiet certainty, as though protecting you had ceased being a choice.
You lay back on your furs, though sleep did not come easily. The storm raged. Thunder cracked.
Lightning flashed.
But beside your bed sat the Enforcer of the clan.
Silent. Still. Watching the entrance with unwavering focus.
Your eyes traced the outline of his form.
The breadth of his shoulders. The slow rise and fall of his breath.
His profile was illuminated by every lightning flash.
You loosened your grip on your blankets.
He felt your stare and turned his head, eyes meeting yours through the dim light.
“Sleep,” he murmured.
Something in his tone unravelled the knot inside your chest.
For the first time since childhood, you fell asleep during a storm.
And when you woke, he was exactly where he had been, guarding your dreams with the patience of a creature who had claimed a place he would never relinquish.
The days after the storm settled into a strange rhythm. Vorkath’ren appeared everywhere you went, but no longer hid behind distance.
If you walked through the courtyard, he followed at a respectful pace. If you tended the younglings, he leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, protective eyes tracking every movement around you.
The clan noticed.
How could they not?
Whispers echoed through the corridors, hunters murmuring to one another in disbelief.
The Enforcer watches the human.
Why her?
Does she have a hold on him?
Some were curious. Some were unsettled. A few were openly displeased.
One of them was Jatruk.
He was younger than Vorkath’ren, ambitious, arrogant, a hunter who thought status made him untouchable.
You had always avoided him. His gaze was too bold. His voice is too sharp. He disliked humans and made no attempt to hide it.
You should have been more cautious when you passed through the storage hall alone.
You were gathering medicinal moss for the elder’s mate, head bent, arms full of herbs. No one else stayed in the long corridor. It should have been a simple task.
“I have been watching you. The Enforcer gives you his time. His attention. His silence. You must know what that means.”
Your pulse sped. You stepped back, but he followed.
“I have wondered what you did to earn it. Did you beg him? Offer him something? Humans use tricks. It is known.”
“That is not true. Please let me through.”
He smiled, mandibles flaring faintly.
“Perhaps I should inspect you myself. See what he finds so interesting.”
You moved back again.
He trapped you between a support beam and his towering frame. Panic rose in you.
You clutched the herbs against your chest.
“Move,” you said, voice shaking.
“No,” he answered, leaning closer.
A low sound rumbled from your throat.
Not a cry. Not a scream. A sound of fear so raw it echoed through the corridor.
Jatruk’s hand reached for your arm.
He never touched you.
A shadow dropped behind him with the weight of a falling mountain.
Vorkath’ren.
His roar shattered the silence.
Jatruk spun, but it was already too late.
Vorkath’ren struck him hard enough to send him skidding across the floor. Skulls rattled on the Enforcer’s armour, teeth bared, mandibles wide with fury. Rage radiated from him in waves.
The entire compound seemed to freeze.
Jatruk scrambled to his feet, sputtering.
“She is a servant. A human. She has no claim.”
Vorkath’ren advanced one step. The floor trembled beneath his weight.
“You will not approach her. You will not speak to her. You will not breathe near her.”
Jatruk bared his teeth, refusing to yield.
“You break our customs for her. You shame the clan. Has she enthralled you? Has she made you weak?”
Vorkath’ren’s eyes darkened.
“No. She makes me choose.”
Jatruk lunged.
It was foolish.
It was the end of him.
Vorkath’ren moved with a speed you had never seen.
The collision sent Jatruk crashing into a stone pillar, air leaving his lungs in a single pained gasp. Vorkath’ren pinned him with one massive hand, claws pressed lightly against his throat in warning.
He did not kill him.
But the message was unmistakable.
The Enforcer chose restraint only for you.
Hunters gathered at the edges of the corridor, drawn by the noise, silent witnesses to what came next.
Vorkath’ren released Jatruk, who collapsed to the floor, panting and humiliated.
Without looking at him again, Vorkath’ren turned to you.
His voice softened in a way that stunned everyone present.
“Did he touch you?” he asked.
“No,” you whispered.
He stepped closer, towering above you, but his posture was low, submissive in a way Yautja rarely displayed.
He reached out, paused, and waited for your permission. You gave a small nod.
His hand came to rest lightly against your arm, warm and steady.
“Good,” he said, voice thick with relief.
The gathered hunters exchanged shocked looks.
A murmur rippled through them.
The Enforcer protects the human.
The Enforcer claims her.
