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moody-alcoholic · 1 year ago

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The Missing Piece

Chapter 1 -Coffee

Summary: Ghoap x Reader, throuple. 4.4k words. Reader is female (she/her), army nurse, non descript physical features, names used: Ashe.

CW: Mentions of sex, description of injuries.

masterlist - next AO3

Enjoy <3

“Sergeant MacTavish?” You call into the hallway of soldiers lining the wall, you look up and down to see if anyone reacts to the name.

“Sergeant John MacTavish?” You call again this time a little louder.

“Here lass!” A man calls hobbling down the hall towards you. Your breath catches in your throat, even being on a base surrounded by plenty of hunky men you had not seen anyone quite like him. His broad shoulders, thick arms and tanned skin. His fluffy mohawk, shining almost bronze in the florescent lights. To top it all off his cheeky grin is sending butterfly's racing in your stomach.

He’s being followed by what seems like an even bigger man trying to help him wobble his way down the hall, his sharp eyes focused on making sure his friend doesn’t topple over. The rest of his face is covered by a balaclava with a skull printed on it. It makes you shiver as they walked towards you. You move to the side of the door letting them in. John finds his way to a chair while the other man stands behind him. You close the door to the room going back over to the desk sitting down and opening his file on the computer.

“Twisted your ankle during an exercise?” You look past the monitor at him.

“Aye, I’m fine but LT here insisted I get it checked out.” He replies with a smile on his face thumbing behind at the man looming over him. Christ even his accent is sexy, sottish.

“And I’m staying to make sure you do get it checked out properly instead of flirting your way to a bottle of paracetamol and a cold compress.” The man said, his voice was deep, commanding. You could feel heat rush to your cheeks at the mention of flirting, but you push the thought away trying to remain professional.

“It is good to get it checked even if it is just a sprain.” You move your chair round so you’re sitting in front of him.

“Do you mind if I take your boot off?”

“I got it lass,” he winked bending down to untie the laces, and pulling the boot off. You could tell by the scrunching of his face and the grunt he made that this was causing him pain. He put his foot back down on the floor his ankle did look swollen.

“Have you tried ice or a cold compress?” You ask.

“Aye,” he replies you hear the man behind him sigh.

“What he means by that is he tried for about 5 minuets before he was back on his feet again.” John huffed at being called out, you smile at him and he winks.

“You’ll need to try for longer then that,” you say acknowledging the tall man behind John who now has his arms crossed. You pick the foot up watching John try to hide the pain, you only lift it up a little before decided it was going to need an x-ray.

“I will book an x-ray for you in the mean time if you go into the ward they will give you an ice pack and a bed.” You explain moving your chair back to the desk so you could book the appointment. “Do you want any pain relief?”

“Na, I can barely feel it.” He says a cheeky smile on his face. You nod typing the report and waiting for the paper to print out.

“I can give you some crutches you really should keep your weight off it.” You stand up going to the printer.

“It’s okay love I’ve got my own crutch here.” He says hopping up on his foot and wrapping his arm round the other man with him. You smile handing the paper to him.

“Give this to the nurse on the ward.” You say rushing in front of them to open the door.

“Thanks love,” he says beaming at you as he gets lead out by his friend who looks back at you and nods. You close the door to the room taking a breath out. What the hell was that? You find a smile forming on your lips as your heart flutters in your chest.

————————

Two days later you find yourself as the night nurse. Not that you mind it’s normally the quieter part of the job and there is no one in the ward so you don’t even have to worry about trying to look busy. About an hour into your shift someone comes through the doors. You recognise him immediately as John, from a few days ago with the sprained ankle. He’s hobbling around on crutches now, his friend is not with him either.

“Hello sweetheart!” He says his voice full of energy, that ever present smile on his face.

“Hey, John did you need something?” you ask coming round from behind the nurses station.

“Yeah actually, I was told to come pick up something…” He trails off. “Now what was it?”

“Painkillers?” You ask.

“No it begin with a T I think.” He looks up to the corner of the room rubbing his chin.

“A tubigrip?” You ask raising an eyebrow.

“That’s the one lass!” He says snapping his fingers, you can’t help but laugh at his enthusiasm.

“Sit up on the bed I’ll get you one.” You say turning to the cupboard of supplies. You pick out two sizes then walk back over to John already leaning down to untie his boots.

“I can do that.” You insist waving his hands away, he sighs but gives in leaning back on the bed. You carefully remove the boot looking back and checking to see how he reacts. He’s ether getting better at hiding it or painkillers have helped. He only winces when you have to pull the boot over his heel.

“What did the doctor say?” You ask.

“Sprained, I’ve been stuck behind a desk for the last two days.” He makes a pouting face as you pull his sock off.

“You should sleep with it elevated that will help with the swelling.” You say pulling his trouser leg up. The swelling has definitely improved since you saw it last.

“I bet with a few more days of rest you’ll be back on your feet like nothing happened.” You smile at him.

“I hope so lass, my unit’s being shipped out at the end of the week.” He says as you pull the tubigrip over his foot and ankle.

“Oh yeah anywhere fun?” You ask.

“Ah ‘fraid I can’t tell you that love.” He winks, you can tell if he’s joking or not but you pull his trouser leg back down.

“You can keep your boot on but not too tight, and keep it elevated.” You explain putting his boot back on and loosely tying the laces.

“What painkillers are you taking?” You ask as he swivels his body round so his feet are hanging off the bed.

“Paracetamol, oh and the doc said I could take ibuprofen too, but I don’t need it I can barely feel a thing.” You look back at him chuckling, his arms flex as he pushes himself up with the crutches. You feel your cheeks heat up again.

“You should take the ibuprofen at least it will also help with the swelling.” You force out leaning over him to pick up his sock from the bed. He smells good, must be his aftershave. You hold the sock out for him and he sheepishly takes it out your hand shoving it in his pocket. You move back so he can hop out the ward back to the nurses station.

“Well it was nice seeing you again…” He trails off like he’s trying to remember your name his eyes squinting. You cover your badge teasing him. He chuckles.

“LT is the one with the better memory.” He says turning his body to the doors.

“Ashe.” You reply uncovering your badge.

“Well then Ashe it was nice to see you again.” His smile is infectious and you could have sworn he winked at you.

“Good luck on your deployment,” You call back as he pushes his way through the doors.

“I don’t need luck.” He winks at you. Okay that time it was definitely a wink and it made the butterflies come back to your belly. You sit down at the nurses station with a smile on your face and heat in your cheeks.

————————

One week later you get a text out of the blue.

Hey, this Ashe?

It’s an unknown number you’re tempted to ignore it, but something inside you forces you to answer it.

Yeah, who’s this?

It’s only seconds later a response comes.

It’s Johnny, with the fucked up ankle.

Holy shit, you almost choke on your drink, coughing as the liquid has now gone in your windpipe. You take a few more sips trying to sooth it. How the hell did he get your number?

How did you get my number?

From a friend of a friend..

You can’t help but chuckle, is this real? Did he make his deployment? You realise you haven’t seen him round the base in a few days, and you would know you’ve been looking. Sometimes without even realising it any time you see a broad tanned soldier hairs stand up on the back of your neck and you crane to look only to be disappointed. His friend with the skull mask you found out his name was lieutenant Riley. You know you definitely hadn’t seen him.

Anyway... Want to get coffee?

Such a simple request has your heart thumping in your chest.

When?

You reply without thinking, your leg starts to jump under the table nervousness washing over you. Coffee? With you? Why?

How about that coffee place just outside the base, tomorrow 1300?

Your heart is pounding now your throat dry. Is this a date? No that would be very much against base rules.

Sure :)

Was the smiley too much, you put your phone down embarrassed. You hear it buzz picking up the courage to look

See ya there :)

You let out a breath your leg stops jumping. Coffee with Johnny, surely it’s just a friendly thing to say thank you for helping with his ankle. Not that he has too, it’s your job. Maybe he’s just being nice, he is always smiling. Or maybe he didn’t make his deployment and he’s bored.

————————

You show up early, the butterfly's have not left your stomach since the moment you woke up. You managed to switch your shift with another nurse so you could be here instead. Coffee sounded like too much especially with your nerves you opted for a tea. You find yourself checking your watch almost every second, your back is to the door each time it opens your heart stops and you turn to look. Jesus calm down woman, it’s just coffee. You try to tell yourself. A few minutes later and a few sips of hot tea, you start to calm.

“Hey there lass.” You hear the familiar Scottish accent behind you. You turn in your chair to see him. You stand up to greet him, he pulls you into a hug, patting your back. He lets you go walking round the table and taking his jacket off.

His skin looks darker or maybe it’s just the light in the room, his hair looks like it’s been freshly groomed. You get a proper look at his eyes, a beautiful deep blue. You can’t help finding yourself smiling.

“Hey,” You reply.

“What’s your poison?” He asks pointing at your cup, you push a strand of hair behind your ear. It feels like the nervousness radiating off you.

“Eh tea.” You reply realising you’ve almost finished it.

“Typical brits,” he sighs playfully.

“Let me get it, you should rest your ankle.” You say quickly stopping him in his tracks.

“Don’t worry love it’s been solid for a few days now.” You sigh that’s good at least. He walks over to the counter and you take out a deep breath, sitting back down. Your head following him as he orders beaming at the staff his accent cutting through the mumbling of the other patrons. You look back at your tea finishing it off as Johnny comes back with the drinks. He smiles as he sits down putting the tea in front of you.

“Thank you,” You say warming your hands on the new mug.

“Ne problem don’t you worry about it, I’m supposed to be treating you,” You feel yourself blushing again as that cheeky look comes back on his face.

“Why?” You blurt out before you can stop yourself. He chuckles.

“You helped me with my ankle, I wanted to say thank you.” He says as a matter of fact.

“It’s my job,” you reply shrugging, feeling a rush of embarrassment washing over you. No one has ever thanked you like this before. The most the ward gets is a card sometimes. Or if you were lucky someone would tell your CO you did a good job. That was always important for people looking for promotions.

“You could have just caught me on the base.”

“Yeah,” Now his cheeks looked like they were changing to a gorgeous shade of pink.

“Did you manage to get deployed?” You ask trying to move the subject on. He smiles leaning back in his chair.

“Na, whole thing got cancelled, I spent a few days in London.” He says smiling.

“Was Riley-I mean-lieutenant Riley was he with you?” You blurt out sipping your tea so the word vomit would stop.

“Simon?” Johnny asked his smile getting bigger. “Oh yeah we spend a lot of time together.”

“Huh, that’s nice you must be a tight unit.” You say calming myself. So his name was Simon, Simon Riley.

“What about you what have you been up to?” He leans forward sipping his coffee.

“Work, nothing really.” You smile.

“When’s your next leave?” He asks.

“Two weeks.” He nods like hes thinking about something his lips pressed together. He leans forward on the table more.

“There was another reason I wanted to see you.” He says, his smile disappearing. You hold your breath in anticipation of what he’s going to say next. He takes a breath in for a second looking you in the eyes.

“I really wanted to see you again.” He says, okay that’s not bad. You almost want to laugh at how worked up you got yourself. He just wants to say thank you, he’s buying you coffee because he want’s to be nice. You helped him with his ankle. Now he’s asking if you’re single.

Wait what?

“Single?” You ask, your brain trying to comprehend what you missed. He nods his smile coming back, at least that puts you at ease.

“Yeah, I’m single. Are you single?” It seems like the appropriate time to ask him too. His lips are pressed together again like he’s trying to formulate a sentence in his head.

“It’s complected,” A cheeky smile forms on his lips as he sips his coffee.

“What do you mean it’s complicated? Do you have a girlfriend?” You ask frowning at him.

“No.” He replies flatly.

“A boyfriend?” He puts his coffee down.

“I wanted to see you cos I’ve spent the last week tryin’ te get ya out my head and it’s impossible.” He says leaning forward. You blush at his words.

“What do you mean it’s complicated though?” Your heart beating faster in your chest you can’t tell if it’s the caffeine from the tea or the words from Johnny’s mouth but it was getting harder to concentrate.

“I’m married to my work.” He says leaning back. You sigh, this has happened before. ‘I can’t be with you the job is too important’ It’s all too familiar, finding love when every one around you is throwing their lives on the front line is near impossible. You’d pretty much given up finding love at work, it’s not even the anti-fraternisation rules. People are just never looking for anything long term. Looking for men outside of work is no better. As soon as they find out you’re an army nurse, or army in general it’s usually met with a slew of sexist comments before you realise looking for love at whatever bar you’ve been dragged to was a bad idea.

“I get it,” You say trying to hide your disappointment.

“C’mon lass it don’t mean we can’t still be mates.” He says it sounds almost like a plea. You feel sad and drained, you didn’t know what to expect from the meeting but you weren't expecting to feel like you just got dumped by someone you didn’t even date. You look at johnny his blue eyes look sad, he grips the handle of his coffee mug. Maybe you’re being too emotional, you look down in your tea.

“It’s okay, you seem like a nice guy but I know how this goes. We’ll talk maybe have sex a few times but sooner or later you’ll move on, or be deployed or I’ll move on or be stationed somewhere else…” You look at Johnny finishing the rest of your tea. And moving to stand up. He reaches out to you trying to get you to stay.

“C’mon let me at least walk you back to the base.” You can’t help but see the pleading in his eyes his usual smile warms your heart. You go up and place a kiss on his cheek.

“It’s okay John, I need to go into town anyway.” You smile your hand patting his chest, you can feel the tight muscles under your hand only making it harder to turn away. But you pull your hand off his chest and head for the door.

————————

You spend the next two weeks having to almost actively avoid Johnny. Since whatever mission he was supposed to be on was cancelled he’d been helping round the base with all kinds of different things. You would bump in to him all the time, your eyes always betraying you and wandering to him whenever he was in your view.

He would always wink at you or smile at you. Good luck if he could physically trap you. He would talk your ears off about anything. The gym is where you would see him the most, usually with Simon or another man you didn’t recognise. He spent a lot of time with Simon, the ‘big scary skull guy’ some of the other nurses would call him. He seemed nice, he’s quiet, the most you hear from him are sighs or grunts.

“I heard his face was burnt off in a horrible accident.” One of them said one day as you were eating lunch in the mess. Your eyes had barely left Johnny’s face he was sat a few tables ahead of you. He seemed to like the fact you were always watching him. His eyes meeting yours and smiling, sometimes winking making you blush. Sometimes you would look up and it would Simon's eyes staring you down. His gaze would always send shivers up your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck would stand up.

The nurses round the table are giggling as they spread rumours about him. Nurses sure love to gossip, you try not to participate, there’s not much to do on the base though. Besides everyone ends up knowing everyone's business at some point.

“I heard he went psycho and took out a whole enemy base in Iraq. He covers his face so no one can ID him.” Another one said. Whatever it was about he definitely seemed to be the talk of the base.

“That’s bullshit, he’d be discharged.”

“Nope, he’s special forces SAS.” The nurse sitting closest to you whispered as she leaned into the table. It was enough to piss you off.

“We’re not in secondary school anymore! Don’t you have anything better to do?” You snap leaving the table. You knew you could feel Johnny’s eyes digging into you.

When you’re leaving the base Johnny tries to catch up to you. You don’t want to talk to him, you don’t know what to say to him. You’re leaving the last thing you need is a citation while you’re literally walking out the base.

“C’mon lass give me 2 minutes.” He calls. Maybe it’s your weakness to help people, maybe it’s because truly deep down you wish you could give him a chance. Something about the break in his voice makes you stop in your tracks.

“What? I don’t want to miss my bus.” You say turning to face him.

“I just wanted to say thank you.” He’s smiling, of course he is, he tentatively takes a step forward with his arms outstretched.

“For what?” You ask frowning and shaking your head.

“In the mess earlier.” His hand rubs the back of his neck as he blushes. “Saved me from having to stop Si- Riley from giving them a piece of his mind.”

You smile, dropping your head.

“Yeah well it was nothing. You don’t have to say thank you. You turn looking over at the bus stop. “I really have to go.”

“No, of course.” He says shaking his hands. “See you round then?”

“Probably not.” You shrug. If he really is SAS he won’t be around by the time you get your next post. He nods knowingly his smile fading. You smile back at him then turn to leave the base.

…

When you made it home you welcome the rest. Your small London apartment had been rented out for the few months you had been away, the place was going to need a good clean tomorrow. The thought of sleeping in a bed that had been home to a stranger for 5 months felt icky so you ended up curling up on the sofa turning the TV on for background noise. Your mind turning to Johnny. Wonder what he’s doing? Think he’s still at the base?

Your mind some how turned to Simon too, thinking back to all the rumours you’d heard. None of them even remotely sounding plausible. Who cares, he has his reasons for the mask, it’s none of my business. Your phone buzzed and you reached over to pick it up.

Made it home safe?

It was Johnny, he hadn’t texted you since the coffee date. Well date was the wrong word.

Yeah.

You hover over the send button wondering if this was a good idea or not. You take a deep breath in and hit send throwing the phone to the other side of the couch going back to watch whatever distraction was on the TV. You don’t even remember falling asleep.

...

You’re woken by a knock at the door, you look out the window the sun is peaking through the clouds, you check your watch its 10am. There is another knock. You pull yourself off the couch stiff from sleeping in such an awkward position.

“I’m coming.” You call yawning, looking through the peep hole.

What the fuck?

You open the door.

“John?” You ask shocked.

“Hey,” He says, his smile radiating off his face, his hair is a mess he looks like he’s barely slept. You look at him in stunned silence shaking your head.

“I wasn’t completely honest with you.” He says. “Can I come in? I’ll be quick I promise.”

“Not really the best opening line if you want to get into someones flat.” You say.

“Scouts honour.” He says holding up 3 fingers. You roll your eyes and step aside so he can come in.

“When I said it was complicated, it’s not cos I’m married to the job…” He trails off standing in your kitchen door so there is at least a foot distance between you two.

“I am married, to Simon.” Your mouth falls open at the revelation.

“Simon Riley?” you ask, almost shaking your head in disbelief.

“Yeah,” He shrugs.

“So you’re gay?”

“Yeah, well bi, both of us. That’s why it’s complicated.” You shake your head not quite understanding. He seems nervous all of a sudden.

“Well, we both still like women, and, you know-or I guess you don’t know-we experimented threesomes and what not.” He ran his hand through his hair. “There is something different about you, we’ve both been obsessed with you, can’t get you out our heads.”

“Both?” You ask, your mouth hanging open. Obsessed?

“Aye, Simon’s not good with words though, or at least not till he gets to know ya.” He chuckles running his hand through his hair again. You take a deep breath out.

“What do you want Johnny?” You ask. Is he asking for sex? A threesome?

“Have coffee with me and Simon.” He asks pressing his hands together.

“That’s it coffee?” You ask somewhat stunned.

“Yeah.” He says nodding.

“You came all the way to my flat to ask me to have coffee with you and Simon?” You fold your arms, you can’t tell if you feel disappointed it’s not sex or annoyed that he’s basically invaded your privacy for something so trivial. He shrugs.

You close your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose. It’s the first day of your leave and you’ve basically been followed home. You sigh, it’s not like you have anything better to do while you’re on leave, and it is only coffee. You take a big breath in opening your eyes. Johnny’s smiling again, the smile that makes your heart skip a beat and the butterfly's wake up.

“Okay.” You nod, You don’t get chance to finish your thought cos he’s thrown his arms round you squeezing you.

“Thank you, thank you.” He says breaking from the hug. Your cheeks are definitely red now, after feeling his body pressed against yours. You can’t help smiling. He reaches over for the door handle.

“I’ll text you a time and a place,” you nod as he goes out the door.

“Hey Johnny how did you find my address?”

“A friend of a friend,” he smiles up at you from the stairs. You shake your head in disbelief. What the hell just happened? You go back into your flat locking the door behind you and going over to the balcony. You’re looking for a car but you don’t see anything.

You let out a long breath. What could he want? You push the thought away. It’s just coffee. Coffee with John and Simon who are SAS soldiers. Married and are probably wanting to proposition you for a threesome.

You go back inside looking over at your immaculately clean bathroom. You better get started, 5 months on base have done you no favours.