The Enforcer chooses.
You swallowed hard, the realisation sinking in.
“What you did, you declared something.”
His eyes met yours, dark and burning.
“I declare truth. You are under my protection. My watch. My choice.”
The words were not casual. Not symbolic.
Among Yautja, such a declaration was the first step toward a mate bond.
“Vorkath’ren, you cannot simply claim me.”
He lowered himself until his face was inches from yours. His mandibles brushed your cheek in the faintest touch, the contact so gentle it barely existed.
“I do not claim your body, I claim your safety.”
His hand lifted to your chest. Not touching.
“As for more, you decide. Not I.”
Your heart ached at the tenderness hidden beneath so much power.
Hunters still watched, stunned, uncertain, afraid to speak.
But Vorkath’ren did not care for their eyes.
He stepped to your side, standing as your shield. He looked at the hall, at Jatruk, at the hunters gathered, and his voice thundered through the corridor.
“She belongs to my guard. My watch. My protection. Any who threaten her are my enemy.”
Silence fell like a closing door.
Your life changed with those words. Yet, you still choose to act as if nothing happened.
Even if you were no longer just a maid. You were the Enforcer’s chosen.
And nothing in the clan would ever be the same again.
Later that night
You help put the younglings down for sleep, soft humming drifting through the stone hall, blankets pulled up, little claws clutching at your sleeves as they nestle in.
Once the final one is tucked in, you step outside for a moment of quiet, breathing in the night air.
The village glows with dim bioluminescent lanterns.
The jungle sings in its endless voice of insects and distant beasts. Cool wind wraps around you.
You close your eyes.
A branch cracks.
Your heart jumps.
Then you feel it, the shift in the air, heavy and unmistakable.
You turn.
Vorkath’ren stands in the shadows between the huts, half-lit by the soft glow. His mask is removed now, hanging at his hip.
His bare mandibles flare slightly, breath deep and steady, eyes burning like molten amber.
He does not speak.
He simply watches.
You know in your bones he does not stumble upon you by chance.
He came for you.
Slowly, he steps into the lantern light. His trophies clink softly with each movement.
His muscles ripple with controlled violence under the dim glow, but his eyes… his eyes soften when they land on you.
A shock hits your chest.
This creature, who executes traitors without hesitation is looking at you like you are something delicate.
Something important.
You take a step back.
He takes a step forward.
“Why… why are you here?” you whisper.
He gives a low chirr.
So soft it sends heat down your spine.
Then he does something you have never seen him do with anyone.
He kneels.
One knee to the ground. Head bowed. Eyes locked on yours.
A gesture of intent.
A vow.
Your breath catches.
You don’t understand it.
You’re not ready to understand it.
He rises slowly, towering once more.
His claws lift, hovering near your face again, but he stops himself, pulling back with a frustrated growl.
Restraint.
You realise with a shiver:
He wants you.
Deeply.
And he is trying very, very hard not to take what he wants.
He steps back into the shadows.
Watching.
Guarding.
Obsessed.
You shiver.
Not from fear.
But from the dangerous flutter low in your stomach that whispers you might want him too.
For almost a full week, Vorkath’ren becomes a shadow stitched to the edges of your world. He doesn’t approach you directly.
He doesn’t speak.
He simply appears.
Everywhere.
When you fetch water, you sense him crouched on the rooftops, silent as a panther.
When you walk the younglings to their lessons, he lingers at the far edge of the training grounds, trophy bones clinking in the breeze.
When you sweep the family hearthstones, you catch glimpses of him through gaps in the walls, mask glinting as he watches.
He never moves toward you unless you look away first.
He never touches you again.
And somehow that makes it worse.
That makes the air between you tighter.
Sharper.
Hungrier.
The matron of the house notices the way you startle at every heavy footstep, every distant growl.
She tuts, as if amused.
“The enforcer’s interest is unusual. He shows no tenderness. No fondness. Not to anyone.”
Her mandibles twitch in what you’ve learned is a smile.
“My dear, that hunter is watching you as if you were a wounded animal he wishes to guard, and a mate he wishes to claim.”
Your cheeks burn.
She continues, voice softening.
“Be careful. His kind love fiercely… but when they choose, it is with absolute possession.”
The bowl in your hands suddenly feels too heavy.
You wake to the sound of metal striking stone.
Clang.
Scrape.
Clang.
You sit up in your small sleeping corner, heart thumping. The household sleeps deeply, but something outside calls to you.