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smusherina · 1 year ago

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yard work - chapter 9 (regina george x reader)

fandom: Mean Girls (all media)

pairing: Regina George x OFC/Reader

summary: You'd been in the same class as Regina George since kindergarten. You'd lived on the same street even longer. Once upon a time, when life was sandbox disputes and who got the swing first arguments, you'd even been friends. Now, in junior year of high school, you doubted she even remembered you. The same couldn't be said about you. You definitely remembered her.

warnings(s): use of the d-slur, the one for lesbians. use of the q-slur, the one that’s been taken back.

chapter 1 / chapter 2 / chapter 3 / chapter 4 / chapter 5 / chapter 6 / chapter 7 / chapter 8 / chapter 10

You lost track of time, mind consumed by Regina's mouth on yours. The feel of her lips, her hands playing with the hairs at the back of your neck, made you tingle. You didn't know much about actual technique when it came to kissing, but taking cues from and mirroring Regina seemed to work. When she opened her mouth and bit your bottom lip, you chanced a little tongue. Met with welcome, the kiss deepened. The sensations had you shivering, hands gripping tightly at Regina's waist.

"Bed, now," Hazy and a little slow, you chased Regina when she pulled away, making a pathetic little sound at the loss of her. She stood up and pulled you with her, roughly pushing you onto your back. Sprawled on the bed, you could only watch as she climbed over you. Soon, her lips descended down on yours again and your eyes blinked shut.

Then, startling you like a bucket of cold water thrown onto you, her hands snuck under your shirt. Her nails brushed at your ribs and you, despite the nervous excitement bubbling, began to feel apprehensive.

"Reg," You mumbled, hands moving from her shoulders to her upper arms. "Reg, I- hold on."

"What?" She kissed down your cheeks to your neck.

"Hold on, I-" Your breath hitched, the tickle of her lips in such a sensitive place hindering your ability to speak. "I don't wanna have sex."

As if shaken from a trance, Regina pulled away abruptly. Her hands slid out of your shirt and rested on either side of your torso, looming above you. The dim, warm tinted lamp light from the nightstand made her hair, hanging around you, seem like a halo. Or a canopy.

"You don't want to have sex." She said, voice a little hoarse and eyes betraying something until she pulled the shutters closed. "You're lucky I'm letting you get this far."

You stared up at her, stunned. "What? Letting me? You're on top of me."

"I know you want this. You've been wanting this for a long time. I've seen the way you look at me, the way you act around me." She spoke fast as if she was trying to convince both you and herself.

Panic was beginning to constrict around your throat. It took a while to find your voice.

"Reg, I'm sorry, but-"

"You should be sorry." She crawled away from on top of you and stood up. You leaned up on your elbows to keep looking at her. "You should be so sorry."

"I- I am," You tried to reassure her, tried to hold down your own hurt. "I just thought this was a little fast."

She rolled her eyes at you, though the action seemed jilted. "You've been pining the whole time we've been friends, I'd say it's been long enough. And now, when you have all you want offered to you, you reject it."

"Is this what this is about? Rejection? Regina, I just meant not yet."

"You're so fucking full of yourself." She accused, pointing a finger at you. The whole display was made weaker by the glistening in her eyes and the redness covering her from neck to ears.

"You think you can walk into my life, cause all sorts of chaos, take my family from me, and then reject me?" She hissed, gesturing with her arms all the while. You swallowed, unsure of what you should do.

She was firing insults at you and the only thing you could think to do was sit there and take it.

"Chaos? I'm not trying to take your family from you, Reggie, where's this coming from?" You stood up, feeling too awkward to be on the bed.

"You think I haven't seen the way you act around my mom or my sister? You want to be me so bad, you're acting like they're your family. They're mine and you're never gonna have them! You're never gonna have a family!"

You reeled back, offended by the uncalled-for insult.

"You have the gall to come to my home, my family's Thanksgiving dinner, acting all holier than thou meanwhile Kylie fawns over you and mom dotes on you."

"Are you jealous? They love you, Regina." Your ability to argue was getting flimsier by the minute, the stinging in your eyes inhibiting any power you could've drawn from.

"Jealous? You think I'm fucking jealous? I have everything and you have nothing!"

"I don't think that's true, Reg. I think that you're hurt and saying things you don't mean."

"You always put words in my mouth, try to manipulate me and change me into someone you think I should be. I'm good the way I am!"

"Change can be good, Reg, I just-"

"God, you're actually so insufferable. Genuinely, I cannot stand to be around you. I hate you." She turned away from you, hands going to her hair and tugging. "I don't need to change. I hate that you try to make me. I hate that you've already done it, with your fucked up mind games."

You blinked rapidly and breathed in deeply, trying to stay calm. She was just being destructive because she was hurt. She didn't mean any of it. She was just earlier kissing you. Didn't that count for something?

"I don't play mind games. I just wish you were kinder."

"You wish I was this and that, and what about me?" She whirled around and strode up to you. "I am this way. I am not kind, I'm not soft, and I thrive."

"Are you thriving, Reg?"

"Do not call me what stupid name!" She yelled, getting right in your face. You flinched back, startled and scared. "Oh, you're gonna cry now that your other tactics don't work anymore? I see right through you, you freak."

"Don't yell at me, Reggie." You said, biting your lip to keep it from trembling. You wiped at your eyes furiously. "I'm sorry, okay, for rejecting you, for trying to change you. I didn't mean to manipulate you."

"I'll do whatever the fuck I want to you." She hissed. "I'll fucking ruin your life. I'll tell people you're a lesbian and what you tried to do to me."

"What?" You breathed. "What do you mean? What I tried to do to you- do you hear yourself?"

"I hear myself, jorts, and so will everybody else when I tell them what a disgusting, perverse little dyke you are."

You wouldn't have described it as something snapping, but you'd had enough by then. It stung, hearing that from her, of all people. It stung more than you liked to admit because you knew her.

You knew she didn't mean it, she was lashing out, and desperately trying to cling to the power she'd lost the moment she'd been vulnerable with you- kissed you.

You didn't want to feel it, so you were mean instead.

"Just like you did to Janis then. Did you kiss her too and when you got scared you decided to ruin her life. Is that how it went?" You laughed bitterly and before she could interrupt, went on. "Is that how you're gonna live your life, Regina? Anytime you feel those dirty, lesbian urges you'll use some innocent bystander to sate your lust and then, because they know too much, you ruin them? Sounds very sustainable."

"How dare you accuse me of being that," Her face was scrunched in anger, red like the devil.

"Oh, I dare, I seem to recall you were just kissing me, on top of me, hands up my shirt. You're not fooling anybody, Reg, you're a filthy queer just like me." You were aiming to hurt now, wanting her to feel like you did. "The truth is, Regina, that you fucking hate yourself. You hate yourself and you just don't know what to do with yourself so you make everybody around you feel the exact same way."

"No, that's not true, I-" Seeing her face crumble, her posture turn defensive, stoked the fire of your anger. You wanted her to hurt, wanted to punish her for leaving you back then and insulting you now.

"You're like some shitty reincarnation of Heather Chandler, all high and mighty until you're inevitably toppled by some nobody you were so sure was so below you that they couldn't even pose a threat."

"Great film analysis there, loser." Regina quipped weakly, already backing down. You weren't done, though.

"It's only a matter of time before Cady Heron pours you a glass of drain cleaner too, and I'll be looking forward to the day." You sniped, watching as Regina's lip curled in an exaggerated show of being unaffected. You knew her. You knew she'd seen Heathers and you knew the parallels weren't pleasing to the eye. You knew you were going too far, but you couldn't stop.

"You think you're such a martyr, you think that-"

"I thought we were friends, Regina! All I wanted was to be your friend. Sure, I liked you, but that didn't have to mean anything until you kissed me."

"It meant something the whole time! You can't act like it was nothing, our whole friendship is tainted by it!"

"Get over yourself, Regina, you could've ignored it like you do every flaw you have!"

"I don't have flaws, I'm above that." She scoffed, but the tremor in her voice told you that even she didn't think that was true. "I'm doing everyone a favour by showing who's on top."

"Who are you? A fucking dictator? Is that how you truly see yourself? Because I see a scared little girl, confused and angry, taking it out on the easiest targets."

"Nobody gets to feel okay when I feel like this! It's not fair! It's not fair they get to be happy and I have to be like this all the time! I hate this and they deserve it!"

You fought to ignore your heart breaking for her, how her words and obvious cries for help made you want to bleed for her. You'd stood idly and let her hurt you for long enough, it was about time you stood up for yourself.

"Oh, well, I'm so sorry then. I'm starting to fucking get Janis. Maybe I could've come up with the Homecoming sprinkler prank myself. Maybe I should've let you use the lard for your face."

You regretted it the moment the words left your lips.

A beat, both of you staring at each other, faces slack and chests heaving from all the screaming, regret and betrayal swirling in the air like a toxic tornado, passed.

"You knew?" Regina whispered, suddenly so quiet the wind from your sails wooshed away. "You knew and you didn't tell me?"

"I... I did." You looked down. Fuck. You'd fucked up. You'd insinuated you wanted to see her die. You didn't want that at all. Tears sprung to your eyes again and you pressed the heels of your palms to them.

Could this even be fixed at this point? You should've just shut up and it wouldn't have escalated like this. You knew why she'd reacted the way she did, you knew, but you hadn't been able to stay level-headed when she'd started coming at you.

"Get out." She spoke normally, volume steady. She was shaking, you could see that even with your faltering vision.

"I'm sorry, Reg, I really am. I should've told you. I shouldn't have said those things to you. I'm sorry."

"I said get out."

Unable to hold it any longer, a sob burst out and you decided to leave before you humiliated yourself any further. You grabbed your overnight bag and practically ran out of the room.

You should've been quieter because Mrs George came to see who was stomping down the stairs so late. She had a wine glass in hand, a silken robe tied at her waist, and a worried look on her face.

"Oh, hi, I packed some leftovers for you to- oh, honey, what's wrong?"

"It's- it's nothing, Mrs George." You hiccuped and looked away, embarrassed by your crying. You couldn't look her in the eye. Did you want her to be your mom? Did it matter when Regina clearly saw it that way even if it wasn't true? Taking any comfort from her now felt like proving her right.

"It doesn't seem like nothing. Why don't we go sit and you can tell me what happened. Did Regina say something mean?"

"I don't wanna talk about it, please."

Mrs George sighed. "There's leftovers in the fridge for you." She lingered as you passed. "Honey?"

"What?" Usually, you didn't have the heart to be so rude to her.

"You're welcome here anytime." She smiled at you gently. Clearly, she was experienced in dealing with volatile teenagers. You turned and headed for the kitchen.

Walking home, bag on your shoulder and various containers of delicious food in your arms, you felt numb. You'd left through the garage door, grabbing your clothes from the mudroom as you went, but you still had on the sweatpants.

Tears dried on your cheeks, eyes swollen and nose stuffy, you didn't know what to do. Snow was falling and the streetlights made the scene look more beautiful than was warranted. You felt empty, hollowed out like you'd spilt your guts, heart, and most other internal organs on the floor of Regina's bedroom.

You got home, put the leftovers in the fridge, and stood in the kitchen. Swallowing on a dry mouth, throat scratchy, you figured there was little else you could do other than smoke a cigarette.

You stepped onto the porch and sank down onto the bench swing. Lighting up and inhaling, you closed your eyes as the smoke passed through you.

Regina by the poolside in her bikini, Regina eating pizza on your couch, Regina on the passenger seat of your car, Regina smoking a cigarette with you under the bleachers.

That was all gone, then.

Notes: I was a little wary of having the chapter be only the argument, but it got so long that I figured it'd be nice to have the next chapters work towards a resolution straight away. No need to stretch out the acute misery for any longer than necessary. I'll say, though, that just like IRL something like this isn't just fixed right away. So look forward to more chapters! This is getting so long. I started writing this like, hey, a cute oneshot with a butch OC! Here we fucking are.

Taglist: @autorasexy, @wedfan2, @unadulterated-moron, @modernsapphicism, @9unknown0, @sage-rose2000, @massive-honkas, @nattys-swiftie, @likefirenrain, @luz-enjoyer, @dandelions4us, @natashamaximoff-69, @alexkolax, @jareaul0ver, @here4theqts, @charleeeesworld, @natsbiggestfan1, @brocoliisscared, @yellowwallflowers, @scarlettbitchx, @ayoungexwife, @cyberbonesworld, @syddie-reads, @screechcat, @theenglishswiftie,@gabby-duhh, @sweetmissnothing, @masterofpuppets-10, @l1lass, @starved-mortal

#mean girls #mean girls 2024 #mean girls 2004 #regina george #regina george x reader #regina george x you #regina george x oc #regina george x ofc #lesbian regina george #mean girls x reader #wlw #fic: yard work

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maraudersilver · 2 months ago

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DOE EYES (Haymitch Abernathy x Fem!Reader) Chapter 5

MASTERLIST Warnings: alcohol consumption, swearing.

A/N: After a historic power outage in my country, I’ve been able to update!!! I hope is a good chapter, because these last few hours have been… interesting. Enjoy the chapter and let me know what you think!

Wc: +4K

Life back at District 6 had been nice. For a few months, you had been left on your own with no intervention from the Capitol, so your family made the most of it. Hikes up to the mountains, strolls downtown to spend money in the District, anecdotes of the history that survived of your people, dancing to the beat of nature.

Before your reaping, many of those things were done along with your friends. But that was a long time ago, where your mind was not troubled and lost to the cruelties of the world. You would be lying if you said you didn’t miss them, yet there was nothing left to save from what it used to be. And, the fewer people around you, the less the Capitol could bargain with their wellbeing.

“Tend to the fire, you twat. Do you want to burn the woods or what?” Miles shoved your head, waking you from your thoughts.

That afternoon you had taken up the mountains to reconnect with nature. Most of the District’s forests had been burned down to ashes in order to install train building factories. It was way before you were born, even before your parents and grandparents, yet it was something that remained in your hearts, the pain of Amalur after losing her children to labour.

Your people were ingrained in the very depths of nature’s heart, your main Goddesses being Amalur and the supreme goddess Mari, mother nature and her personification. Not much of your mythology had survived, only the embers of what once was, endured the destruction of your culture.

So, to pay for the sins of humanity, you would go up to the mountains where they surely had moved along with your people to visit and worship them. In the caves you encountered up the hill, you would lay a pebble in offering, asking for the day where your people would be free again.

“Sorry,” you grumbled, pushing the embers with a stick.

“What are you planning on singing?” your mother asked once everyone was sitting around the fire, eating the rations you gathered for your small trip eagerly.

“I don’t know. Nothing too controversial.” You shrugged your shoulders. Snow had sent a letter to ask you to sing live in the Capitol party of the Victory Tour. You obviously had accepted, as if you had any other choice. “Maybe a new song. I have at most a week to compose it.”

“Why not an old one?”

“People at the Capitol get tired soon, Rail,” you tutted. “I need something new.”

“I’m sure Mari will help you with inspiration.” Your father smiled sweetly, his bright eyes shining under the rare rays of sun permeating through the grey clouds.

You couldn’t help but smile back. If something was worthy of surviving the Games, it was taking your father off his job at the factory. He loved trains, but they were sucking the life out of him. Just to see your family out of poverty, you would do it all over again, even when your mind had been in a fog ever since.

Reality loomed when you arrived in town. Peacekeepers shoving, metallic hammer blows screeching, children sucked to the bones beseeching for food. The mountains concealed the terror for a while, but it always came back. In times like those, you wondered if your gods had abandoned you for good. Maybe the harm inflicted had been too great to ignore.

Marching towards Victor’s Village felt like a walk of shame. You had much more than what you needed, minted, and your people barely made it to the end of the day. The only thing that could lift your spirits was the letter under the door.

“Boyfie writing again?” Rail made obscene kissing sounds, guffawing when your mother smacked the back of his head.

“Jealous because nobody likes you?”

“Hey!”

Rail was so easy to rile up you just couldn’t help it. It didn’t matter how many times you explained Finnick wasn’t your boyfriend, both Rail and your mother did not believe you. Only Miles and your dad seemed to catch on what you meant to each other.

“Go sit on the couch, darling,” your father urged you, walking beside you as you jigged to the living room.

Finnick and you had been writing to each other more often than ever. Especially because none of you could reach Johanna. It was weird, how quietly she had disappeared from events. Disturbing. Not a single letter, not a whisper of her whereabouts. What could have possibly happened to her?

Your hopes of Finnick gathering answers were brought down by the recipient. ‘Doe Eyes.’ Supplanting the dread came the giddiness, which took you by surprise. Why were you feeling giddy about a possible letter from Haymitch? It didn’t matter, you didn’t have time to gnaw on it before you were tearing the envelope apart, gaining a few odd looks from your family.

“Jeez, someone’s thirsty for attention,” joked Rail, who sat as far from your parents as possible. He learned his lesson, you thought.

You just shushed him.

The handwriting was messy and askew, and from plain sight it was obvious it was filled with spelling mistakes. He had more than possibly written it while plastered. Yet, it was easy enough to read, and short enough to leave you hanging on every word.

Doe Eyes,

5 leters in 4 months? Really? What could you posibly hav to say that it needs 5 leters? Hang out with a younglin once and they think your they’re caretaker.

I’m glad to hear your doing well. Me myself am doin fine.

Dont write more. Papers expensiv.

Haymitch.

You scoffed, the corners of your mouth betraying you by lifting into an amused smile. Of course he was grumpy about receiving letters. And, if you were being honest, after five letters without reply you weren’t expecting one anymore. But here it was, in Haymitch’s sweaty and crooked handwriting. If you had been alone, maybe you would have sniffed the alcoholic perfume shedding off of the sheet.

“My, what are you so smiley about? Finnick finally confessed?” Miles teased with a smirk, and you rolled your eyes.

“Tell that boy you’re too young to have a boyfriend.”

“I’m 23.”

“Exactly my point.” Your father reclined in his chair with mock seriousness.

Shaking your head, you reread the letter, biting your lip to prevent another smile from breaking your countenance.

“Is Finnick alright?” your mother finally asked, lifting her gaze from the embroidery.

You paused for a second. “Yeah,” you lied. “As perfect as always.”

“Good to hear. Tell him we say hi!”

“I will.”

There was no point in talking about Haymitch to them. What would you say? That you were happy to hear about the drunken victor from District 12? You weren’t friends, all interactions reserved for ephemeral encounters. The only time where you actually got a hold on him was in the last event, and yet you wondered how much of it he remembered, booze had been running down his veins by then.

However, Haymitch didn’t leave your mind at all during the following week. Up in the mountains, lost to the woods and lyre in hand, you composed what you deemed your best song until then.

You ended up singing an old song as Rail suggested. The one that came to you in the ample melody of the woods was too controversial to perform in the Capitol. So a love song it was. And how easy it was so tame a crowd of tossers, just an impish glance of romance enough to bring them to the edge. It took five minutes to calm them down after you came off stage.

Plutarch moseyed on you before you had the chance to prance to Finnick, who had been your personal cheerleader during your performance.

“That’s what I call a concert,” Plutarch lauded.

“Thank you.” Your polite and sweet demeanor returned, the mask you used at the Capitol.

“I asked Haymitch to tell you last time that I wanted to have a word with you. Never trust a drunk,” he chuckled acutely, too much for your liking.

You tutted. “He did tell me. The timing wasn’t the right one, though. I didn’t get a glimpse of you all afternoon.” Your tone had been too harsh, making you flinch inwardly, so you sweetened your next words. “But here you have me now! What can I help you with?”

“Always so sweet,” he muttered with a cautious grin. “I forgot!”

“A lie it must have been, as my people say,” you joked, although your insouciance smile let out more than you could with words.

Plutarch just laughed, waving you off. “Maybe, who knows? We have too many things to say in so little time. But look, it seems a storm’s approaching.”

You furrowed your brows, looking out the window to a perfect starry night. “Um, if you say so.”

“I’m just waiting for a thunderclap. Then I’ll know it's started. Do you get me?”

“No.”

The man gave you a cheshire smile. “It was nice talking to you. See you later.”

Same as with Beetee, you were left with a funny feeling. Something was going on and somehow you were expected to be part of it, yet nobody was explaining it. However, what had Beetee and Plutarch had to do with the other? One you could trust, even if he was a little off, but the other was the definition of ominous.

Back at the centre of the room you saw Finnick talking animatedly with Mags. Prancing, you made your way to them until you saw another figure strewn in the sofas by the far end of the room. Haymitch looked naff, dressed in the Capitol fashion. His garb was gaudy and disparaging, all dressed in subdued colours such as dove and black. It contrasted with his unkempt blonde hair, waving down his features and hiding his somber eyes.