You push aside the cloth covering the doorway and step into the cool night.
The moonlight spills silver across the training yard.
And there he is.
Vorkath’ren
Mask off. Standing before a tall stone pillar engraved with ancient glyphs. His dreadlocks hang in wild black ropes, some tied with the skulls of creatures you’ve only seen in nightmares.
In his hand, he holds a blade nearly as long as your torso.
Clang.
Scrape.
He drags the tip along the stone in slow, deliberate strokes.
Marking something.
A symbol.
A vertical slash followed by three cross-strokes.
Your breath catches.
You’ve seen that symbol before.
On armour.
On huts.
On weapons.
It is the sigil of a Yautja’s chosen mate.
You freeze.
He pauses, sensing you, head lifting slightly.
Very slowly, he turns.
His eyes glow gold in the moonlight, burning like twin suns. His chest rises with a deep, deliberate inhale, as if tasting the air you displace.
He doesn’t speak.
He doesn’t have to.
You can feel the weight of the gesture.
He has carved the sigil, knowing you would see it.
Knowing you would understand.
You step back, breath shaking.
“Vorkath’ren… I… I don’t…”
You don’t know what.
What to feel.
What to say.
What to do with the wildfire building between you.
He takes one heavy step toward you.
Then another.
Not fast.
Not aggressive.
Just steady.
Sure.
Like gravity itself has chosen you and refuses to let go.
Instinct takes over, and you brace to run.
He stops instantly.
His head tilts, mandibles tucking tight with frustration, almost fear. As if even the idea of frightening you rattles him more than any hunt.
He lifts one clawed hand.
Very slow.
Palm open.
Showing he means no harm.
The gesture steals your breath.
You’ve seen him lift that same hand to crush skulls.
To cut down traitors.
To silence those who disobey the Elder.
But to you…
He shows his empty palm.
His voice rumbles out, low and rough, shaping your name with surprising clarity.
It sounds different in his mouth.
Possessive.
You step forward before you even realise you’ve moved.
He inhales sharply.
Your closeness affects him, visibly, intensely. His pupils blow wide, his mandibles twitch with restrained hunger, and his claws flex as if begging to touch but refusing.
Slowly, he lowers himself to one knee again.
The enforcer.
The executioner.
The tribe’s monster.
Kneeling. For you.
Your throat tightens.
“Vorkath’ren… why are you doing this?”
He rumbles deep in his chest, a sound you feel in your spine.
Then he lifts one claw and taps the newly carved sigil on the stone.
Your breath stutters.
“You cannot, I’m human. I’m not… I can’t be that to you.”
He tilts his head again, amber eyes narrowing with a certainty that chills you.
He isn’t asking. He’s telling you.
Claiming you in the only way he knows.
He stands slowly, towering over you, body radiating heat, breath heavy with want he can barely contain.
His claws gently brush the air near your shoulder.
Not touching.
As if he’s waiting for you to choose first.
Waiting for permission.
You take the tiniest step closer.
He shudders.
Then he exhales a low, trembling sound you’ve only ever heard from wounded Yautja.
Vulnerability.
Need.
He backs away into the shadows before he loses control.
But you know now what he wants.
And what you are becoming to him.
Not prey.
Not property.
Not duty.
Something far more dangerous.
Something he would kill for.
Something he would die for.
Something he has already begun to claim.
---
The threats that once stalked your nights, bad blood hunters, political tension within the tribe, challenges to Var’kah’s authority, fade, conquered one by one beneath his claws.
His savage reputation remains, but there is a softness now that only you ever see.
And it starts every morning.
You wake to the warmth of his chest pressed behind your back, his arm coiled around your waist like an unmovable band of iron and affection. His mandibles rest lightly against your shoulder, a habit he formed the first time you shared a sleeping mat. The rumble he makes when he feels you stir vibrates through your ribs, low and content.
You turn to face him.
His eyes open.
He has never slept deeply unless you are beside him.
“Good morning,” you whisper, brushing a hand over the scars on his jawline.
He answers in a gentle click, then lowers his forehead to yours.
A gesture you once feared, now one that unties your heart a little more each day.
He lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a slow kiss to your palm. His tusks scrape softly, deliberately careful.
Once, he was the tribe’s executioner.
Now, he is the male who warms your feet at night, who wakes before dawn to hunt your favourite fruit, who growls possessively when anyone looks at you too long.