Torn, your gaze wandered from Finnick to Haymitch, from Haymitch to Finnick. But seeing the content smile in your friend as he talked to his mentor, and the gloomy aura of the drunken victor, you made your decision while a dove feather dived behind you.

“Well, if it isn’t the songbird,” yakked Haymitch, toasting his glass filled with what you assumed to be whiskey towards you.

You snorted. “Songbird? What happened to ‘doe eyes’?”

“Thought to shift for a change,” he winded-up as you plopped next to him, some of his liquor sloshing down the couch. “Careful there!”

“Clutch the glass tighter next time,” you stuck your tongue out, to which the man rolled his eyes. “You know, for someone who drinks so much, I expected you to at least know how to grab a glass.”

“Care for a demonstration?”

It was your turn to roll your eyes at his peeve. “I’ll leave the drinking to you.”

“I thought so.”

Looking back at him, he seemed lost in his mind, eyes misty, so you put a topic over the table that he couldn’t get away from. “You wrote me back,” you sing-song.

“Didn’t have any other option. You gobby thing couldn’t stop writing to me,” he huffed, although his tone was lighthearted.

“I wanted to keep you updated.”

“On what? Your composing skills?”

“Well, yes, why not?” Haymitch just shook his head in amusement.

“I don��t know what you were expecting me to reply. It’s not like many things happen in District 12.”

“You could start with how you’re doing, if you went to town, if you have a pet. I don’t know, Haymitch, there are many things you can write about,” you laughed, the man’s expression turning more and more annoyed.

“Whatever,” he grumbled, and then you two went silent.

You took the chance to peek around the hall, where the preened guests roamed all over the new victor, Alesa Tirs from District 9. It was always like that during the Victory Tour party. Everyone drooling over their new pet, while the old ones had to gather in case they felt a pull for familiar faces. Next to you both, a dab of white speckled in white lilies, perfuming the haven of your corner.

“Look at my hair! I got inspired by the burning kid from District 10.” Haymitch exclaimed in a high pitched voice, Capitol accent exaggerated to the fullest. You gaped at him in bewilderment, but his eyes were fixed in a group of guests talking among each other. “Yes! And I got surgery on my mouth to look after Cashmere!”

You snorted, changing into a chuckle when you noticed that, in fact, that woman’s mouth was an exact replica of the District 1 victor. “That’s nothing compared to my fabulous eye colour change! Who wants green when I can have them brown after that tribute… What was his name? The one that got torn apart by mutts last year?” You continued the play, a low sounding voice coming out of your throat in an attempt to mimic a man’s voice. Haymitch chortled.

“There were many! Which one? I can’t even remember their names. Oh! Look! There comes a victor! District 10, right?” Haymitch continued, more and more askew in his seat. “Oh, Brutus! Of course I remember you. Can I touch your abs?”

“I can’t believe I haven’t tried that dish over there! Give me a minute, I need to throw up.”

“Maybe we should talk about the socio-economic impact of the make-up industry in the Capitol and how it affects perception of aging.”

“The what impact?”

Haymitch and you continued like that for a whole hour, mimicking different Capitol guests and their conversations. It was hogwash, you knew, yet it had lifted your heart a little to hear Haymitch laugh so hard after looking so blue before.

You didn’t notice Finnick hogging towards you two until he jumped on you, sucking the air off your lungs. Haymitch was effing and blinding over his spilled whiskey and ruined shirt, all the while Finnick laughed. You couldn’t be mad at him, not when he looked so youthful with that grin and closed eyes. So you just pushed him over until he was sitting next to you.

“The hell was that, Odair? Can’t sit down like a normal person?” grumbled Haymitch grumpily, scrubbing a napkin up and down his shirt in an attempt to save the dove coloured vest from drenching in liquor.

“I was excited to see this beautiful woman you’re hoarding.” You scoffed, Finnick propping an arm over your shoulders while he leaned forward to look at the older man. “If I didn’t know better, Abernathy, I’d say you’re trying to get on my sweetheart’s pants.”

You felt the blood draining from your body and collecting in your face and neck like a sunlit strawberry bush. Wrapped in shame, you had been too focused on smacking Finnick to see the stiffened form of Haymitch, who recovered rapidly before any of you noticed.

“Isn’t that what you’re trying by flirting with her?” Haymitch teased back, if his groan of annoyance was any indication.

“I don’t flirt, that's my way of talking.”

“Yeah, preener, of course.”

“Anyway, what were you two doing that was so funny? You’ve been alone here for hours.”

You shook your head, a sigh leaving your lips at his implications. “We were mimicking these nimrods.”

Finnick shifted his gaze to the group you were pointing, confusion transforming in sparkling eyes. “Oh! I want to mimic Cartiel.”

Haymitch furrowed his brows. “Who's that?”

“The woman with the cat furr.” Finnick laid his head on your lap, crossing his legs carelessly over the sofa. “Well? Who starts?”

Haymitch and you shared a look, mostly annoyed, but he complied and continued with your private game.

“I want to bathe in babies’ blood.” You spilled your water like a fountain, choking on it while your laughter came almost in sobs.

“We should ask Snow to save the tributes’ blood for sale,” followed Finnick in the same high pitch voice Haymitch was attempting. “Especially the twelve year olds’.”

“That’s a great idea! I can invest in it with the money I made from betting on murdered kids.” Both men laughed at your imitation.

It was sad and lugubrious, but the three of you shared a traumatic experience, so you were entitled to joke about it as much as you wanted. The hall was bugged, but who cared? No one apart from you three were listening to the others, so no harm was actually done.

Another half an hour passed before Haymitch clumsily stood and trundled from side to side. “I’m too old for this bullshit. See you tomorrow at the station, Doe Eyes.”

“What about me?” wondered Finnick with a smug smirk.

“Get your ego up your arse.”

And with that, Haymitch hobbled over to the entrance, followed by the laughter of both Finnick and yours. The lack of his presence was notorious from the instant he left, and your spirits felt heavier than they had felt in the past few hours.

“I have to give it to him. He’s hilarious!” Finnick mumbled, sitting up and strewing just like Haymitch had been a minute ago. You nodded in agreement.

“He’s actually really kind. I feel bad for being so harsh on him before.”

“Mags says he’s always been really sweet, but I don’t see it.” Finnick shrugged his shoulders, grabbing a small sandwich and stabbing his face with it in one bite.

You bit your lip and thought of your last encounter with the older man. “Maybe he’s not the usual definition of sweet,” you said, and Finnick glanced at you with curiosity. “He noticed I don’t drink alcohol and offered to fetch me a bottle of water out of nowhere. I- I don’t know, that sounds sweet to me.”

Finnick hummed, hovering over the tray for another snack. “Seeing it like that you might be right. But I don’t know. This is the first time I’ve shared more than five words with him and most of them have been bullshit.”

“Yeah, that’s true.” You picked the small tart that Finnick offered you, giving small bites. “By the way. You wrote back this time! I can’t believe you haven’t exploited Annie for it. I’m so proud of you!”

“Why are you treating me like I’m stupid?” he scoffed at your pouty eyes. “It’s not like I never write.”

“You never write.”

“Well, yeah, because your handwriting is so bad it takes me weeks to decipher your letters.”

Finnick and you bickered for a while, the party was slowly dying and you decided it was time to leave for your quarters. For the first time in a while, Finnick had been left alone and unscarred.

“Have you seen Johanna?” you asked him once you made it to the hotel’s elevator. He shook his head, his eyes turning somber.

“No. She was not in the hall.”

“I don’t understand. They wanted her everywhere! And now they don’t invite her?”

Finnick opened his mouth to counter, but he thought better and stayed silent. You felt him, not wanting to voice your fear of something happening to the young girl. The lack of response to letters was indication enough of terrible consequences having been placed on her, Finnick knew it all too well.

The elevator stopped at Finnick’s floor. He turned to you and kissed your forehead sweetly, caressing your cheek with gentleness. “Be careful, okay? I’ll see you at the station. Sweet dreams, sweetheart.”

“Sweet dreams, fish boy,” you replied softly, smiling sadly at him before the doors closed again.

A few months later the reaping for the 73rd Hunger Games occurred, and you were pushed back on a train along with a sixteen year old boy and a fourteen year old girl. You wished you had another victor to mentor along with you, but both Kyller and Therese were too far gone in morphling to be of any help. So you had to face the horrors alone.

Andromeda sat with you at dinner to watch the repository of the reaping they filmed for Panem, observing the tributes and taking notes to help as much as you could with strategy to the grumpy boy and trembling girl.

“There aren’t many kids under thirteen this year,” commented Andromeda lazily, sipping from her coffee.

“Too many seventeen and eighteen year olds,” you agreed.

You saw Finnick back at the stage of District 4, took notes of District 5, saw yourself and the terrified and angry faces of your District, and finally made it to District 7, where at the end of the stage…

“Johanna!” you yelled, if it was out of joy or dread, you still weren’t sure. You were glad to see her alive, but the looming, somber look on her eyes made your skin crawl.

“Johanna Mason?” asked Burry, the boy, with a bored expression.

“Uh, yes. Johanna Mason.”

“What’s with her?” Keit’s innocent eyes bored into yours.

Feeling a knot tying your vocal cords, you shook your head. “Nothing. I got excited, sorry.”

Burry scoffed, but the topic was cut there. The four of you continued watching the reaping. In District 12, Haymitch had been already hammered and sprawled on his chair, Effie doing her best in ignoring him during the act. He looked miserable. All of his clothes were dove coloured, enhancing the dark circles under his gloomy eyes. His hair was greasy, as if he hadn’t showered in days, and his stubble was more of a beard. Haymitch looked worse than you had ever seen him.

“Poor things, look at their mentor!” scoffed Andy, shaking her head in disapproval. “There’s no wonder District 12 hasn’t had a victor in over twenty years.”

“Don’t be so harsh on him!” you exclaimed, surprising the kids, Andy and yourself. “I mean, he’s doing what he can.”

“By doing nothing and watching kids die,” huffed Burry, reclining in his chair. “If I’m grateful for something, it is not having him as a mentor.”

Your heart clenched when Keit nodded in agreement, Andy joining their complaints. Not too long ago you also thought like them, but Haymitch wasn’t careless and cold. At least, that was not the impression you got from talking to him. He even wrote to you again once between the party of the Victory Tour and the reaping.

He was a broken man, you only didn’t know to what extent. And, if you were being honest, you couldn’t really blame him for coping like that even if it happened that his only trauma were the Games themselves. Only Games’ survivors knew the toll they left on a person.

You prayed to Mari for him, to keep him in his track and guarded from pain.

Thankfully, you got a chance at seeing him when you stumbled upon him on the bar during prep-time. He had been trimmed and clean, handsome in his own way.

“Hey, Haymitch,” you sat down on a stool next to him. He already reeked of liquor.

He stiffened, which you found weird, but he brushed it off. “Here again, Doe Eyes?”

“Wanted some refreshments,” you smiled softly, asking for an orange juice, something people in the Districts could only dream about. “How are you doing?”

“Marvelous,” he strutted his stuff, his usual sarcastic mannerisms taking over.

“You sure look like it,” you teased, sipping from your juice and humming in delight. “I wish they would send this in the monthly supplies.”

Haymitch scrunched his nose in disgust, finishing his own glass of Nepenthe. “I wouldn’t find any use for it.”

“If you don’t like it, you could trade it in the market. Or gift it. That’s what I do, anyway.”

He stared at you unimpressed. “What a kind soul you are.”

You felt your face warming up at his irony. What the hell was wrong with him? “Better that than letting it rot to waste,” you snapped.

Haymitch chuckled darkly, shaking his head down to the wooden bar. “If that makes you feel better, do whatever you please, Doe Eyes.”

You didn’t understand him. Lately he had been nice, not exactly chivalrous, but kind enough. Yet at the moment he was behaving like the asshole everyone made him to be. What had changed in those few months?

“When you stop being a fucking tosser find me.” You banged the table once before standing up, Haymitch keeping his eyes down.

“Whatever.”

“Well, aren’t you a sweetheart, Haymitch.” A female, ironic voice said from behind you. A voice you had grown to love and care for. The one voice you had been waiting to hear for months.

“Johanna!”

Tag list: @beingalive1 @timessa @chivasgozilla @bey0nd-1he-stars @anakhroni3m @heidiland05

#haymitch abernathy x reader #haymitch x reader #haymitch abernathy x you #haymitch x you #haymitch deserves the world #haymitch abernathy #thg haymitch #thg series #thg sotr #sunrise on the reaping #sotr

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suguru-getos · 1 year ago

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| Bully!Satoru Gojo x F!reader | Part 3 |

Part I, II

Summary: You had just transferred schools, and your first day was an encounter with your new bully. He’s mean, terrifically hot & absolutely a menace. Though there’s more to that personna.

Chapter Summary: After taking an off from school, you are back & Satoru is hovering around you like a looming threat. Suguru is there to defend you this time, but with your rage spiralling, you couldn’t help but ruin the two weeks of you being amicable.

Warnings: Bully!Mean!Satoru ofc, but hey he’s a pookie at heart & he’s contemplating whether to stop!! ✋ Reader-chan snapped in this chapter, soft Sugu<3

Comment down below if you want to be tagged ^^ New chapter comes out every week!

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Satoru feels upset and sick to his stomach, as someone who can be often used to people grovelling for him, being scared of him, and just respecting him as the honored one. You weren’t doing any of those and yet, you were suffering all the same. Any other girl would have chosen the easy way out, what does it need really? Apologize? Cry a little? Why aren’t you doing that?

All he could see was you going back home, the summer sun not being kind to you as you drag your feet back, after carrying his school bag for him. Suguru isn’t talking to him either. He simply said he doesn’t like to associate with feminine men who want to proclaim their ego more than their humanity. Boy that fucking stung & Satoru told Suguru to piss off before he’s beaten to a pulp. It’s not how Satoru was treating you which was a problem for him, he never hoped it would drag so much. All his blinding rage of the moment is fading off easy. He couldn’t drag this for a month for the life of him.

People love hanging out with Satoru also, despite whatever worshipping there is — he still has friends. This is surely one of the reasons they lurk around despite his intrinsic, domineering brattitude. He rolled his eyes upon realizing that he’s been standing there watching you walk away & scoffs, going inside.

Your shoulders hurt but you know his and your home is too far. You decide to use whatever pocket money you have to book a cab and leave home. Once you’ve reached, of course there are questions. Questions from your mum who’s calls you ignored. “Where were you? Why are you coming home from a fucking cab?” She snarled, raising a brow at your tired features. Your parents are normal, not too supportive not too toxic. However, normalcy when you’re imposed with external toxicity sounds toxic. Or maybe they just were… toxic. How would you decide either way? It’s not like you’ve taken trial periods of new parents to come to a decision.

“Sorry; head hurts. I’ll be in my room.” You dragged yourself across the expensive marble flooring of your home. You weren’t poor, per se… you just weren’t made privileged either.

Once you reached home, you sighed, back laid across the mattress and staring out into space. The sight of you drenched in cold water, the way your shoulders have red markings of the bag straps, all because you threw some gravy over the fucking bastard! You grit your teeth, jaw clenching. Fuck you hate him.

You hate that you’re crying again, tears and frustration bubbling in your eyes as you sniffled. Leaning your forehead against the mattress and curling up. You want to kick his ass so bad. If only this parental thing wasn’t involved…

The next day you’re not in school, your period had been unbearably shitty & so was your mental health along with migraines. The next day either, and not even the day after. Satoru is getting restless every day, walking to your class and seeing your seat vacant, walking away. Why the fuck does he not have your number? Why the fuck does it even matter… did he make you leave the school? Nah- why would you leave the school it wasn’t that bad right?

It was Friday again, four days of you not being here… you really thought maybe he would count this in the month? It’s almost two weeks over! Then again, Satoru Gojo would just push it for another four days of you serving him because you were absent. When you enter the school premises, you take a long breath, alright. No biggie, he’s just an annoying bully with Daddy’s money in his pockets.

The moment you enter, you find him lurching towards you, a beaming smile with black glasses. He looks so beautiful if he wasn’t so fucking shitty. You looked up at him and before he could say anything, “I was sick, even in companies and where you work, people are allowed to be sick. You can’t really extend the number of days because I was sick. That’s h-how it normally happens.” You mustered, defensive in your stance.

Oh… wow. He was just here to say hello, ask where you were and that if he had been too annoying that you decided not to come to school. Satoru was going to be nicer. Again, broken a little because you think so shitty of him. Not that he cares… he doesn’t… he— doesn’t…. Does he?

“Yeah, yeah I get you; damn do I scare you that much?” He chuckled, hands in his pockets. You knew you couldn’t say any of the twenty ass biting replies that you had logged at the back of your tongue. “Yeah, you’re my highschool nightmare, Gojo san.” You hummed, walking away.

He’s shamelessly following you, holding your wrist. “Didn’t say I was finished, did I?” His playfulness is gone, replaced by something carnal, icy again. You only manage to shake your head no. “Four days at home got you forgetting how to act right, hm?”

Satoru leaned down, making eye contact with you. You glanced at him back, pouting helplessly and shaking your head no. “Just- didn’t think you need me.”

He didn’t really plan on it, he just wanted to have a conversation! Why were you sick? His stomach was turning upside down at the thought of you handling Japan’s heat at 3 PM that Monday. He could’ve asked if you wanted some water… fuck this. He made this bet to make you suffer & you were suffering. What’s the problem really?

The problem was he wasn’t an asshole he pretended to be… and he didn’t think this would drag so long. Haven’t you seen other girls? They fawn over him endlessly, buzzing around him & always eager to have a speck of his attention. This is what makes him pissed off, again.

“You think a lot for someone who’s as dumb as you.” He chuckled, jabbing at your self respect once more like it’s free reign. “Sorry, tell me what is it you need from me?” You just ignore everything he says and focus on one goal. For this hellish month to end so you are free from Satoru Gojo’s clutches. Though with the way he talks to you, it does seem like you could handle your mother taunting you for months about how stupid you are after giving him the money. At least… she’s blood.

“Hey” the next voice that echoed was Suguru. He was the best friend who was around him of course. You remember his gaze, it wasn’t pity towards you when Satoru practically bore you naked in the cafeteria by spilling water over your white shirt. It was rage, subjected for Satoru & Satoru alone.

Satoru raised his brow, “Don’t interfere where you’re not needed, Suguru.” He snapped, while the latter only smiled in an annoyingly calm manner. “Wasn’t talking to you.” He simply answered your bully, looking at you. “Welcome back, I thought you had left the school.” He smiled, giving you the same popsickle that Satoru had you fetch.

You didn’t take it from him, why is he so hell bent on making things worse for you? Though his act of kindness doesn’t go unnoticed. It was like rain on lava. Bubbling emotions rushing down as you couldn’t help but blink furiously to evade the tears you find coming. “N- no, I’m uh… okay. I was just sick.” You managed, gnawing at your lip and wanting the world to swallow you whole. People on their way to classes were already seeing you between the two hot-shots of the school.

“So you can cry huh?” Satoru laughed, almost in disbelief. This is what he wanted didn’t he? Anything said by Suguru which made you emotional had you snap back instantly. “Do you need anything from me or can I go to class?” You say with such hatred it’s truly shocking.

“Yeah, write one thousand times that you will not leave my side until I’m not finished talking.” Satoru says simply, oh he’s pulling off Suguru’s rage on you now.

“You don’t have to do shit- it’s-” before Suguru could say anything else, you nodded. “Mkay. Can I go to class now?”

Satoru gnawed at his lip, he didn’t want today to be like this. He really thought he could make some progress. “Yeah, handwriting can’t be shitty or you rewrite.” He pushed your boundaries once more, hoping to earn a reaction out of you yet again.

“Understood.” You nodded, walking away. Just two more weeks… just, two more weeks.

During the lunch time, you go to him naturally. “Heh, shouldn’t she sit on the floor?” One of his classmates smirked when you walked to him. Oh?

“Shouldn’t you lay down on the floor?” You asked him, before launching a kick right at his face, knocking him unconscious as he dropped down. Wow… everyone was stunned, including Gojo Satoru. Another reminder that he only has you on a leash because he played dirty, another reminder that you are different.

He snickered, of course he wouldn’t chide you for kicking some random asshole’s ass? He would’ve done the same. How he treats you is his problem. Though, you’re pissed, “This is what I didn’t want.” You looked at him, gritting your teeth. “You treating me like shit gives other people the right to treat me like shit.”

You were… wrong. This wouldn’t end after a month? What were you even thinking? There would be other people who would rise up after him to bother you. “I’ll get you the fucking money to shove far up your pathetic ass.” Here you go, losing it again…

#gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk angst #gojo angst #geto suguru #geto x reader #geto fluff #jjk imagines #gojo imagines #gojo x y/n #jjk drabble #jjk fanfic #jjk x reader drabble #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen angst

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happypopcornprincess · 2 months ago

Text

Chapter 5 || Family Line

Pairings - Joaquin Torres X fem!Reader

Premise - what is real, and what is a memory? you fight through the glimpses of past and present mixed together, will you make it out?

Word Count - 4.9K

Warnings: TW child neglect, abuse, strong language, mentions of blood and gore, mentions of death, angst, emotional abuse

a/n - I am extremely sorry for the delay, but, Story time I sprained my hand and then i caught heat rash because temp in my country has reached fuckin 40 degrees IN MARCH so can’t wait to be boiled alive in june :) which is why i couldn't type any faster :( this chapter is more like a prequel and a sequel squeezed into one, dedicated to y/n’s backstory and also we get to know her and Connor more. Contains Inaccurate family court laws, inaccurate therapy session conversations because why not? I based a character on my ex so enjoy the diss ig :)

<< Chapter 4 || Series Masterlist || Chapter 6 >>

You felt a heavy weight was being lifted off of your chest. You were no longer in the dark, but surrounded in light. Sleep clouded your senses, an entity gently wrapping you in a warm blanket.

Is this what peace felt like?

The earliest memory you had of your parents was when you were four; you were playing with Connor with your dad passed out on the porch, drunk, and your mother walked back from the fields after working the entire day. You had run up to her, unknowing of her mood, and she had swatted you away and walked back to the house, all while you cried for her to come back.

The screaming and beatings had only increased as you grew older.

It stopped after your trip to the hospital, the incident of you passing out in the fields. CPS got involved, your parents maintained the facade of being responsible and loving caregivers to both their kids, but only applied it to Connor in private.

The emotional turmoil by them loomed over you all throughout your 18 years of life under their roof.

Despite being treated like their star child, Connor knew his parent’s true nature. Connor saw. He saw the bruises, the silent tears, the hollow look in your eyes. He was their golden child, their pride, yet he never made you feel less. He loved you with a fierce, protective devotion, a father's love in a brother's heart.

No presents on your birthday? Connor saved up his pocket money to bring you books on programming. Beaten by mother about working on the farm in harvest season? He would wake up earlier than everyone to do it with you. Left alone at home with your father and his creepy friends? He would play cards locked with you in his room because his football practice got ‘cancelled’.

Your wallet would never run out of money. Connor would throw at you his new clothes he didn’t like, that would fit you perfectly. He never told you how, but got you a second hand laptop for coding.

The nights when you were sent to your room with no dinner, Connor would sneak in with a bowl of steaming hot ramen in his hands and fruit cakes in his pockets,"We'll leave," Connor would promise, a fierce vow, "We'll never come back."

—/—/—

Summer, 2018

“Mom, I told you I cannot take another elective, I have Taekwondo training.” You whined running through your living room, searching for your headphones.

“One extra class won't kill you, Y/N. Connor managed three as a senior.” She said in a calm but innate voice that irritates you.

“I’m busy. Okay. I can’t.” you fished out your headphones under the coffee table, “and tell dad to please return my headphones after he used them, not throw them around the house.”

“It’s his choice. He bought them for you anyways.” She grumbled.

You didn’t have the time or patience to tell her good for nothing, unemployed husband passed out drunk in her bedroom, didn't do anything, and you bought them with your money working at the store, so you sling on your backpack to leave.

You cycled off to your school, the warm Texan wind on your skin and your family field buzzing by you, you pedalled full speed to your school.

Your phone rings, and Connor’s name flashes on screen, you smile, connecting it with your headphones.

“How’s my bug?” His cheerful voice made you roll your eyes. How could someone be so happy at 7 am?

“Mad.” You grumble.

He sighs, “Mom?”

"Yep. Raving about her perfect son. Again."

“It’s just a few months, then we’ll be at Georgetown and leave the lovebirds to scream at each other all by themselves.”

“They do that already.” You scoff.

“Hey,” his tone turns serious, “You take care of yourself. Okay?”

You smiled, looking at the fields rushing by, “I miss you bro.”

“I miss you too.” He lets out a breath. “Take care, Bug.”

“You too. Bye.” you say before cutting the call and closing your eyes to focus on Linkin Park for now.

-----

The late afternoon sun slashed through the windows of your school as you hurried through the hallway from your counselor’s room to your classroom.

You had no idea how to react to the news he just broke to you.

Your applications looked solid. Top scores, non academic activities of martial arts, and internship at a local office. With how skilled you were with programming from a young age, your application to both georgetown and MIT looked solid, and while georgetown was ready to accept you as a student, MIT was giving you a huge scholarship.

You halted in the halls for a moment, thinking about what could happen next.

You could choose MIT, study at your dream university with a scholarship, that would certainly lead to a great career, or you could go to Georgetown paying full tuition, study with your brother and never come back. You would struggle with finances, but you can live a peaceful life… you can make it work.

A month to decide, but the weight of Connor’s old wristwatch on your wrist felt like a silent answer.

And then, piercing through the silence of the school halls, the screamings started.

—/—/—

“Please… pick up!” you groaned, tears blinding your vision as you pedalled at full speed to your house.

You called Connor again, and found the same response; straight to voicemail.

You saw the abomination with your own eyes, classmates turning to dust right in front of your eyes, the news on the internet calling it a global event. People running around the town, calling out for loved ones. On your way, cars crashed with no one in the driver’s seat, it was like the apocalypse had started.

Crashing in your front yard, you ran inside, phone still on your ear.

“Mom!” you screamed, “mom… mama… dad!” a sob racked out of your chest, “mama!” you screamed out. Crying you searched the entire house, no signs of your parents.

Hey it’s Connor I’m a little busy at the moment, leave a message.

You cried out loud, cursing into the wind, calling him again.

“Connor I swear to god if you don’t pick up, if you don’t call me back. Please…” you fell to the ground, clutching your phone to your chest.

You called again, a desperate attempt.

But this time, there was no voicemail. The call disconnected.

Your phone slipped from your hands as you sank to your knees, numb. Your breath hitched, a silent sob trapped in your throat.

Connor, your brother, your entire world… he was gone.

—/—/—

Autumn 2018

“Well this is short,” the Judge let out a nervous laugh before beginning, “I, Leonard y/l/n, being of sound mind and body, my assets both liquid and otherwise, I leave in their entirety to Cooper y/l/n. My entire ownership of the Farmlands and contents within I leave in its entirety to Cooper y/l/n. The ownership of the house on the lands, likewise I leave in its entirety to Cooper y/l/n.”

The family court Judge rearranged her spectacles, “your name on the family register is only mentioned twice miss y/l/n, once on the birth registrations and the other on the number of family members.”

You gulped, realising what that implied.

The government was occupying houses and empty lands of those who were vanished to relocate people around the country, and given the fact your wonderful parents left everything on your brother, who also has vanished, you were seconds away from being homeless.

“But..” the judge began, “you’re the only surviving family member, so…”

—/—/—

The pickup truck with your life tied at the back waited for you in the driveway, as you stared at the two headstones on your farm, one for your parents and the other one…

In loving memory of Connor Y/l/n [1998-2018]Beloved brother.His memory forever a guiding star.

“Hey Connor.” you sniffled, clutching your acceptance letter to MIT in your fist, and a bundle of primrose in another, his favourite flowers.

“I got into MIT.” you huffed out, looking around at the farmland you grew up on.

Don’t cry, don’t cry don’t cry

“I’ve leased the farm to the neighbours, so I won't have to work part time. I thought of never coming back… huh… I’ll visit on your birthday. I hoped to go to Georgetown but… ”

Uncontrollable tears fell down from your face as you recalled him teaching you to drive a truck just last summer, your laughs mixed together like the warm setting sun, “I was born with you in this world. I was your sister my whole life. And now with you gone… I don’t know how to exist anymore.”

You broke down into sobs, touching the stone knowing there was nobody underneath it. And you still searched for a fragment of your brother’s presence, hoping in your heart that any minute now he would be right in front of you to ruffle your hair and tell you you got this bug.

“Who will call me bug now Connor!” you screamed.

The flowers in your hand felt heavy, and you got on your knees to shake his gravestone angrilly, “you weren’t supposed to go away! You…” sobs retched inside your chest, and let out a scream, demanding answers.

Receiving only the comfort of the whistling wind in response.

—/—/—

Autumn 2020

“Afternoon, y/n.” sitting in front of you was Christina Raynor, your therapist, smiling up from her notebook. A fine middle aged woman, she was an ex military therapist working on the campus.

“Ma’am.” you smiled, smoothing out your skirt.

“How are you feeling?” she tilted her head, looking you in the eyes, knowing damn well she will catch you if you lied. Her posture remained straight, almost regal, intimidating anyone in front of her.

You had seeked emotional therapy when you went to classes and realized how the weight of all these years of abuse and neglect by your caregivers affected your life. Your therapist, Christina, was a godsend. You had worked with her for a year to figure out how to improve your mental health. And how to move forward.

“Quite good, actually.” you nod, smiling, “I’m doing an internship along with classes, it’s online, cybersecurity.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” she nods, “I wanted to ask you about your personal life. How are you holding up?”

“I’m taking my meds regularly if that’s what you’re referring to.” you hint at the antidepressants and anxiety medications prescribed by her.

“Okay, um, martial arts?” she asks.

“Black belt in taekwondo, brown in Muay Thai.” you point to yourself.

“Congratulations,” she claps, a genuine, appreciative gesture, “That’s great, y/n. What about your surroundings? Any friends, or relationships?”

“Oh.” you pause, thinking about how you should put it out, “well, I have some friends on campus, and from Muay Thai classes. We work together, and hangout after classes.”

“Okay, that’s nice.” she writes in her notebook, “what about relationships, you mentioned a boy in our last session.”

“I did?” you gulped.

“Yeah.” Christina leaned forward, her eyes that could read your body language in seconds perked up to bore into yours, “did something happen?”

Jeremy, blue-eyed, curly-haired, two years your senior, buttoned his shirt in front of the mirror. He met your eyes through the reflection.

"So, when am I going to see you again?" you sat up on his bed, looking at him with hooded eyes, still drowsy from the encounter.

Your first time, actually.

"What do you mean?" he laughed.

Your heart jumped, sensing what he was implying. "I mean, when are we hanging out again?"

"We're not?" He turned to face you, laughing, and picked up your dress from the floor, tossing it at you.

Noticing your stunned expression, he sighed. "I don't want to hurt you… but… this was just for fun.” he breathed out, running his fingers through his hair, “Y/N, look, I'm sorry if I led you on or something, but this was a one-time thing, okay? I don't do relationships."

You gripped your sundress, the bright yellow he'd said he liked so much, in your hands.

"Get dressed. I'll drop you off at your dorm." He said, walking into the bathroom.

“How did that make you feel?” Cristina breathes out.

“Betrayed. Sad.” your tone dropped, “He was the first boy I liked. I thought he would be my boyfriend.”

“Did you meet Jeremy again?”

“No. he made it clear he didn’t wanna meet.”

“You haven’t felt like this since your family disappeared.”

“Yep.”

“Hmm…” Cristina writes down something in her notebook, “Did you tell him about your feelings for him?”

“It wouldn't matter. He wanted to hookup with a virgin, he got that out of me so now I'm of no use to him.” you breathe out, “my friend heard him bragging about it in a bar downtown.”

Cristina took a deep breath, her stance dropping a bit, “y/n, are you sure you’re alright?”

“Please don’t mind my language but, honestly, fuck him. I’ll get better. Promise.” you smiled a sad smile.

“Are you sure?” she asks again.

“Yep. all good.” you say, genuinely, just not mentioning the part where you kicked him in the balls when he came back to beg you to sleep with him again.

“Have you visited your farm recently?”

It feels gloomy all of a sudden, and you let out a sad smile, “I visit every year on Connor’s birthday, apart from that, never.”

She suggested you try to forgive your parents, and you did try, but anytime you saw your roommate’s parents calling her everyday to check on her, or a family buying their little kid presents for christmas, your resentment for them only grew.

“What about your parents?”

“I couldn’t care less.” you scoff.

After everything they had put you through, it was just really hard for you to sympathize with them in any shape and form.

“So,” she slams her notebook shut, looking at you, “let’s do an exercise, I want you to close your eyes, and imagine your family sitting in front of you-”

“- doc, seriously?”

“- just listen, close your eyes.” you do, sitting straighter.

“Now, I want you to tell them everything that you never got to say. Good and bad.”

"I... I don't even know where to start." you say, eyes still closed.

"Start with the first thing that comes to mind."

You took a deep breath, imagining them sitting in front of you instead of Christina, and the words flew out of your mouth, "I hated you. I hated you both. For everything. Every slap, every punch, every kick. For every time you made me feel like I was nothing… like I was not even human."

"Go on." Christina tensed.

"You could love. I know that. You loved Connor like breathing. You forgave his every mistake, you hugged him when he left for school, you gave him your inheritance... God, Connor.” you sniffled, feeling your eyes burn, “He was the kindest, purest soul on earth. You didn’t deserve him. Fuck, i didn’t deserve him either. Y’all could live a hundred lifetimes, and you could still not deserve a kid like him.”

You took a long pause, breathing hard, remembering him and you mother laughing in the kitchen making dinner on Sundays, and how your dad beamed with pride when he won matches in high school, "Sometimes... I wished you would have seen me. I wished you would have hugged me. I wished you would have said you loved me. Even once. I wished... I wish only you had blipped instead of him!"

You let out a ragged breath, and "It's the truth. And it makes me sick. And I hate you, and I miss him, and I hate myself. All at the same time."

“It’s a very hard thing to admit y/n.” Christina spoke softly.

You opened your eyes to only find her in front of you, sitting calmly like a regal queen.

“I’m sorry I lashed out.” you squirmed in your seat

She only smiled in return.” it’s alright.”

—/—/—

Summer 2023

You graduated, with so many achievements under your belt that could have landed you any place that you wanted to be.

Confidence drips out of every node of your body with your Head held high, you can walk into any room and they would know you: Y/n Y/l/n, the insane coding freak who can hack into any system in seconds.

You felt good in your own self for the first time, life felt like one of those coming of age movies; where the character goes through hell and back but in the end everything works out.

Or so you thought.

It was as if you were reliving your worst nightmare.

People had started to reappear at the same places they had vanished from before. It was chaos, but of a different, more insane level than before.

Your phone was blowing up, and you didn’t dare check it, you couldn’t, because if every person who vanished five years ago was truly back… then you knew damn well who was calling you.

—/—/—

You walked into the community center in your small town cautiously, wearing an office suit, with your hair tied up and light makeup. There were people around you, reuniting with their lost family members. Tearful reunions, some solemn, some happy, but still bittersweet. But nothing could have prepared you for what unfolded next.

“Bug!”

Connor ran in your direction, slamming into you, the force sending you stumbling. You clung to him, a desperate, broken hold.

He retreated to give you the full faced smile he had since he was a kid, his canine teeth a bit crooked, his face overjoyed.

Connor looked exactly like the day he had left.

Frozen in time.

"You look," he said, his hands on your shoulders, a gentle pat on your head, tears brimming in his eyes, "you look like a grown-up!" He laughed, a sound that ripped through the years.

Tears streamed down your face as you held his hands in yours, he hadn’t changed at all, he was still 20.

“Well, I'm older than you now, so,” you choked out, a sob tearing through you as you hugged him, fierce and desperate.

He was back.

A miracle, a cruel, impossible miracle.

Just when you thought a calm had washed over you, your head jerked back with force, your hair being pulled.

“You scheming bitch!” it was your mother’s chilling scream, which made you freeze in your place. The two seconds of peace that had washed over you was snatched away in an instant.

"You stole my goddamn house while I was gone!" Your father's roar echoed, a thunderclap in the room. All eyes were on you. A spectacle.

Five years of quiet. Five years of building a life. Gone. In an instant.

—/—/—

The living room air crackled with a rage you knew too well.

People intervened to stop what had unfolded at the community center, and you were rushed out to your place.

You didn’t have much, but you packed away whatever things you had left back home, while your mother and father were locked in a screaming match downstairs with your brother.

“She didn’t steal anything ma! She saved the farm! It would have been gone in the last five years!” Connor shouts as you throw your things in cardboard boxes, sealing them shut with trembling hands.

“Well I don’t give a damn! Why is it under her name then?” your father’s voice only grew with every sentence.

“I came back to see the neighbours havin a roast in my kitchen! Do you have any idea how terrifying that was! And then I found out that little missy sold it to them when I was gone!” your mother was next to scream.

This was too familiar, your parents degrading you any chance they get and Connor defending you like his life depended on it.

“Are you hearing yourself ma!” Connor only screamed louder, “I came back to my senses in the middle of a road! I called y’all and it went straight to voicemail! I fucking hitchhiked on a bus to get here ‘cause I had no idea what the fuck was going on!”

“Oh sweet heavens!” a loud crash, and you knew your father had kicked a chair somewhere.

“What about y/n? Y’all have any idea how hard it must have been for her! She thought we all were dead for five years dad! She had our graves in the goddamn fields!”

Your mother’s shrill laughter was next, “Well, I don't know, she seems just fine to me! She strutted in the halls in that expensive ass suit looking like some high end lawyer or something’! She’s grown fat around her face, did you see that?”

You froze in your face, and saw hot white anger blinding your vision, but you kept quiet, you didn’t need to be associated with them again.

“Well you weren’t starving her for ridiculous reasons ma, so yeah i’m glad she looks healthy. And she can be whatever she wants, you shouldn’t have a say in it!”

You drowned out the shouts as you hauled the boxes from your room to the old pickup truck outside, thanking the forces you didn’t sell that.

“I’m leaving.” you spoke as you felt all three of their gazes on you.

"The hell you mean you won't come back?" your father bellowed, his southern drawl sharpening with each word, a familiar sign of his disappointment. He watched you, a rigid figure, as you hauled your luggage towards the door.

"Is there anything to come back to?" you asked, your voice flat, the question hanging in the charged atmosphere. And finally, since you have been here, your gaze, heavy with weariness, met his.

The sting of your mother’s slap registered before the sound, a sharp, brutal end to the argument.

"Ma! Don't!" Connor’s voice, raw with alarm, pierced the silence.

You turned, your eyes locking with your mother's, the same eyes reflected back at you in the mirror every morning, now twisted with a venomous anger. "You ain't no daughter of mine," she hissed, her voice a low, guttural threat. "Get out of my house!"

A coldness settled over you, "You should check the registry before you say that, Ma," you retorted, the words laced with a bitter edge. You turned on your heel, heading for the rented pickup, refusing to witness their reactions.

Under the afternoon sun, Connor ran after you, “Y/n, I know you’re angry right now, but, just listen to me.” He gently held your arm but you jerked back, looking at him.

He was tense, his brows furrowed. Confused, and frustrated, he looked at you, begged you to stay. To listen to him.

For the first time ever, you saw him not as your older brother, but as a kid. And you saw how young he was. How much weight he had been carrying on his shoulders since he was a child.

A child who had also suffered like you.

“I’m so sorry, Connor,” you held his shoulders, squeezing them with pity, in your heels, you were almost the same height now, “but I can’t do this right now. Go to georgetown, I’ll help however I can. Don’t stay here. Leave.” you hugged him, your chest tightening, and he held you back, grabbing onto your clothes, refusing to let go.

“Bug…”

The engine roared to life against the silence of the driveway. You slammed the accelerator.

"Bug! Wait!" your brother's desperate cry echoed against the hum of the engine, but you didn't slow down. The road blurred through the tears streaming down your face, the pain a burning ache in your chest, your family farm a blur around you.

You cried harder as you saw him, a small, desperate figure running after the truck, calling you by the name only he used, a name that now felt like a cruel mockery of a bond you could never go back to.

—/—/—

Present day

He ran through the cold empty hallways of the medical bay at Avengers Compound, barely registering the fact that he was standing in a place he would have given anything to even look at when he was younger. The receptionist lady just pointed him towards a vague direction where every hall and room looked the same, he was confused as to where to go, or look.