And no one challenges it.
Not anymore.
The tribe accepts you.
Respects you.
Some even adore you.
The younglings, greet you each day with chirrs and small carvings they insist on giving you.
When the matron grew too old to keep the nursery, you took her place without question.
Vorkath’ren rebuilt the sleeping hall himself, larger and sturdier, so you would be safe, though everyone knows he meant “protected by walls built with my own hands.”
He watches over you even now, but the obsession that once frightened you has softened into something deeply loyal. Intensely warm.
Still possessive, always, but no longer tangled in pain.
One evening, you sit together at the edge of the jungle, watching the twin moons rise. Var’kah crouches beside you, his size dwarfing your own, his arm brushing yours as if he cannot bear even an inch of distance.
He holds something in his hand.
A bone carving.
Small, elegant, shaped into a sigil you know very well: his.
You lift it with gentle fingers.
“For me?”
He nods, mandibles lifting in a subtle smile.
“Mine,” he rumbles softly.
Not a claim.
A promise.
You lean into him, resting your head against his arm. He shifts so you can settle more comfortably, pulling you against his chest with a tenderness that would shock anyone who once feared him.
“Yours,” you reply quietly.
His entire body warms at the word.
He wraps both arms around you, holding you as if you are the axis of his world, the thing he orbits. You feel the soft vibration of his contentment, a sound that settles into your bones like sunlight.
The moons climb higher.
The night grows still.
And for the first time in your life, the future feels simple.
Safe.
You reach up and brush his cheek.
“Are you happy?” you ask, though you already know the answer.
He presses his forehead to yours, eyes burning softly, voice low and sincere.
“With you, always.”
You smile, closing your eyes as he pulls you into the circle of his arms, the hunter’s moon glowing white above you both.
Here, in this life you built together, there is no fear.
Idc, normalize kink shaming. Cause y'all be using “don’t kink shame” and “it’s fiction” to excuse being into incest, pedophilia, cannibalism, etc. Like, be so fr, you ship a 14 year old with a 30 year, want to get railed by your dad and want to see two brothers f*ck each other. I don’t engage with things fictionally that I don’t like/wouldn’t want to do in real life. Yes, I’m judging you.
OKAY OKAY HEAR ME OUT. ryland with reader who never went to prom and really wished they did and they talk about it while getting really emotional about all the things they miss on earth (like rain and that stuff) and then he + his eridian students all plan a prom and he asks her with the sign and stuff AWUSHRHEBDVSHSBS
Prom?
Ryland Grace x reader
summary: read request above!
yaps!: DONT WORRY GUYS..I'll get to ur requests soon enough, please be patient with me ok..love u all lots.... next fic WILL be good omens x phm.. ILL MAKE IT WORK...
The scent of laboratory-grade ethanol and the sterile, recycled air of the Eridian habitat was a poor substitute for the smell of a brewing thunderstorm.
You sat on the edge of a steel workbench, your legs dangling, staring blankly at a digital schematic of a hydroponic filtration system. Beside you, Ryland Grace was furiously scribbling notes on a dry-erase board, his unruly curls bouncing slightly with the motion of his marker. He looked exhausted, but he always looked a little exhausted—that manic, brilliant energy was just part of his charm.
"Ryland?" you asked softly, the quiet of the lab swallowing your voice.
"Yeah? What's up?" He didn't stop writing, his brain clearly firing at a million miles an hour. "If this is about the nutrient density in the thylakoid replication, I swear I’m fixing it—"
"Do you ever miss rain?"
The marker stopped. The squeak of the felt tip cut off abruptly, leaving a heavy silence in its wake. Ryland lowered his arm slowly and turned around, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. The frantic, teacher-mode light in his eyes softened into something deeply empathetic, and a little bit bruised.
"Every day," he said, his voice dropping an octave. He walked over, leaning his hip against the workbench right next to your knee. "Smell of asphalt right after a downpour. Petrichor. It’s... you don't realize how much you miss the chaos of Earth weather until you're trapped in a giant, perfectly pressurized tin can."
A small, watery smile tugged at your lips. "I miss the sound it makes on windowpanes. And I miss autumn. The crunch of dry leaves under your shoes. You can't replicate that. Rocky’s people don't even have a word for the crunch of a dead leaf."
Ryland chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound, but it died down quickly. He looked at you, really looked at you, noticing the faint sheen of tears you were trying desperately to blink away. He reached out, his hand hesitant for a fraction of a second before his warm fingers gently wrapped around your wrist, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over your pulse point.