Until, he saw a figure standing at the end of one of the halls, and he ran towards it. At first, he couldn’t recognise the tall, broad shouldered asian man who stared at him in confusion, but when he got closer, he recognised him.

“You’re the guy from the LA bus incident, right?” he panted, huffing out from all the running.

“...yeah?” he raised an eyebrow, looking at him from head to toe, his expression set somewhere between bewilderment and disbelief.

He looked at himself then; he was wearing loose sweatpants and a casual shirt. He had no time to think rationally when he got the call, he grabbed whatever he could and begged his friend for his car to get to the avengers compound.

“I’m sorry I'm in a hurry, could you please direct me to…”

The man cut him off before he could finish his request, “You’re y/n’s brother… Connor, right?” he extended a hand, “I’m Shang Chi, y/n’s friend.”

Connor froze, his heart racing, his mind a haze from listening to his sister’s name from him, “Hi. hello, uh… yeah, yes. I’m her brother. Do you know where she is?” he shook his hand.

Shang Chi let out a breath, “She’s out of surgery, but…” he looked behind him, and Connor turned to follow his gaze, finding a hospital room door ajar, voices coming from inside.

“But what? Shang Chi…” he held his hand in desperation, “please tell me she’s alright?”

“Connor...” Shang Chi held his arm, leading him inside the same door he had been looking at before, “why don’t you sit down?”

Connor entered the room to see a man on the hospital bed, his neck covered in bandages, and two people; a girl and a boy sitting on the bed with him.

“Guys, Y/n’s brother.”

The girl immediately got up and rushed to him, “hi, I’m Kate. We talked on the phone.” She guided him to a chair.

He sat down, “Yes. Kate. nice to meet you.” he looked at all the faces of strange people looking at him with a gaze he thought was sadness, but later deciphered as pity.

“Y’all are scaring me folks,” he breathed hard, his emotions that he had managed to keep at bay threatened to burst, “what’s going on?”

The boy next to Kate spoke up, “she’s stable for now but she’s not waking up, Connor.”

“What?” his vision became hazy with tears brimming in his eyes.

“They’re saying, there’s a chance…” Shang Chi stopped before taking a deep breath, “there is a chance she might not wake up again.”

Those last words were the final nail in the coffin. Connor breathed out, his chest burning with pain and exhaustion, the last memory of his sister dancing infront of his eyes; how defeated she looked when she drove away from the house while he screamed for her to stay.

He let the tears fall, holding his head in his hands when he felt a hand on his shoulder, but it did nothing to soothe his pain. Fate had made him lose his sister once, and now she was being taken again.

—/—/—

The doctors had told him before he set foot inside the ICU, wearing a sterile gown and a mask, “she was stabbed multiple times, her body will take time to heal, which is why she’s in a coma. It might be a bit overwhelming for you to see her, she’s been hooked to a ventilator, oxygen pipe and wires to monitor her condition.”

Which did nothing to prepare him for the condition he found his sister in.

Her mouth was covered in tape keeping the food pipe intact, while a dozen wires ran from her arms and chest to different machines around her.

Connor couldn’t tear his eyes away from her as his mind played a cruel trick on his subconscious; instead of her grown self, all he saw was the little kid in the hospital room, sunburnt and dying from dehydration fifteen years ago.

He collapsed on the chair near her bed, his hand reaching out for her but hesitating as he saw the IV running from her pale arms.

Peter and Shang Chi’s words rang in his ears, how she could still hear her surroundings, and hearing a familiar voice could help bring her back.

“...Bug?” his voice muffled, he whispered, too scared of accidentally startling her, “hey, it’s Connor. I’m here.”

He waited for her to open her eyes and laugh, telling him this was all a cruel joke, and rant on about computers and movies which he had no ideas about, but would gladly listen with no complaints.

No such thing happened. His chest felt heavy watching how still she lied there, motivating him to talk further.

So he did.

He talked about his day, and how she scared the daylights out of him by ending up at the hospital. How he will give her a piece of his mind when she wakes up, even bribing her with her favourite fruit cake he would make for her birthdays.

He recalled a memory of when she was a toddler, and he had seen her walk for the first time. Their parents weren't around, and he was jumping with joy while you giggled and ran to him, looking up at him while hugging his legs.

“That’s my oldest memory, ever. I don’t remember anything before that, my first memory is being your brother and picking you up when you were about to fall down.” he choked on his words, “god, y/n, I have no idea how much you had suffered. I wanted to give you space… but… it took everything inside me past year not to stand in front of you and fight you for not talking to me.” he looked down, sobbing, tears falling on his gown, “just… come back. Please, Bug, you have to. I don’t know how I'll live without you annoying the shit out of me, so just, wake up.”

Connor hesitated before gently patting her head, sniffling, he walked out without looking back.

—/—/—

“Goddammit…” Joaquin cursed under his breath as he saw the chips packet stuck in the medic bay vending machine, Already frustrated and disturbed watching Connor’s reaction to the news broken by Shang Chi.

It was nearing midnight, and Joaquin had refused to eat his soup dinner which looked like it was made in the 1800s. Which proved to be a punishment as his stomach turned in hunger. So before Peter sitting next to him could have said I told you so, he tiptoed out of his hospital bed and went to wander the hallways, finding himself standing in front of a vending machine.

He contemplated getting a soft drink that was stacked right above the stuck chips, and found his pocket empty of quarters.

“Here.” a hand extended to him with some loose change, and when he saw who was the person, it was Connor

Joaquin took a good look at his face, his eyes red and hair askew, heavy dark circles loomed under his eyes indicating he hadn’t had any sleep.

It felt eerie looking at Connor. His features matched y/n a little too much… the nose, that little tilted smile to hide the anxiety, it was the same. He had earlier avoided any conversation with him, wanting no intrusion in him processing the news, but now it had been a bit too late and he hadn’t had a chance to talk to him.

“Thanks…” he muttered, taking the change and selecting the soft drink, which then made its way down to the chute with the chips.

“You sure you should be having that?” he asks in a questioning manner, which makes Joaquin turn to him to defend himself, but he notices the way Connor looks at him, worried, his eyes trained at his neck.

“I don’t like soup.” is all Joaquin says before tearing into the packet, earning him an amused laughter from Connor.

He slumps down on the bench near the machine, breathing out, and tapping a seat next to him. Joaquin wordlessly takes a seat next to him, trying to focus on his food rather than the guy sitting next to him. Minutes went by, and he had halfway finished through his packet when Connor spoke again.

“Kate told me you two are close.”

Joaquin stopped, his mind reeling about how to answer.

He was y/n’s… what? Colleague? Friend? Ex? The guy she had been sleeping with for the last few months?

He responded with a very vague, and serious, “yeah.” and went back to eating chips.

“Cool.” Connor takes a deep breath.

Silence falls, as Joaquin eats his chips and Connor sits silently next to him.

Joaquin turns to him to see a faint smile on his lips, “I found out she was an avenger after she came to New York. I wanted to tell her to stay safe, but it came out a bit accusingly, she stopped calling after that.” he breathed in, “There was a time when she would tell me everything, small or big. I was the first to know. Now… it’s been what? a year since we had a proper talk. At Least for me. She’s been living with my ghost for the last five years.”

“You were blipped?” Joaquin exclaims.

“Yeah,” he smiles sadly, “One day I'm waiting for her to come to Georgetown, and the next day she’s in front of me all grown up, like she doesn't need me anymore.”

“That’s not true.” Joaquin spoke immediately, “she pretends like she doesn't need anyone but… she does. Everyone does.”

“She doesn’t say it out loud. thinking she might…”

“Hurt you.” Joaquin completes Connor’s sentence.

Connor turns to look at him, and Joaquin, for the first time, doesn’t see him as your brother.

He was looking at a kid, who had to grow up too soon to raise another kid; you. And like a light being flicked inside his head, everything started to make sense. Why you were close one second and distant the next, how you would act fine and still fall into panic episodes alone. Why you never talked about your family, or anyone of your friends, why he could never cross your walls, no matter how hard he tried.

“I’m Joaquin.” He extended his hand to Connor.

“Connor,” he shook his hand, and suddenly, a mischievous smirk played on his face, “you wanna grab some real food? Other than chips?”

Joaquin looked a bit wary, letting out a nervous laugh, “well I am hungry, so,”

Connor stands up, “let’s go to the cafeteria. Grab your jacket.” he walked out without looking back, leaving a bewildered Joaquin trying to contemplate what just happened.

—/—/—

It took exactly an hour for Joaquin and Connor to turn into friends.

Over the stale cafeteria food, their conversations deepened. Connor, surprisingly, opened up about his protective nature towards Y/N, his admiration for her resilience. They discovered a shared love for old films, quoting lines and debating plot twists, their voices hushed in the quiet of the late hours.

They were two people, brought together by the unspoken shared love and a shared fear, forging a bond in the little space between hope and despair.

As Connor tried to leave saying he would sleep on the benches until morning, Joaquin simply laughed, leading him to his room on the compound and basically threatening him to take the bed as he was going back to the medic dorm and he would let him know of any progress.

—/—/—

Connor walked into the room the next day, ready to face another day of sterile beeps and silent hopes, a forced strength in his chest reminding him not to cry, but the sight before him stole his breath.

Inside her room, the table next to her bed had flowers, balloons, and greetings from her friends from college. He read the cards - One addressed with Nelson, Murdock and Page, and another one was a bunch of white lilies from a simple card signed, “stay strong - Frank.” he smiled involuntarily, his heart clenched watching the testimony of so many people rooting for y/n.

Days blurred into a strange, unsettling routine: he would find her hair already combed, moisturiser on her skin, and a change of her hospital clothes, which Kate and Kamala swore they had nothing to do with, only exchanging soft smiles anytime they saw him.

Snacks materialized in his backpack, clothes in Joaquin's room, Peter handing him a box saying his aunt 'accidentally' made too many empanadas, Kamala's mom’s parathas that he could never get over, and even the grumpy and brooding Bucky Barnes, shoving a bag of chocolate cookies into his hands before retreating into silence.

At first, it was a bewildering puzzle, a strange, almost surreal kindness. Then, a slow, dawning realization: Y/N had built a family, a fierce, protective circle of love she'd craved her entire life. And in their silent support, they had taken him in too.

For the first time, Connor knew he wasn't alone. He had people, a safety net woven from shared pain and unwavering loyalty, a promise that if he fell, they would be there to catch him.

In the midst of all this chaos, he couldn’t help but notice Joaquin; how he would linger around her longer, how his eyes would always be trained on the monitors, his smile a bit wider, relief in his eyes when he would notice her pale skin was returning back to normal.

—/—/—

“She’s awake!” Joaquin was jolted out of his afternoon nap by Kamala’s scream in the living room.

Connor immediately made a run for it, while the others followed.

Joaquin almost had an out of body experience; his physical form walking through the corridors of the medical bay towards her room, but his mind was back to the first time he saw her... the night they met.

to be continued...

<< Chapter 4 || Series Masterlist || Chapter 6 >>

---/---/---

A/N - Thank you everyone for sticking with me till the end of this fic! if you liked it please let me know through the asks and the comments. Next Chapter will be up soon... Love y'all, Take Care!

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ceyanabbiolo · 2 months ago

Text

CONTRACT // C.S [05]

Summary: Christopher Sturniolo, a 26-year-old billionaire CEO, agrees to a strategic marriage with Aurora Devereaux, the 21-year-old daughter of his rival, to save his company during a crisis. Raised in a cold, arrogant environment, Chris is used to control and detachment. Aurora, a final-year fashion student, is forced into the arrangement by her powerful father and struggles with the fear of losing herself. As the two navigate their unexpected marriage, they begin to confront emotional walls and develop a connection that challenges everything they thought they knew about love and trust. But with their families’ influence looming, will their bond be strong enough to survive—or will it fall apart?

Warnings: none. slightly flirty Chris.

wc: 3109

Chapter 5: The Penthouse

It was the end of the month when the movers showed up at the penthouse, carrying the carefully labeled boxes that held the pieces of my old life.

Clothes. Some books. Trinkets from my childhood I hadn’t been able to leave behind, and all my school stuff. Not much. It never felt like it would be enough to fill a place like this.

Chris wasn’t here. Of course, he wasn’t.

I hadn’t seen him since the engagement party, not really. There were a few short, stiff text messages, details about the move. Nothing personal.

The maid — an older woman with kind eyes — met me in the lobby and ushered me upstairs, guiding me through the sleek, cold hallways like I might get lost otherwise. She didn’t say much, just pointed down a hall and smiled.

"Your room, Miss," she said quietly.

There was a sticky note slapped onto the door, my name written in careful, neat handwriting. Aurora.

The absurdity of it made my throat ache a little.

I peeled the note off and pushed open the door. The room was... beautiful. Huge king-sized bed with dark gray linens. A massive window overlooking the glittering city skyline.

The movers came and went, leaving behind a mess of cardboard boxes and pieces of my life scattered across the polished floors. I stood frozen in the middle of it all, arms crossed tightly over my chest, trying to will myself to do something. To unpack. To settle in. But I couldn’t.

The massive closet stood empty and waiting. The huge king-sized bed was made, untouched. The floor-to-ceiling window looked out over the glittering skyline, cold and impersonal.

And my things — all my sewing supplies, my sketches, my mannequin, my fabric — were sprawled everywhere, looking heartbreakingly out of place against the sleek, expensive furniture.

Where was I supposed to put all of it? There was no sunny studio corner here like back home. Just a room that was too big, too clean, too foreign.

I sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, staring at the chaos around me. The sewing desk I loved was shoved awkwardly against the far wall, looking pitifully small compared to everything else.

My throat tightened painfully.

This wasn’t home. This wasn’t mine. I was just squatting in someone else’s life.

I dropped my head into my hands, letting the minutes pass, unmoving.

Outside the glass, the city buzzed — alive and pulsing — while I sat there, frozen.

Half an hour later, I heard the soft click of the front door opening. Footsteps on hardwood. Slow, steady.

I didn’t look up.

There was a pause in the hallway. Then more footsteps, growing closer.

Chris appeared in the doorway, tall and sharp against the sleek lines of the house. He wore a black dress shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and no tie. His hair was slightly messy, fluffy like he’d run his hand through it, and somehow that only made him look even more frustratingly handsome.

He stood there for a second, surveying the room.

His eyes moved over the unopened boxes, the mannequin half-draped in pinned fabric, the sewing machine teetering on the edge of the desk.

And then he pushed off the doorframe and stepped into the room, his presence immediately filling the space.

"You’re not unpacking," he said, voice low and even, but not exactly warm.

I shrugged, not looking at him. "I’ll do it later."

Chris didn’t leave. Instead, he slowly wandered through the room, his movements casual but sharp-eyed. He brushed his fingers lightly across a fabric roll, nudged one of the boxes with the tip of his shoe.

"You brought all this?" he asked, sounding more curious than judgmental.

I finally glanced up, feeling the heat creep into my cheeks.

“It’s for school,” I said, forcing the words out. “My final portfolio’s coming up. I need it to work.”

Chris gave a small nod.

“That’s fine,” he said simply. “Just keep everything in here".

I swallowed hard, feeling the pressure of his presence even though he wasn’t looking directly at me. The room suddenly felt smaller with him in it. Warmer.

He paused by the window for a second, glancing at the city lights outside. Then, almost like he remembered something, he turned back to me.

"There are a few things you should know," he said, walking slowly back toward where I sat. "House rules."

I nodded stiffly.

He stopped a few feet away, hands sliding into the pockets of his dress pants.

"The kitchen’s stocked. If you want something specific, tell Ana or one of the kitchen staff. They’re usually here in the mornings and afternoons," he said. "You don’t have to cook unless you want to."

I nodded again, gripping the edge of the bed to keep from fidgeting.

"And laundry — if you leave it in the baskets, it’ll get taken care of," he continued. "You can do it yourself, but you don’t have to."

His eyes flickered around the room again, taking in the chaos, but there was no judgment on his face. Just that calm, unreadable coolness.

"There’s a cleaner who comes every other day," he added. "If you need something moved or organized, ask Ana. Or tell me."

He said it casually, almost like it didn’t matter. Like he wasn’t used to explaining his life to someone else.

"I work late a lot," he said. "Sometimes weekends too. So if I’m not around, it’s not... personal."

Something in his tone softened then, just barely.

"And if you need anything," he finished, his voice dropping slightly, "don't wait around. Just ask."

The silence stretched tight between us.

He was trying. In his own cold, careful way, he was trying to make this easier.

I shifted a little on the bed, feeling small under the weight of his gaze. He was close now — not towering exactly, but big enough that I felt it. And unfairly good-looking. The way the low light caught the angles of his face, the sharpness of his jaw — it made my heart kick up nervously in my chest.

Chris studied me for a second longer, then — unexpectedly — he tilted his head, a slow, almost lazy gesture.

And then he asked, voice low and a little rough, "Are you scared of living with me?"

The question hit harder than it should have. Not teasing. Not playful. Just straight-up blunt, like he actually wanted to know.

My breath caught slightly. I hadn’t realized he was standing so close — only a few inches away now, close enough that I could feel the heat of him, the faint clean scent of his cologne.

I looked up, wide-eyed, caught between the sudden proximity and the unexpected rawness of his question.

My mouth went dry. I managed to croak out, "What?"

It came out smaller, shakier than I meant it to. His mouth curved into the faintest smirk, not cruel — just a little cocky, like he knew exactly what he was doing to me.

He stepped even closer. I shifted back instinctively, but the edge of the bed was already pressed against the backs of my knees. Nowhere to go.

Chris tilted his head again, studying me like I was something interesting, something he couldn’t quite figure out. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out and tilted my chin up with two fingers — light but firm, keeping me from looking away.

"You don’t have to be scared," he said, voice low and steady, almost coaxing. "You’re safe here."

My heart slammed against my ribs. Who's going to tell him the thing I’m scared of is him? I was sure he could feel how hard I was trembling under his touch.

Chris let out a low chuckle, quiet but undeniably amused.

"You’re shaking," he murmured, almost to himself.

I hated how warm his hand was. How gentle. How my body betrayed me by leaning the slightest bit toward him. His thumb brushed lightly along the line of my jaw, and I swore my brain just... short-circuited.

"You’re not a guest, sweetheart," he said, his voice softer now, something almost reassuring threading through it. "You live here now. This is your home."

I bit the inside of my cheek, trying desperately to get a hold of myself.

Chris's hand lingered for another breath, one, two — before he slowly dropped it, letting the moment unravel naturally.

For a second, he just stood there, still way too close, still watching me with those sharp, unreadable eyes, like he was waiting for me to believe him.

Then, finally, he took a step back, giving me space again.

The air between us stayed thick, buzzing with something electric and unspoken.

"If you need anything," he said again, his voice gentler now, almost like a promise, "ask staff."

Why did I think he was going to say Ask me, of course he’d want me to ask the staff.

He held my gaze for one more second — a second too long — before he turned and walked out, his footsteps retreating down the hall.

The door clicked softly shut behind him, leaving me standing there, breathless, heart pounding against my ribs like it wanted out.

I pressed my hands to my burning cheeks, feeling the heat of my embarrassment spread. I hated how easily he’d thrown me off balance, how his presence reduced me to a flustered mess.

Christopher Sturniolo was insufferable — cold, arrogant, and distant. Yet, somehow, he’d made me nervous, without even realizing it.

I hated how effortlessly he could do that, how much control he had over my emotions, even when he probably didn’t care. His fingers on my chin, his voice low and steady — it all lingered, making everything feel more intense than it should have. I tried to shake it off, but the feeling stuck with me.

I hated how much it bothered me.

CHRISTOPHER

I stayed locked in my office for hours after that interaction, pretending to be busy.

Emails, contracts, reports — all of it blurred together until the lines on the screen didn’t even look like words anymore. No matter how much I tried to bury myself in work, my mind kept circling back to her.

Sitting stiffly on that giant bed earlier, clutching herself like she didn’t know if she was allowed to be here.

Like she thought she didn’t belong.

I don't know why I even touched her or even got that close, but I couldn't fight away the though of loving how she looked under my gaze.

By the time the clock crept past 4 PM, I shoved my chair back, the legs scraping loudly against the hardwood. Ugh. Screw it. I needed to check on her.

The house was silent as I made my way down the hall, the kind of heavy silence that pressed against your ribs.

When I reached her room, I found the door open, lights off, and no sign of her. I frowned, tension snapping down my spine.

Where the hell was she?

Then, the sound of quiet footsteps from farther down the hall. Toward the west wing, toward my side of the house.

My jaw tightened as I followed the sound, rounding the corner. And there she was.

Standing near my bedroom door, leaning in like she was trying to peek inside.

I stopped cold.

"What the hell are you doing?" My voice came out low, harsh, sharper than I meant it.

She jolted violently, whipping around to face me, her eyes wide and panicked. "I—I wasn’t—" she stammered, taking a quick step back from the door.

I crossed the distance between us in two strides, towering over her. "Why are you looking into my room?"

She looked down, flustered, her hands knotting in the sleeves of her sweatshirt. "I didn’t know it was yours," she said quickly. "I was just... looking around. I got a little lost. I didn’t mean anything by it."

For a second, I just stood there, staring at her. The way her voice trembled a little, the way she shrank under my gaze.

The guilt flared up instantly. But pride — that old, stubborn part of me — kept me silent. Kept me from saying the apology sitting bitter on my tongue.

Instead, I shifted my weight and let my voice drop lower, harder.

"Stay out of this side of the house," I said. "You have everything you need on your end. Don’t come wandering over here again."

Her face fell slightly, but she nodded, looking small and embarrassed.

She didn’t know it, but I had made sure her room was far from mine on purpose. Deliberate. Safer that way — for both of us.

She mumbled a small, "Okay," and turned, walking quickly back down the hall without looking at me again.

I stayed where I was, watching her retreat. A tight, sour feeling twisted low in my chest. I told myself it was better this way.

The distance. The boundaries.

It had to be.

—

The hours dragged again after she wandered off.

I shut myself in my office again, pretending to be busy—emails, contracts, budgets—but none of it stuck. The words blurred together on the screen, meaningless.

The house felt too damn quiet.

I checked the time—nearly seven. Right on cue, my phone buzzed across the desk. I didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Grinding my teeth, I answered, keeping my voice even. “Yeah?”

“Chris,” Aurora’s father’s voice came through, too bright, too forced. “Just checking in. Everything alright over there?”

I leaned back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling. “She’s here. Settling in.” The words came out clipped. Harsher than I meant.

There was a pause. “You sure?” he asked, his voice dropping, threaded with a rare kind of concern. “She’s... she’s a sensitive kid. This is a big change for her.”

Something inside me snapped.

"If you were that worried, maybe you shouldn’t have handed her off like a business transaction," I said, voice low and sharp.

Silence crackled across the line.

"Chris," he said finally, firmer now, "calm down. It’s not like that."

I bit back everything else I wanted to say. None of it would change anything. "Fine," I muttered. "She's fine."

Before he could get sentimental, I shifted the conversation back to business—the Sturniolo x Devereaux deal, projected numbers, timelines. Numbers I didn’t give a damn about right now.

When the call finally ended, I tossed my phone onto the desk harder than necessary. I sat there for a minute, stewing.

She's a sensitive kid. Big change. The words echoed in my skull, irritating the hell out of me.

I stood up abruptly, the chair scraping back. If he cared so much, he should’ve been the one checking if she’d eaten. If she was scared. If she was even unpacking.

The house stayed too damn quiet. I made my way down the hall to her room, hesitating for a second before knocking. Two sharp knocks.

Soft footsteps padded toward the door.

It cracked open, and there she was.

She looked... different.

Her damp red hair curled slightly at the ends, a little messy, a little soft. She wore a simple nightdress—loose, thin, falling just above her knees.

For a second, I forgot how to breathe.

Her skin glowed from the shower, fresh and warm, and the neckline of the dress dipped just enough to make my jaw clench. I forced my eyes back to her face, clearing my throat roughly.

"You eat yet?" I asked, the words coming out gruffer than intended.

She blinked up at me, startled. Then slowly shook her head, tugging the door closer like she could hide behind it.

Something twisted in my chest, but I shoved it down. She hesitated, then slipped on her fluffy slippers, padding softly behind me down the hall.

She wasn’t comfortable. I could feel it in every step she took, and hell, I wasn’t exactly making it easy on her.

The dining room looked like a damn showroom—gleaming table, fresh food spread out perfectly by the staff. But everything felt... off. Wrong.

“Take a seat,” I said, pulling out a chair without thinking. She hesitated, then sat, folding her hands in her lap like she didn’t know where to put them.

The food was laid out—roasted vegetables, warm bread, a thick, rich stew that smelled like something good, but she just stared at it.

I sat across from her, watching her pick up the fork like it weighed too much.

"You haven’t eaten today, have you?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.

She didn’t meet my eyes. "I don’t know... I guess I lost track of time," she said softly.

Liar, but I let it slide.

"You should eat something," I said, quieter this time. "There’s no reason to skip meals."

She gave a small nod and took a careful bite.

The silence between us stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable—for me, anyway. It was her silence that gnawed at me.

I picked up my wine glass, letting the cool rim rest against my mouth before saying, "So," I said casually, "did you find a spot for all your sewing and design stuff?"

She paused mid-bite, surprised. She hadn’t expected me to remember that about her.

"Um... not really," she said after a moment. "I haven’t unpacked much."

I just nodded.

We ate in silence after that, or pretended to.

I caught myself glancing at her—how she kept fidgeting with the hem of her nightdress, how she barely touched the food even when she forced herself to chew. It twisted something sharp inside me.

Finally, she set her fork down and wiped her mouth with a napkin. "I should probably get some sleep," she said, almost like she was reminding herself aloud. "It’s been a long day."

I nodded, pushing back my chair, too. We both stood at the same time, and for a moment, neither of us moved.

"Thanks... for the food," she said, her voice soft, shy.

I shook my head.

"No need to thank me, ma," I said, letting my mouth twitch in a smirk. "I wouldn’t let my fiancée starve."

Her cheeks colored slightly, and she ducked her head, hurrying out of the room with her slippers making soft sounds down the hall.

I watched her go, something uneasy still coiling low in my gut.

When I first agreed to all this, I figured I’d end up shackled to some spoiled rich girl, someone who’d spend her days whining and shopping. Someone is easy to ignore.

But Aurora was... the opposite. Quiet. Careful. Like she was trying not to take up any space at all.

It unsettled me. It intrigued me.

Almost.

READ ALL RELEASED CHAPTERS NOW!

[a/n: ahh ok first 5 chapters done. if you read this please reblog and like!! i want this to reach people since in new] — lots of love ceyana

#chris sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #nick sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #sturniolo #fanfic #foryou #fyp

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hoe4hotchner · 8 months ago

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Chapter 5 - Cracks in the ice

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x figure skater (fem)!Reader

Summary: The story follows you a figure skater training for nationals and Aaron Hotchner as your lives intertwine during an investigation into the abductions of young athletic women, including the your close friend, Leah. As the BAU delves deeper into the case, you find yourself captivated by Hotch’s quiet strength and protective presence. When Leah’s body is tragically discovered at the rink, the tension escalates, surrounding you in an atmosphere of fear and uncertainty.

Word count: 6.2k

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of nightmares, blood, stabbing, violence, fear, case-related discussions, mention of potential stalking/harassment, rivalry, use of Y/N, bitterness, failure, and career-ending behavior, mentions of the Olympics.

A/N: The number of videos and articles I’ve watched and read for the latter half of this chapter is insane… My cookies are going to be messed up for the rest of my life, and I’ll forever only get figure skating suggestions.

Masterlist

The investigation had taken a grim, unsettling turn since Leah’s tragic death, leaving an oppressive weight hanging in the BAU. Tension crackled in the air, thick with unspoken fears, and the mood had shifted from determination to something darker, much darker. You sat at the round, cold table in the conference room, the harsh fluorescent lights glaring down on you and the BAU agent's tired faces. Their heated discussions about leads and suspects echoed around the room, voices rising and falling, but none of it truly registered with you. You weren't really paying attention. The words blurred together, becoming distant murmurs as your mind raced, consumed by a whirlwind of disbelief, anxiety, and grief.

The upcoming competition had once been a beacon of excitement and pride, but now, now it loomed over you like an impending storm. What had once been your passion — your escape, your everything — now felt like an obligation, a chore tainted by the shadow of Leah’s death. You knew it would be the talk of the competition. And as much as you longed for and missed Leah, you were sad that an event like this — supposed to be filled with happiness and talent — would be tainted by such tragedy. The rink had once been your sanctuary but no longer felt safe, its ice stained with the memory of Leah's pool of blood. The thought of returning there filled you with dread as if each glide across the ice would be haunted by the echoes of what you had lost — what you could lose.

“Based on the victimology and the profile we’ve constructed, it seems likely that the unsub is someone who’s been involved in the skating community,” Hotch said, his voice was steady and authoritative. His eyes swept the room, making deliberate eye contact with each member of the team, ensuring his words landed with full impact. “They know the routines, the schedules — this is not a random act. It’s targeted.”

His words cut through the tension in the room, sending an icy chill down your spine. The thought that the unsub was not some outsider, but someone within your world, unsettled you deeply. The faces of familiar coaches, skaters, and staff flashed through your mind as you struggled to imagine who could be capable of such a heinous act. You swallowed hard, trying to suppress the rising unease gnawing in your bones. This wasn’t just a case you had somehow gotten involved in anymore — it was personal. The world you had loved, the routines and schedules that had once brought you comfort, now felt like a trap, manipulated by an unseen hand. And the worst part was knowing that you or someone you cared about could be next.

“Let’s consider the patterns of behavior we’ve seen in previous cases,” Hotch said, guiding the discussion. “Unsubs with similar backgrounds often display obsessive traits. He could be lurking in the shadows, watching practices, studying routines, trying to find his next victim. He likely wants to instill fear within the community, and as far as he can tell, it's working.”

“Garcia,” Hotch called out. “Can you gather information on any past complaints or incidents involving the victims? Anything that stands out — arguments, jealousies, or even online disputes. This might help us uncover underlying tensions in the skating community.”

“On it!” Garcia replied, her fingers dancing across her keyboard. “I’ll start digging into social media as well, looking for posts or comments that could hint at underlying rivalries or tensions. You’d be surprised what people let slip online, especially when emotions are running high.”

You felt uncomfortable by the conversation between the analyst and Hotch, knowing fully well that although you weren't aware of any disputes or fights, the fact that she could dig up your whole digital footprint in a matter of minutes was terrifying. It reminded you of how vulnerable you were, especially in a world where everyone was connected yet so distant.

“Garcia, while you’re at it, could you also pull up any recent reports of harassment or stalking within the skating community?” Hotch asked. “Even if they’re not directly related to our case, they could provide context that helps us understand this unsub’s behavior.”

“Absolutely!” Garcia replied, already typing away. “I’ll prioritize those reports and see if anything stands out. If there are any patterns or common threads. You'll have them faster than you can say; Four fine fresh fish for you"

“Thanks, Garcia,” Hotch said with a nod, appreciating her enthusiasm. “Just remember to focus on cases that have happened in the last year or so. We need the most relevant information.”

“Got it, boss!” she chirped, her fingers a blur across the keyboard.

Turning back to the team, Hotch continued, “Let’s not lose sight of the potential victims. We need to ensure their safety first. Morgan, I want you to coordinate with local law enforcement to increase visibility around the rink during practices and events. Perhaps even set up a temporary command post nearby.”

Morgan straightened in his chair. “I’ll get on it right away. If the unsub thinks he can target skaters without consequence, he’s in for a rude awakening.”

As the discussion continued, theories and speculations flying around the room, a wave of frustration surged within you, crashing against the carefully constructed walls you had built to cope. It was becoming harder to keep those walls intact. Your once meticulously planned training schedule had been thrown into chaos, completely upended by the heightened security measures now in place. Extra patrols at the rink, agents stationed in the shadows, and constant check-ins from Hotch had become your new reality. What used to be a sanctuary — a place where you could lose yourself in the rhythm of the ice and the thrill of competition — now felt suffocating, the weight of the investigation always pressing down on your chest. With every passing day, it grew harder to focus, the pressure of preparing for the competition clashing with the ever-present fear that gripped not only you but the entire staff and skating community.

You felt trapped, caught between the urgency of the investigation and your desperate need to reclaim the life and the passion that skating had always brought you. Every time you laced up your skates, it felt like a battle to push past the fear, the reminders of Leah, and the nagging thought that the person responsible could be watching you from the shadows. You longed for the days when skating had been simple, pure, untouched by the dark realities that had suddenly invaded your life. But now, that world seemed distant, blurred by the same shadows that clouded your thoughts.

You leaned back in your chair, staring blankly at the scattered files on the table as your thoughts swirled like a storm cloud, dark and chaotic. You were sure that Hotch and the team broke every protocol by letting you see these files. The knot of anxiety in your stomach tightened with every passing second, twisting until it felt almost suffocating. It was like standing on the edge of a cliff, unsure of when the ground beneath you might give way.

You could feel Hotch’s gaze on you. And even as you tried to avoid looking in his direction, his concern was noticeable, etched deep into the lines of his face. There was no judgment in his eyes — just understanding, a reminder that he, too, had carried the weight of loss, fear, and duty. But knowing that didn’t make it any easier to face. His presence, though comforting in its own way, was only a reminder of how far this had spiraled beyond your control, maybe even beyond his control.

You shifted uncomfortably in your chair, fighting the urge to get up and escape the tension in the room. It felt like everyone was moving forward, searching for answers, while you were stuck, paralyzed by the collision of your personal and professional worlds. The fear that had once been an abstract concept in your life now felt way too real, manifesting in the way your body tensed and your thoughts spun, unable to focus on your routine, your spins, and jumps — they craved precision, one that you weren't able to find. You clenched your hands in your lap, trying to ground yourself, but it was impossible to shake the feeling that everything was slipping through your fingers. You knew you needed to get back on the ice, to feel the cold air in your face. It was truly the only way you knew to ground yourself.

“Y/N,” Hotch said quietly, his voice slicing through the fog of your spiraling thoughts. It was soft but carried enough weight to pull you from the chaos inside your mind. “Are you alright?”

You glanced up, meeting his eyes. There was no demand for an answer, just concern. For a brief moment, the tension in your chest eased, though the knot in your stomach remained. You opened your mouth, trying to find the words, but they stuck, caught between the urge to let it all out and the fear of appearing vulnerable.

His eyes remained on you, he was patient, waiting for whatever response you could or would give.

You forced a smile. “Just trying to figure out how to train with all this going on,” you muttered, the words feeling flat, like an excuse that even you didn’t believe. They felt hollow, as though they were a weak attempt to cover the frustration and fear gnawing at you, but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t seem to find the right way to express the storm of emotions swirling inside.

The truth was, it wasn’t just about training. It was about trying to function while everything around you seemed to be unraveling.

Hotch’s eyes remained steady on you. You knew he wouldn’t push, but his silence felt like a gentle nudge, urging you to be honest with yourself, to admit that this was all far more than just about disrupted training schedules and competition jitters. It was about how lost you felt, how every part of your life had been infiltrated by fear, leaving you grasping at the last remnants of normalcy.

But you couldn’t admit that — not yet and certainly not to him. So you held onto that smile, fragile as it was, and hoped it would be enough to keep the conversation from delving deeper into your emotions.

Hotch’s expression softened as he took a step closer to you. The sharp lines of concern on his face seemed to ease, replaced by a warmth that made your heart feel a little lighter. “I know it’s difficult, but we’re doing everything we can to keep you safe.”

“Thanks, Hotch. I appreciate it.” You met his gaze, finding a flicker of hope in his unwavering support, and for that instant, the weight on your shoulders lifted for a moment.

As the meeting wore on, you found yourself stealing glances at him, captivated by the way he commanded the room, drawing everyone's attention to him. The measured cadence of his voice had a calming effect, making even the most intense discussions feel more manageable. Each time he spoke, it felt like he wasn’t just leading the conversation; he was anchoring the team, grounding them amidst the chaos of the investigation.

You could only imagine that this was how all their cases went.

You could see how his presence inspired trust and respect in his team and it made you acutely aware of the influence he had over those around him. The way he engaged with each member, listening intently and responding thoughtfully, fostered an environment where everyone felt valued and heard.

When the meeting finally concluded, you stepped outside into the crisp air, which hit your face like a splash of ice water, jolting you back to reality. The stark contrast between the stuffy conference room and the brisk outdoors was initially invigorating, a momentary escape from the weight of your thoughts. You had hoped for a moment of clarity in the cold, fresh air, a chance to catch your breath and regain your focus. However, instead of the relief you sought, it felt like the weight of the world settled more heavily on your shoulders, an almost tangible burden that threatened to crush you.

You took a deep breath, trying to fill your lungs with the fresh air, but it felt heavy with the remnants of your worries. As you leaned against the cool metal railing, you felt a mixture of frustration and despair. How could you prepare for a competition that could define your future when everything felt so uncertain?

“Y/N!” Hotch’s voice called out from behind you, cutting through the fog of your thoughts. You turned to see him striding toward you with purpose and determination. “Can we talk?” he asked, his tone laced with a sense of urgency.

You nodded, curiosity mingling with a flicker of anxiety. The way he approached you suggested that something dire was afoot. As he gestured for you to walk with him, you fell into step beside him.

“Listen,” he started, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone, “I know things have been tough lately.” His expression softened. “I can see the toll it’s taking on you, and I want you to know that you don’t have to be as involved with the investigation if you don't want to”

You swallowed hard, the knot of anxiety in your stomach shifting as his words resonated within you. It was a relief to hear him acknowledge what you had been feeling, to know that your struggles hadn’t gone unnoticed.

But you felt a surge of frustration bubbling to the surface, a mix of anger and helplessness that threatened to spill over. “Easy for you to say,” you shot back, your voice sharper than intended. “You don’t know what it’s like to put everything on the line and have it ripped away from you. I can’t just sit around and do nothing while my entire future hangs in a balance!” Each word felt like a weight lifted, but you could see the flicker of surprise in Hotch’s eyes.

“I understand more than you think,” he replied, his tone shifting, revealing a vulnerability that you hadn't expected. A flicker of emotion crossed his face, something deeper lurking beneath the surface. “This job… it takes and it takes. And in the end, it takes a toll on all of us. But your safety has to come first. We can’t afford to lose anyone else.”

“I just…” you began, searching for the right words to convey the whirlwind inside you. “I’m trying to stay focused on my training, but it feels impossible with everything going on.” You took a deep breath. “I don’t want to let anyone down, especially not you or your team. I want to find Leah's killer.”

Hotch stopped walking and turned to face you fully, his eyes searching yours “You won’t let anyone down,” he reassured you firmly. “We’re all in this together, and I’m here to support you — like I do with my team — in any way you need. If that means stepping back from some responsibilities for a while, then we’ll figure it out.”

His words washed over you. “I just don’t want to fall behind,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “This competition means everything to me. It’s my chance to prove myself.”

“I understand,” Hotch said. “But remember, this isn’t just about the competition. It’s about you and your well-being. That’s what truly matters. The rest will fall into place once I catch the unsub.” He reached out, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder, and you felt a surge of gratitude for his support.

“It’s hard to let go of the pressure I put on myself,” you confessed, allowing a hint of vulnerability to seep through. “I’ve always pushed myself to be the best, and now... it feels like everything is slipping through my fingers.”

“It’s natural to feel that way, especially in times of crisis." He offered you a small smile. He straightened up, his posture shifting back to its familiar authoritative stance, his demeanor transitioning seamlessly from supportive to professional as he glanced at his watch. “You should get to the rink and start your practice. It’s important to keep up your routine in case the unsub is watching you. I'll have a few agents follow you from afar, just in case he decides to show himself.”

The following days blurred together as the investigation deepened, each one slipping by like a fleeting shadow while the team methodically narrowed down their list of suspects. Every morning felt like stepping onto a tightrope, the weight of uncertainty pressing heavily on your shoulders, making it harder to find your balance.

That morning, long before the sun had even risen, you found yourself at the rink, alone. The arena was dimly lit, with only the soft hum of the fluorescent lights above and the echoing silence of your skates cutting through the ice. It should have felt peaceful — you hadn't even been bothered to turn on your playlist — a rare moment where the world was quiet, and no one was watching. No coaches barking corrections, no judges sizing you up, no teammates glancing over with judgment. Just you, the ice, and the rhythm of your blades.

But something was wrong.