"Hey," he murmured, his tone incredibly tender. "What's really going on in that brain of yours?"
You let out a shaky breath, looking down at your feet. "I was just thinking about things I’ll never get back. Milestones. Normal human stuff. I was looking through an old digital archive earlier and saw a picture of my cousin’s prom." You laughed, though it sounded a bit choked. "Stupid, right? I'm lightyears away from Earth, helping save civilizations, and I'm moping about high school."
"It's not stupid," Ryland insisted, shifting closer so his shoulder brushed yours. "What about prom?"
"I never got to go," you admitted, the old, silly ache blooming fresh in your chest. "My family moved right before senior year. I didn't know anyone, I didn't have a date, and I spent the whole night in my bedroom eating stale popcorn and watching reruns. I always told myself, "Oh, you'll go to a college formal, or a fancy gala someday.' And then... the Sun started dying, and I ended up on a spaceship, and now my neighbors are five-legged, sentient rocks."
You looked up at him, a melanchonic tear finally escaping and slipping down your cheek. "I wanted the whole cheesy experience, Ryland. The ridiculous, overpriced dress. The terrible corsage that pricks your wrist. The awkward slow-dancing to a song everyone is sick of. I never got it. And I never will."
Ryland’s expression fractured into something so profoundly sorrowful it made your heart ache. He didn't say anything at first. He just reached up, his thumb catching the tear on your cheek, his touch incredibly soft. He held your face for a moment, his thumb caressing your cheekbone.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his eyes searching yours. "I'm so sorry, sunshine. You deserved that. You deserved a completely normal, boring, beautiful human life."
He pulled you into his arms, and you buried your face in the crook of his neck. He smelled like Earth—or at least, the closest thing to it. He smelled like laundry detergent and peppermint tea, and he held you so tightly, his hand cradling the back of your head as you let out the quiet sob you’d been holding in for months.
~
For the next week, Ryland was strangely elusive.
Normally, the two of you were attached at the hip. If he was teaching his Eridian students about basic human biology or advanced physics, you were there to help translate or pass out materials. But lately, he kept shooing you out of the main classroom area.
"Just some advanced curriculum planning!" he’d say, waving his hands frantically, his face flushing a bright, guilty pink. "Very boring! Heavy math! Go read a book, relax!"
Even Rocky seemed to be in on it. When you ran into the brilliant alien in the corridor, his carapace clicked in an agitated, rhythmic pattern.
“You go away now, question-asker,” Rocky’s mechanical translator droned. “Grace-Buddy says you must not see the engineering bay. Secret. Surprise. Go away.”
"A surprise?" you muttered, raising an eyebrow. "Rocky, what is he doing?"
“No tell! You bad at waiting! Go away!” Rocky waved a claw at you and scuttled off.
You were left bewildered, a little lonely, and deeply curious.
On Friday evening, a small, laminated card was slid under your quarters' door. Written in Ryland’s messy, distinctive handwriting was a single instruction:
> 8:00 PM. The Main Commons. Wear something that makes you feel pretty. (Standard uniform trousers are acceptable, but formalwear is highly encouraged).
Your heart did a strange, fluttery flip. You didn't have a prom dress—who packs a ballgown for an interstellar suicide mission?—but you did have a deep [f/c] silk button-down shirt that you’d kept in vacuum-sealed storage, and a pair of well-fitted black slacks/black, flowy, ankle-length skirt adorned with constellations. You brushed your hair, fixed it the best you could without a proper mirror, and took a deep breath.
When you walked down the corridor toward the commons, the usual bright, fluorescent overhead lights were completely turned off. Instead, the hallway was illuminated by a warm, dim glow.
As you stepped through the threshold of the commons, your breath hitched.
The entire room had been transformed. Strings of tiny, improvised LED lights—clearly repurposed from cockpit control panels—were draped across the ceiling, mimicking a starry night sky. Bunches of inflated latex lab gloves were tied together in clusters, painted pink and white to look like makeshift balloons.
But it was the center of the room that made your hands fly to your mouth.
Standing there, looking incredibly handsome and delightfully dorky, was Ryland. He was wearing a crisp white dress shirt, a black vest, and—bless his heart—a completely crooked, hand-tied bowtie.
He was holding a large piece of cardboard. In bright, colorful marker, he had written:
> I know this is lightyears late, and we’re on a completely different planet...