You took a deep breath, pushing off from the boards, the familiar glide of your skates over the ice normally brought you solace. Today, however, the ice beneath you felt foreign, unpredictable, like it had a mind of its own. You tried to settle into your routine, warming up with some simple crossovers, the scrape of metal against ice echoing in the air. But even that felt off, your feet slipping slightly as if the ice itself was rebelling against you.

You shook it off, heading into your first combination. A simple waltz jump into a loop. Your muscles should have remembered this — they’d done it a thousand times before — but the moment you took off, your timing faltered. Instead of a graceful arc, you landed awkwardly, your blade catching at the wrong angle, sending you stumbling. A soft grunt escaped your lips as you fought to regain your balance.

"Focus," you whispered under your breath, determined not to let frustration take hold so early in the practice.

You pushed harder, determined to shake the creeping unease from your mind. You launched into an Axel — a jump that normally felt so freeing, defying gravity for just a moment. But as you pulled into the air, your arms too tight, your rotation uneven, you came down hard on your right leg, the edge catching before your ankle buckled beneath you. You hit the ice with a sharp thud, the sting shooting up your side as you let out a breathless groan.

Pushing yourself back up, your hands shaking slightly from the impact, you shook your head. It shouldn’t be this hard. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You were better than this.

Next, you tried a simple layback spin — something you’d mastered long ago. But as soon as you hit your entrance edge, you felt the wobble. Your leg extended behind you, your back arching, but the spin was unstable. Your free leg swung out too wide, and instead of holding the tight, fast revolutions, you slowed and lost your center, the spin breaking apart awkwardly before you had to step out, gasping in frustration.

The rink was supposed to be your sanctuary. The one place where you could escape everything. But today, it felt like you were battling against it. Every jump, every spin — nothing was landing. Nothing felt right.

You tried again. This time a lutz, but your entry edge wobbled, your weight shifting too far inside, causing you to pop the jump, barely getting off the ice before your feet hit the surface again.

"Come on," you growled to yourself, pushing harder, anger and frustration bubbling up inside you.

A triple-toe loop, then — something that you could do without even thinking on a good day. Surely you should be able to get this right. You gathered speed, your arms pulling in tight as you prepared to launch into the jump. But again, in mid-air, it fell apart. Your body twisted wrong, your arms lost their placement, and you came crashing down to the ice, landing hard on your hip. The sharp sting of the cold surface against your skin made you wince as the air rushed out of your lungs.

You lay there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, your breath coming in shallow gasps. You wanted to scream, scream out in frustration, not because of your inability to perform your routine, but because of everything surrounding you. Your life had become suffocating.

The rink, it was supposed to be your escape — the one place where the outside world didn’t matter, where it was just you and the ice. No matter how many times you told yourself to focus, your mind was elsewhere. Every jump was weighed down by the knowledge that someone could be watching, studying your every move, learning your routines. Every spin felt heavier, tangled with thoughts of Leah and the nightmares that had followed after her death.

The nightmares had started almost immediately after Leah’s death. At first, they were flashes — brief, jarring images that startled you awake, leaving you gasping in the dark. But as the days passed and the investigation deepened, they grew more vivid, more suffocating. You saw Leah on the ice, one moment she was dancing peacefully across the blank surface, the next her lifeless body was sprawled where you had found her, her eyes just as blank as the ice.

But in the dreams, she wasn’t alone.

The unsub was there, too.

He was always just out of reach, a shadowed figure standing in the background, faceless yet terrifyingly familiar. You never saw his face, but you could feel his presence — that sickening, oppressive aura that clung to him like a second skin. Sometimes, in the dream, you would skate toward Leah, desperate to reach her, to help her, but no matter how hard you pushed, the ice stretched farther and farther ahead of you. The more you skated, the further away she seemed, until the rink disappeared into a vast, empty hole, with only the unsub's shadow moving closer.

Other times, the dream shifted into something far darker — more visceral. You would see him there, standing over Leah’s crumpled form, his face still enveloped in darkness. His hand gripped a long, gleaming knife, its blade catching the cold, artificial light of the rink as he raised it high. And then, he brought it down, again and again, each strike tearing into Leah’s stomach. The sickening sound of the blade sinking into her flesh echoed in the arena.

Blood spattered across the ice in those dreams, bright red against the white, spreading in jagged patterns that stained the pristine surface. It splashed onto the unsub's hands, staining his clothes, but he didn’t falter. He just kept stabbing, over and over, as if possessed by a cold, mechanical need to destroy. You could hear Leah’s gasps for help, weak and broken, her body twitching with each new wound, her eyes wide in terror.

You were frozen, paralyzed with horror, screaming her name but unable to move. The ice felt like quicksand beneath your feet, holding you in place as the unsub’s violence escalated, each stab more vicious than the last.

The unsub never spoke, never showed his face. And then, just when you thought you couldn’t bear it any longer, he would stop. Slowly, deliberately, he would turn his head in your direction, as if he knew you were watching, as if this whole display was meant for you. The faceless shadow would lock eyes with you, his knife still dripping with Leah's blood, and you knew in your bones — he was coming for you next.

And then you would wake up, drenched in sweat, your heart racing in your chest, you always woke up before he had the chance to stand up, to attack. The feeling of dread never fully left you on those days. It clung to you like fog, following you throughout the day, weaving itself into every thought and every moment spent on the ice.

You slowly sat up, your body aching, your muscles stiff from the repeated falls. You sighed, brushing the ice shavings off your leggings determined to try again. Just as you were about to push off for another attempt, you felt you heard your phone ringing. You hesitated for a moment before skating over to the boards, your heart skipping a beat when you saw the caller ID.

Hotch.

The screen glowed with his name, and a knot tightened in your chest. You knew it couldn't be good. You quickly swiped to answer, lifting the phone to your ear. "Hotch?"

His voice was steady but carried a hint of urgency, instantly pulling your mind away from the nightmares. "Y/N, can you come to the Academy? We've made some progress on the case, and we need your input."

A rush of anxiety surged through you. “Progress?” You repeated, your voice quieter than you intended.

“Garcia found something,” Hotch continued. “It’s not definitive yet, but we think it could help us narrow down the suspect list. We’re also cross-referencing it with the harassment reports we pulled the other day. Your insight in the community could be key here.”

You exhaled slowly, a million thoughts swirling in your head, but none of them were clear enough to grasp. The idea of getting closer to identifying Leah’s killer — to identifying the man who had terrorized your thoughts — sent a jolt of adrenaline through you, but it was knotted in fear — fear of what they might find, of how close the danger could be — whether you knew him or not.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” you said, gripping the phone tightly, you tried to keep your voice steady despite the uncertainty brewing inside you.

“Good,” Hotch replied, his tone softening slightly. “Take your time. We’ll be waiting.” The line clicked off, and you stood there for a moment, staring at the phone in your hand.

You glanced back at the ice, at the grooves from your failed jumps, the scars etched into the surface. The maintenance guys would fix them before your return — they always did. Normally, you’d stay until you got it right, but today, none of it felt right.

You had somewhere more important to be.

Grabbing your skate guards, you slid them on and quickly packed up your things. As you left the rink, the echo of your footsteps followed you.

You hoped that maybe, just maybe, Hotch and his team were getting closer to stopping him.

The drive to the academy felt longer than usual, the rhythmic hum of your tires on the pavement did little to calm your nerves. The sun was still low in the sky, casting a golden light over the city as you sped through the empty streets. Your thoughts raced, bouncing between the nightmares that had plagued you all week and the urgency in Hotch’s voice over the phone.

By the time you arrived, the familiar sight of the academy’s structure grounded you just a little. You parked and quickly made your way inside, flashing your visitor's badge — Hotch had let you keep for the duration of the investigation — at security before heading up to the 6th floor where the team was waiting.

As you stepped through the door, you were greeted by the low murmur of voices and the glow of the overhead projector casting a map of the skating rink on the screen. You dropped your bag filled with your gear to the floor, not knowing why you had brought it inside with you — perhaps out of instinct. Hotch stood at the front, ready to begin the briefing.

“Y/N, thanks for coming in,” Hotch greeted you with a small nod. You took a seat at the table, your pulse still racing as you glanced at the team, each of them deeply focused on the files in front of them.

Hotch stepped forward, his gaze sweeping the room before landing back on you. “We’ve identified a former skater, Thomas Mercer,” he stated. “He has a history of aggressive behavior and a documented rivalry with Leah. His animosity toward her has been noted by others, both skaters and coaches.”

The name hit you like a slap to the face. Thomas Mercer. You knew him. Everyone in the skating community knew him. He had been a rising star, someone with undeniable talent, but his reputation had been marred by his temper and erratic behavior. Rumors of fights with other male skaters, shouting matches with coaches — it had all but ended his career. Leah had mentioned him once, briefly, but you had never given it much thought.

You swallowed hard, trying to process the information as Hotch continued.

“Garcia has pulled up records of confrontations he’s had at various skating events. Verbal altercations, threats — nothing that was officially reported as violence, but enough to paint a picture of someone who potentially holds a grudge to this day.”

You weren't sure if you believed it was him. No one had seen Thomas in years. It was like he had gone underground.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, a sinking feeling in your gut. “Leah never mentioned anything to me,” you murmured, trying to recall any conversation, any hint that this could have been brewing beneath the surface. But there was nothing.

“Don’t blame yourself,” JJ said softly, her eyes kind as they met yours. “People like Mercer are good at hiding their intentions until it’s too late.”

Hotch nodded, his expression unreadable. “Garcia is working on tracking his movements in the days leading up to Leah’s death. If he’s our unsub, we need to move fast before he finds another victim.”

“Do we have any concrete evidence linking him to the crime?” Rossi asked the same question that had lingered in your mind.

“Not yet,” Hotch replied, turning back to the screen where Mercer's picture had been pulled up. “But we’re working on it. Y/N, your knowledge of his career might help us fill in some gaps. Is there anything you can tell us about Mercer’s relationship with Leah or other skaters?”

You hesitated, searching your memory for anything that could be useful. “He was always… intense,” you finally said, choosing your words carefully. “Everyone knew he had a temper, but Leah never said much about him, she knew him better than I did. I think she tried to stay out of his way, but maybe that might’ve made him angrier. Leah had a reputation for being untouchable, and I've been told that that kind of thing usually fueled his anger. But there's been rumours, ever since I started training in the pavilion.”

Hotch turned his gaze toward you, his brow furrowed. “What kind of rumors?”

“About Mercer,” you replied, your voice steadied as you recalled the whispers you’d heard in the locker rooms at competitions. “People said he was bitter about not making it to the Olympics. He used to blame others for his failures. It wouldn’t surprise me if he had a vendetta against those who he thought stood in his way.”

Hotch nodded, the wheels in his mind visibly turning. “And Leah was a rising star. She likely represented everything he wished he could’ve achieved.”

“Perhaps,” you said, your heart racing at the thought. “He wasn’t just competing against her talent; he was competing against his past failures. I think that fueled his obsession. There were nights when I would hear him shouting in the rink after practice, cursing himself or others. He just never seemed to take responsibility for his actions. It was always someone else’s fault — but I was young, so I didn't think much of it then, I just thought that sort of anger followed loss.”

Hotch scribbled some notes on his notepad.

He gave a short nod, acknowledging your input. “We’ll look deeper into that.” He turned to the rest of the team, wrapping up the briefing as they gathered their files and began to disperse.

“Alright, everyone,” he said, his voice felt authoritative, resonating in the now-quiet room. “Let’s regroup in 4 hours to discuss our findings. Keep digging into the backgrounds of our suspects and monitor any new leads."

As the team nodded and filed out, their chatter faded into the hallway, you watched as they left, each one consumed by their thoughts and tasks. The room gradually emptied until it was just the two of you, the air thick with unspoken words. You need to tell him about Mercer.

Doubts gnawed at you. Deep down, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Mercer wasn’t the unsub. Yes, he had a temper and a documented rivalry with Leah, but you remembered the last time you’d seen him — a shadow of himself, of the skater he once was, barely holding himself together — he had looked miserable. Since then, he’d become a ghost, disappearing from the skating scene, the traces of him in the pavilion slowly fading away, his trophies and pictures disappearing — It was like he had completely vanished off the face of the earth.

It didn’t sit right with you to blame him for Leah’s murder when he seemed to be fighting his own demons. The thought of him being capable of such brutality felt wrong, even if others whispered about his bitterness.

What if he was just a convenient scapegoat for the killer, making sure the unsub could still lurk in the shadows? What if he had nothing to do with it? You shook your head, frustration bubbling up inside you. You couldn’t let your emotions cloud your judgment, but the idea that an innocent man might be wrongfully accused weighed heavily on your conscience.

A man you had once looked up to.

With a deep breath, you looked up at Hotch. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”

He nodded, pulling out the chair beside you and sitting down. The air was heavy with unsaid thoughts. “What’s on your mind?” he asked, his tone was gentle, his eyes searching yours for any hint of distress.

“I just… I don’t think it’s Mercer,” you blurted out, your voice shaking slightly. “As far as I’m aware, he doesn’t even live on this side of the country anymore. He’s been a ghost since the last competition when he successfully ended his own career with his temper.”

Hotch regarded you, processing your words. “I understand your hesitation. It’s natural to want to protect the community you care about. But the evidence we’ve gathered—”

“I get that,” you interrupted. “But what if you're chasing shadows? I mean, there are so many other skaters who could be more likely suspects. Thomas was always… erratic, but he never crossed the line into actual violence, at least not like this. Not to my knowledge.”

“So, you believe we should look elsewhere?”

“Yes!” You leaned forward, the intensity of your conviction spilling over. “There were so many skaters at his last competition. Anyone could hold a grudge against Leah — She did win the competition after all. Mercer was volatile, but he wasn’t the only one who felt overshadowed by her talent.”

Hotch took a moment to absorb your concerns, his fingers steepling in front of him. “I appreciate your insight. You know the dynamics of this community better than anyone. If there’s even a chance that Mercer isn’t involved, we need to consider other options, but we'll keep him on our radar just in case.”

Relief washed over you, but you quickly stifled it, wanting to remain focused. “I just want to make sure we’re looking in the right direction. The thought of it being someone else from the rink — it terrifies me — I can't put the thought past me that I might know them. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

“You’re right to be concerned. We will reevaluate our suspects and dig deeper into the skaters who were at that last competition. If there’s any chance that someone else was motivated to harm Leah, we’ll find them.”

“Thank you,” you said softly, feeling a relief of gratitude wash over you, although the anxiety still lingered deep down. “I just… I want to make sure we’re doing everything we can. I don't want the wrong guy to be harmed.”

He smiled slightly, admiring you for a moment. He admired how much you cared about the people around you, about your sport, about everything.

With that, Hotch stood up, his demeanor shifting back into work mode. “I’ll have Garcia pull additional records from the competition. Please stay safe for the time being.”

“Will do,” you replied, determination coursing through you as you watched him head toward the door. “And Hotch?”

He turned back, raising an eyebrow in inquiry.

“Just… be careful. I don’t want to see you or anyone from the team get hurt either.”

@love4lando @therealbaberuthless @crazyunsexycool @pear-1206 @bookworm124 @itsmytimetoodream @c-losur3 @lumestar @evvy96 @booknerd2004 @werebearcocoon

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notsocooljess · 1 year ago

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i know this conversation comes up every now and then, but i am again thinking about the lack of organized religion and other preexisting culture in panem outside of the mentioned traditions in each district.

this is really in my mind today because at the start of chapter 5 in catching fire when haymitch brings katniss and peeta through the hallways in the justice building in district 11, she mentions the room prepared for their use has “double doors,” “the ceiling must be twenty feet high,” there are “designs of fruit and flowers cut into the molding, and small, fat children with wings look down at [them] from every angle.”

this passage is strongly reminiscent of a church with cathedral ceilings that are adorned with cherubs, and it also implies that katniss does not know what cherubs are (or really the idea of angels at all for that matter).

considering district 11 is placed in the bible belt, i think this is a really interesting detail, and given katniss’s earlier details about how the justice building is worn and smells of mildew, it highlights how panem is likely using structures that existed before the country itself and how little they know about the world that existed before their country did.

it also shows how heavily united states ideals still influence panem, since though it is said to have “separation of church and state,” our country is very influenced by christian ideals, and these ideals are still somewhat looming over the people of panem.

#it also makes me wonder if maybe religion continues to exist in some form in d11 #but not so much in the mountain seclusion of d12 #though there are still some religious elements of 12 #like how sunday is the day of rest #i was raised agnostic so this is as far as my commentary here can go really #but i’d love to explore this element more in the series #the hunger games #catching fire #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #the hunger games meta #jess thinks #thg world building

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nemesis-writer · 5 months ago

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Five Minutes (Chapter 5)

Masterlist What do you see? TW: mentions of blood, mental illness, trauma

The next test is now in motion for them. No one knows who's next, and no one knows what could happen.

They stood outside their house until they got a delivery for food. They had inspected it when they brought it inside. And they saw a note taped on the inside of the cover.

It had the label, Tim.

And it has a cellphone, but it couldn't be opened nor tracked due to it's old age. Tim opened the riddle and read:

'I blind the wise and cloud the true, I make the wrong seem right to you. You hold me close, you wear me high, Yet through my weight, the truth may die.

I whisper loud, “You know the way,” But lead your steps to go astray. I shield your ears, I block your sight, And trap you in your flawed delight.

Though others warn, you will not see, For you trust none as much as me. What am I, this weight inside, That turns your fall into a slide?'

It was truly the greatest flaw of Tim, his pride of intelligence. His ego is motivated by his knowledge like most people, but he likes to use it as an excuse for solitude.

'What?' Tim thought, he knew the answer was pride, but he never understood why he was chosen for that.

"It's pride..." Tim finally reveals after a long contemplation.

All of the sudden the phone rings and Tim immediately answers it.

A distorted voice said:

'There is a now closed hotel in Gotham Square, but if you try something, I will know, and the people who are so dependant on you will suffer, and I will make you watch. Timothy. Now I want you and only you to go to the third floor, no supervision. Let's see how well you can observe under the pressure of blood'

And with that the call ended abruptly

At the hotel...

They went and saw nothing. And just when Tim was about to go up he said,

"I gotta go alone. She'll kill people if any of you even goes in the elevator or looks."

"We go together it's all or none that's the rule" Dick retorted.

"There are lives at stake and they depend on us."

So with that Dick reluctantly agreed, and Tim headed upstairs.

He then saw a man wearing a black mask and suit sitting near the controls while showing the detonator that remains secured. The guard then pointed him to the chair. He then proceeded to put on the VR.

He then instructed to Tim,

'Ignore the voices, dismiss the sight, Trust not the whispers that come in the night. What’s in front may deceive, twist, and lie, But what you know won’t let reason die.

Close your ears, avert your gaze, Break free from the illusion’s haze. Let instinct guide, let truth prevail, Beyond the veil, what tells the tale?

Now stand and face what’s meant to be, Look deep within—tell me what you see.'

And with that Tim started.

Flashing of lights were shown, names of the colours were heard. Nothing could be understood from the looming flashes.

Blue

Dog

It continued until a sudden flash of what appears to be a red dog.

"RED DOG!!" Tim yelled

Red

Orange

Wolf

"GREEN WOLF!" Tim says, starting to let his pride take over it gets harder.

Red

Orange

Blue

Green

Pink

Orange

Black

"What a minute, there's something wrong." Tim says as the words started to continue telling the wrong color that is being shown.

Building

"BLUE BUILDING!" Tim says.

Then all of the sudden the images stopped. And then continued to get faster and faster showing all the events that happened.

9/11

Newton discovering gravity

Ballet

Chess

Looney Tunes

Bruce Wayne

Graves

Russian sleep experiment

And then when it was about to get worse it stopped at the picture of a crying child in a mental institute.

The girl then proceeds to look at him...

And starts to approach him.

'In shadows deep, where whispers dwell, The mind becomes a fragile shell. A labyrinth of broken thought, A battle waged, yet never fought.

The cries of children fill the night, Ignored, unseen, lost from sight. Small hands reach out to empty air, Seeking love that isn’t there.

The echoes of a mother’s scream, Haunt their lives, disturb their dreams. A father’s absence, a silent door, Leaves them yearning, wanting more.

In fractured minds, the pain takes root, A twisted tree with poisoned fruit. Mental storms rage wild within, Born of neglect, born of sin.

Their laughter fades, their voices still, Hollow eyes, a shattered will. Invisible scars, wounds that don’t bleed, Children forsaken, left in their need.

And yet beneath the darkness lies, A glimmer faint, a chance to rise. For even the lost can find the way, To heal the night and face the day.