> But will you go to PROM with me?*
> [ ] YES [ ] NO (Click claw once for Yes, twice for No)
You let out a wet, breathless laugh, tears instantly pricking your eyes.
"Ryland," you choked out.
Before he could speak, a chorus of high-pitched, rhythmic clicking erupted from the shadows. From behind the hydroponic towers, a dozen of Ryland’s Eridian students stepped forward. They were all holding small, glowing light-sticks, waving them in unison.
Rocky was at the front of the group. Around his central carapace, he had tied a massive, absurdly bright pink ribbon into a bow.
“Say yes, [name]!” Rocky’s translator blared proudly. “We spend four days making plastic spheres look like Earth-flowers! Grace-Buddy is very sweaty and nervous!”
"Shut up, Rocky!" Ryland hissed, his face turning bright red, though he never broke eye contact with you. He lowered the sign slightly, his eyes soft, hopeful, and overflowing with affection. "So... what do you say?"
"Yes," you whispered, then louder, wiping a tear from your eye. "Yes, a thousand times yes!"
The Eridian students erupted into a frenzy of celebratory musical notes and whistles. Rocky clapped his claws together furiously.
Ryland let out a massive sigh of relief, setting the sign down on a table. He walked over to you, his eyes fixed entirely on yours. When he reached you, he reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a small object. It was a clumsily constructed corsage made of clear, flexible tubing, wires, and a small, beautifully folded piece of blue origami paper shaped like a rose.
"I couldn't find an actual rose," he said softly, his hands trembling slightly as he gently slipped the elastic band over your wrist. "But I made this. And Rocky helped me seal it so it stays perfect."
You looked down at the paper rose on your wrist, your heart swelling so painfully with love you thought it might burst. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
"Good," Ryland murmured, stepping closer, his hands settling gently on your waist. "Because I also managed to rig the audio system."
From the overhead speakers, replacing the usual low hum of the ship's engines, came the soft, melancholic strumming of an acoustic guitar. It was an old, classic love song from Earth.
Ryland pulled you against him. One of his hands held yours, locking his fingers through yours, while his other hand pressed firmly against the small of your back. You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady, rapid thumping of his heart.
The two of you began to sway, slowly, aimlessly, in the center of the decorated room. Around the perimeter, the Eridians watched in rapt, silent fascination, their light-sticks casting a soft, romantic glow over the makeshift ballroom.
"I know it's not Earth," Ryland whispered into your hair, his lips brushing against your temple. "I know there's no rain outside, and there's no punch bowl, and your classmates are all aliens. But... I wanted you to have this. I wanted to give you a memory that wasn't just about survival."
You tightened your grip on his shirt, breathing him in. The ache of everything you had lost on Earth didn't vanish—it never would—but in his arms, surrounded by glowing wires and painted lab gloves, the void of space didn't feel so empty anymore.
"It's better than Earth," you whispered, looking up to meet his warm, brown eyes. "It's perfect, Ryland. Thank you."
He smiled, that brilliant, boyish smile that always made the universe feel a little less terrifying. "Happy prom, sweetheart," he murmured, before leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.
I'm leaving you all this evening with one final thought that I think was really cute lol
Adrian and Rocky going on what is essentially the Eridian's version of a date and it's literally to watch you and Ryland sleep. That it. That's the idea. For the eight ( sometimes more ) hours that you two are sleeping, Adrian and Rocky are watching and either talking softly amongst themselves, usually acute observations from Adrian who is not as used to Human culture as Rocky like
'Grace speak while sleeping, question?'
'Yes, normal human thing.'
'Weird, weird, weird.'
Or they're sitting in silence working on individual projects. Adrian usually works on a tool to help the biodome function better and Rocky works on something to help your lives inside the biodome function better. Nothing about the quiet is bothersome, in fact, Rocky really likes spending time with Adrian like that. And Adrian really likes spending time with Rocky like that ( He's usually info-dumping, this is when Adrian gets some PEACE ).
The only real time this changes and they ask other Eridian's to watch the two of you sleep are when they're laying eggs and resting over them during the incubation period. And even then, as time goes on on Erid, maybe they build you and Ryland another tunnel ( sort of like the book ) connected biodome so you can watch Adrian and Rocky sleep over their eggs. It becomes sort of your home away from home for a while and is retro-fitted once the eggs hatch to be another meeting place for your families to spend time with each other.
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