But who will care? Who dares to mend, The broken minds, the hearts to tend? In silence, they wait, their cries unheard, A life defined by an unspoken word.

But yet here you still lost. Why?'

"What does that mean?" Tim yells,

"WHAT DID I DO WRONG?" Tim continues

'Everything' The girl replied.

The VR was suddenly removed from him and the guard still stood there.

"Smarter than Einstein but gullible as a child." The guard said. And then he pushed the detonator.

The apartment of Fifth Avenue was blown into bits. The roars of fire could be heard and the screams of weeping women and children could break the strongest metal.

Tim then lunged at him.

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? I PLAYED THE FUCKING GAME" Tim yells then proceeds to remove the mask.

The guard chuckled and said, "You were supposed to answer the little girl"

Before Tim could do anything, a red dot appeared on the guards forehead and was immediately shot between the eyes.

Y/N knew they' force an answer so in order to stay incognito, she has to kill her own men. They can be replaced anyway...

Taglist

@lunayaps, @not-aya, @iluvcatzz, @vanessa-boo, @ivyrose9194,@thesehandsarerated-e, @eyeless-kun, @errorunfound1, @gwyneveire, @alishii, @cxcillia

#yandere batfam x reader #yandere batfam #yandere bruce wayne #yandere damian wayne #yandere richard grayson #yandere jason todd #yandere barbara gordon #yandere tim wayne #gifs #assassin reader

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gojosystem · 8 months ago

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✧˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ LABOUR ♡·˚

— [♡] ; souls tied by fate will inevitably cross paths again. ｡°. gojo satoru

tags: endgame gojo satoru, afab!reader, slow burn, pregnancy, regret, hurt/comfort, angst, co-parenting, vulnerable gojo satoru, past suguru geto x reader, past rejection, longing, bittersweet, I'm dramatic so I write dramatic shit, chapter seven of ten

wc. 2.6K

The journey back to the hideout was a blur. Gojo had kept his promise, moving swiftly through the remnants of the battle with you at his side. The landscape around you seemed surreal—broken, but eerily calm after the violence that had just unfolded. Every step felt heavy, each breath weighed down by the crushing grief that still clung to your heart.

Your mind raced, but your body moved on autopilot. The only thing keeping you grounded was the rhythmic pulse of your twins kicking inside you. Your body was aching, both from the strain of your pregnancy and the emotional toll of watching Suguru die, but there was no time to break down. You needed to get back to the hideout, back to your daughter, who was blissfully unaware of the storm that had ravaged your world.

Gojo walked beside you in silence. The tension between you was palpable, thick with unspoken words and unresolved emotions. You didn’t want to speak, and it seemed like he was giving you the space you needed. But you both knew that the confrontation you had avoided for so long was looming over you. There were things that needed to be said, things that had been buried beneath layers of resentment and regret for far too long.

The hideout came into view, hidden deep within the forest, shrouded in na almost unnatural quiet. It had once felt like a sanctuary, a place where you and Geto had begun to build a new life, far from the prying eyes of Jujutsu High. But now, it felt hollow, like an echo of a future that would never be.

When you reached the entrance, Gojo hesitated, his hand resting on the door as if unsure whether to proceed. You glanced at him, seeing the conflict in his expression. This wasn’t just about you anymore. It was about your daughter. Suguru’s daughter.

Without a word, Gojo pushed open the door, and the two of you stepped inside. The familiar scent of the hideout greeted you—wood, damp earth, and a faint hint of the herbs you used to calm your nerves. It was quiet, almost too quiet, and for a moment, you feared something had gone wrong.

But then you heard the soft sound of your daughter’s voice, babbling innocently from the nursery.

The tension in your chest eased slightly, though the weight of the situation still pressed down on you like a vice. You turned to Gojo, his gaze unreadable as he stood at the threshold, seemingly frozen in place.

“I’ll go to her,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “Stay here.”

Gojo gave a curt nod, his jaw clenched, and you could feel the storm brewing beneath his calm exterior. You stepped away, leaving him behind as you made your way to the nursery.

When you reached the door, you paused, taking a moment to steady yourself. Your daughter was there, playing on the floor with one of the soft toys Geto had brought her. She looked up as soon as she saw you, her face breaking into a bright smile.

“Mama!” she chirped, her voice full of joy.

Your heart cracked at the sound. You knelt down, pulling her into your arms, holding her close as tears began to spill from your eyes. She didn’t know. She didn’t understand what had just happened, how her world had changed forever.

“Mama’s here,” you whispered, pressing your cheek to the top of her head. “I’m here.”

For a long time, you simply held her, the warmth of her small body against yours the only thing keeping you grounded. But even as you clung to her, you knew that this moment of peace was fleeting. The reality of what had happened, of what you had to face, was looming just beyond the door.

You heard the soft shuffle of footsteps behind you, and you turned to see Gojo standing in the doorway. He looked at you, then at your daughter, and for a moment, something flickered in his eyes—something you couldn’t quite name. Pain, maybe. Regret.

Gojo’s expression softened for a brief moment, but then his gaze darkened again, the weight of what he had come here for pressing down on him. You stood, holding your daughter in your arms as you faced him.

“This is her?” Gojo asked quietly, though the answer was already clear.

You nodded, unable to speak. Your daughter looked at Gojo with wide, curious eyes, sensing that something was different about him but not yet understanding what. There was na eerie silence in the air as Gojo took a tentative step closer, his eyes scanning her face as though searching for traces of Suguru in her features.

“She’s… his,” Gojo said, his voice tight with something you couldn’t quite place. “Suguru’s.”

“Yes,” you whispered, your throat tight. “She’s ours.”

Gojo exhaled softly, the tension in his body visible as he ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t think—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “I didn’t know how to prepare for this.”

You understood what he meant. This wasn’t just about the death of Geto. It wasn’t just about the child you had with him. It was about everything that had led up to this moment—the rejection, the choices you had made, and the things that had been left unsaid between you and Gojo for so long.

“I never meant for any of this to happen,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t plan on… on falling in love with him.”

Gojo’s jaw tightened, his gaze shifting back to you, his eyes filled with a storm of emotions. “Then why?” he asked, his voice trembling with frustration and something close to hurt. “Why did you leave? Why him?”

You took a deep breath, knowing that this conversation was inevitable but dreading it all the same. “Because you made me feel invisible,” you said softly, the words finally spilling out after so long. “I confessed to you, Satoru. I tried to tell you how I felt, and you pushed me away.”

Gojo’s eyes widened slightly, the realization settling in. He had known, on some level, that his rejection had hurt you, but he hadn’t understood the full extent of it.

“You didn’t even look at me,” you continued, your voice breaking as the weight of those old wounds resurfaced. “I was nothing to you. And Suguru… he saw me. He made me feel like I mattered.”

Gojo flinched at the words, his usual confidence shattered in the face of the truth. He stood there, silent, as the gravity of his actions sank in. The space between you felt impossibly wide, the rift that had grown between you over the years now laid bare.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” Gojo said, his voice quieter than you’d ever heard it. “I didn’t know… I didn’t understand what you needed. I thought pushing you away was protecting you.”

You shook your head, tears welling up again. “But it wasn’t. It drove me to him. And now, he’s gone, and I don’t know what to do.”

Gojo stepped closer, his eyes filled with a rare vulnerability. “I know I can’t fix this. I know I can’t bring him back. But I can help you now.”

There was a long silence between you as you looked at him, trying to process everything. Gojo had always been the strongest, the most untouchable person in your life, but now, here he was, standing before you with his own regrets, his own pain laid bare.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” Gojo said softly. “But I want to help. I owe you that much. And I owe it to her.” He glanced down at your daughter, his gaze softening as he looked at her again. “She’s part of this too.”

You hesitated, your heart torn between the past and the uncertain future that lay ahead. There was so much pain, so much loss, but there was also the undeniable reality that Gojo was offering you something—a way forward.

“We’ll need to talk,” you whispered, your voice shaking with emotion. “About everything. The future. The children.”

Gojo nodded, his expression resolute. “We will. But for now, let me help you.”

And for the first time in a long while, you nodded, accepting the hand that had once pushed you away.

It was the beginning of something new—uncertain, fragile, but real.

The next few days passed in a haze. The weight of Suguru Geto’s death still lingered in the air, thick and oppressive, but there was no time to mourn the way you truly wanted to. Your daughter needed you. Your unborn twins needed you. And now, in the most unexpected twist of fate, Gojo was part of your life again.

You sat in the nursery, the soft sounds of your daughter playing beside you filling the otherwise quiet room. She had settled back into her routine, unaware of the storm that had raged beyond the walls of the hideout, unaware of the loss of her father.

And unaware of the tension that still hung between you and Gojo.

You had let him stay at the hideout. There hadn’t been much of a choice, really. With Geto gone, and the threat of Jujutsu High and other factions looming larger than ever, you needed Gojo’s protection. He had assured you that he would help, that he would be there for you and the children, but you couldn’t help but feel the unresolved weight of your past with him pressing down on every interaction.

Gojo had mostly kept to himself, giving you space. He wasn’t the same brash, overly confident man you had known before. There was a quietness to him now, a somberness that hadn’t been there before. You could see it in his eyes, the way he looked at you, at your daughter—he was carrying his own guilt, his own grief. The loss of Geto had affected him deeply, more deeply than you had ever expected.

But there was still so much left unsaid between you.

That evening, as the sun set and the warm light filtered through the windows of the hideout, you sat alone in the kitchen, your hands resting on your swollen belly. The twins were restless tonight, their movements constant, as though they could sense the unease in you.

You weren’t surprised when you heard the soft sound of footsteps approaching. Gojo had a way of moving almost silently when he wanted to, but you had learned to sense his presence.

He appeared in the doorway, his usual confident posture subdued, his eyes carrying a weight you rarely saw. He hesitated for a moment, then stepped inside, his hands in his pockets as he leaned against the counter, watching you.

“You’re thinking,” he said softly, breaking the silence.

You nodded, not bothering to hide the exhaustion in your voice. “I’m always thinking now. There’s too much to process.”

Gojo remained quiet for a moment, his gaze drifting to your belly. You knew what he was thinking. You knew the questions that lingered in his mind. But he didn’t ask. Not yet.

“Do you want to talk?” he asked, his voice softer than usual.

You looked up at him, your heart heavy with the unspoken words that had been building between you since the moment you returned to the hideout. There was no point in avoiding it anymore. You needed to have this conversation. You needed to clear the air.

“I don’t know where to start,” you admitted, your voice trembling slightly.

Gojo’s expression softened, and for a moment, you saw a glimpse of the boy he had once been—the boy who had been your friend, the boy you had once trusted before everything fell apart. “Start wherever you need to,” he said gently.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself as you prepared to finally face the past. “I loved him,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I loved Suguru, and he loved me. I didn’t expect it to happen, but it did.”

Gojo nodded, his gaze steady but filled with something that resembled quiet acceptance. “I know,” he said. “I could see it, even before I came here.”

You bit your lip, the old wound of your feelings for Gojo—the rejection that had driven you to Geto—still fresh, still painful. “I didn’t leave Jujutsu High because I didn’t care about you, Satoru,” you continued, your voice trembling. “I left because you made me feel like I didn’t matter.”

Gojo flinched, his hand tightening into a fist at his side. “I never meant to hurt you like that,” he said, his voice thick with regret. “I thought I was protecting you. I thought that by keeping my distance, I was keeping you safe.”

You shook your head, tears welling up in your eyes. “You weren’t protecting me. You were pushing me away.”

The words hung between you, heavy with the weight of years of misunderstandings and unspoken feelings. You had never fully confronted him about the rejection, never told him how deeply it had hurt you, but now, with Geto gone, the wound had been ripped open again.

“I know I messed up,” Gojo said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I should have seen you. I should have… done something. But I didn’t, and I can’t change that now.”

You looked away, your emotions swirling inside you. “Suguru was there for me when you weren’t,” you said softly. “He made me feel like I mattered. Like I was important. And we built a life together, despite everything.”

Gojo’s shoulders slumped, his usual confidence replaced with a raw vulnerability that you had rarely seen. “I can’t take back what I did,” he said. “But I want to help now. I want to make sure you and your children are safe.”

You took a deep breath, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over. “It’s not just about being safe, Satoru,” you whispered. “It’s about the fact that I loved him. He was going to be my future. And now… now he’s gone.”

Gojo stepped closer, his eyes filled with a sadness that mirrored your own. “I know I can’t replace him,” he said quietly. “And I’m not trying to. But I do want to help you build whatever future you want, with your children.”

For a long moment, the two of you stood in silence, the weight of the conversation pressing down on you. There was no fixing what had happened, no going back to undo the pain and loss. But there was a path forward, however fragile and uncertain it might be.

Finally, you met Gojo’s gaze, the vulnerability in his eyes matching your own. “I don’t know what the future looks like now,” you admitted, your voice soft. “But I want my children to be safe. I want them to have a chance to grow up without fear.”

Gojo nodded, his expression resolute. “I’ll protect them,” he said firmly. “I’ll protect all of you.”

You nodded, accepting his words. There was still so much unresolved between you, so much that couldn’t be fixed overnight. But for now, you would take this step forward, however uncertain it might be.

“I don’t know what happens next,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “But thank you.”

Gojo didn’t say anything else. He just stood there, offering you a small, sad smile, as the weight of your shared past finally began to lift, just a little. There was still a long road ahead—one filled with pain, with uncertainty, but also, perhaps, with hope.

For your daughter, for your unborn twins, and for whatever future lay ahead.

notes: if you wanna be tagged just let me know! <3

taglist: @username23345 @arminswifee @tomiokasecretlover @ffyona1214 @tojirin @eggrollforyou @ironicsss @asahinasstuff @feitanett @xdinaryheroesstan @laviefantasie @hyunsuks-beanie @starlightanyaaa @tanyaspartak @forever-paramore28 @saatorubby @ssetsuka @archiveoftherain @kxrla-20

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bloopitynoot · 3 months ago

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14 + 1 MDZS Fics Ft Lan Qiren (mostly wangxian)

This rec list is for @latchkei

Note: This list is made up of tried and true fics, meaning I have read them all and loved them. If you would like a specific rec list- send me a DM! I love putting together personalized lists. If you are shy, you can send anon too.

The Ask:

Fics featuring lan qiren!

really no limitations or anything

lighter angst if possible

I hope you enjoy!

1 The stuffed bunny, the beautiful nephew, and other gifts from Lan Qiren by deliciousblizzardshark (8, 632)

Summary: Wei Ying was pretty sure his next door neighbor Lan Qiren hated him until he adopted A-Yuan. Now he’s bringing by disgustingly healthy food, taking Wei Ying and A-Yuan to family dinners, and let’s not even mention the nephews he keeps hinting Wei Ying should meet. Is it possible Wei Ying, consummate orphan, has found a family in his grumpy old neighbor?

Part one of Accidental Uncle Acquisition

The art is absolutely cute as heck

I love the doting (fake grumpy) uncle who is on a mission to become a grand uncle LOL

Part two is both families trying to set up Wangxian.

So fluffy!

2 Seasons of Falling Flowers by merakily (40, 077)

Summary: Like a parasite, Wei Wuxian has this way of growing on people when you least expect it.

Over the seasons, Lan Qiren slowly pieces back together his relationship with Wangji and learns to like Wei Wuxian in the process.

(“Will you rejoin your sect?” As soon as the words leave his mouth, Lan Qiren regrets his wording.

He is not surprised when Wangji’s eyes narrow, flashing with offence. “There is no need to rejoin what one has never left. I did not turn my back on my sect. My sect turned their backs on me.”)

We love a story in which Lan Qiren learns and changes

I adore the relationship that grows between Lan Qiren and Wei Wuxian. They learn from one another and it is so wholesome

Let this uncle stand up for his family!

3 how a smiling homeless child melted jade hearts and got a home by anxiouswreck0_0 (41,711)

Summary: What if Jiang Fengmian never found Wei Wuxian?

What if Lan Wangji was too captivated by a bright smile to let go of it?

What if Madam Lan and Qingheng-jun loved each other but were forced apart?

What if all Lan Qiren wanted was for his family to be happy together?

What if the Elders shut up for once in their much too long lives?

What if...?

//Or: Wei Wuxian is adopted by the Lans because they're soft for the smiley homeless child.

I love a story in which WY is adopted by other clans and this is a take on the lan clan adoption

Wei Ying is secretly raised by Madam Lan

The end is happy there is a little bit of angst- totally worth it though!

Lan Qiren needs a break LOL

4 Dispersing Clouds by dreamingofcake (283, 285)

Summary: While the Wen Clan is embroiled in subduing internal conflicts within Qishan, the Jiang Clan hosts the annual discussion conference. It has been one year since the disastrous archery competition where Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji last met but Wei Wuxian remains as optimistic as ever. An unlikely friendship begins to blossom and without the looming spectres of conquest and war to strengthen his ties to the Jiang family, the trajectory of Wei Wuxian’s life changes.

This one is a little less lan qiren focused but he plays a big role in the story

Lan Qiren realizes there is something awfully suspicious going on with the relationship between the Jiangs and Wei Wuxian and mentors WY quite a bit

Happy happy ending but it is very negative towards the Jiangs- heads up!

5 Consequences by Remma3760 (58, 405)

Summary: Madam Yu uses Zidian on child Wei Ying. There are consequences.

Okay not going to lie this starts off horrifically. The child abuse in chapter 1 rattled me, but it immediately gets better

Lan Qiren said no fucking way ma'am, that's my kid now

WY has the best life after this. The lan have mind healers!

6 Thunderstorm in the Library Pavilion by ZamaShines (22, 250)

Summary: “Wei Ying, please,” he pleaded, desperation making his hand hover around Wei Wuxian’s shoulder for a second time.

The image of Wei Wuxian, breathing hard and uneven, his face drawn and his body taut with constant shivers, was a sharp contrast to his typically radiant and carefree appearance. Lan Wangji was struck by the sight, frozen in place, his heart thumping rapidly in his chest. He didn’t know what to do, how to help him.

(Or, Wei Wuxian is afraid of thunderstorms and Lan Wangji wants to help, but don’t know how.)

This is another fic with horrible horrible child abuse

not lan qiren centric but he plays a large role in this fic

Lan Qiren learns some things about WY's life and says fuck Madam Yu specifically.

7 but I figured it out, then made my way back by MichelleFeather (19, 318)

Summary: It was an extreme, a desperate decision fueled by anger towards the entire cultivation world, a grief deeper than the deepest trenches in the ocean. The realization that Lan Wangji would now have to continue on living a second time without his beloved, where Wei Wuxian had died once again. Where, once more, his love had been taken from him by cruel, unrighteous men who thought they knew better, that they were doing the world a justice.

Lan Qiren had seen the state that his nephew had been in after Wei Wuxian’s first death, what Lan Wangji had done in his grief then, and he feared what Lan Wangji would do to himself if he was left alone with this repeated grief.

Lan Qiren will do anything for his nephews including bending reality and breaking his own rules

Time travel fic with lan qiren and lan wangji!

once again this is jiang bashing- i find with a lot of good uncle lan qiren fics that the jiangs are typically vile (I mean canon but usually worse).

8 Mutations in the Rumor Mill by Bodldops (30, 376)

Summary: Everyone says that Lan Qiren hated Cangse Sanren. Everyone knows that as fact.

Or, at least, everyone has heard that repeated as fact.

Lan Qiren never bothered to tell anyone otherwise. He regrets doing so.

I'm actually so soft for this fic. Best of uncle's lan qiren

Lan Qiren took one look at WY and said- this is for sure Cangse's child and he's definitely being sneaky rn

WY didn't need discipline- he needed a challenge.

Warning again for mistreatment of WY via the Jiangs.

9 All will be well when the day is done by abCEE (76, 082)

Summary: The one where Yu Ziyuan time traveled but she thought that it was her visions of her alternate life.

She learned that there is a brat named Wei Ying who brought destruction to her and her family's life.

And so in her present, she vowed that she will never allow that to happen.

In which Yu Ziyuan found the four-year-old Wei Ying, newly pushed out of the inn where his parents left him, and decided that no, this child must never be associated with her, her family, and their sect at all.

And so Yu Ziyuan thought that she could bring him somewhere where someone may or may not find him but definitely far from where her husband could find him. If he's lucky, he'll survive that winter, if he's not, then death awaits the fevered child.

This is the extent of mercy that Yu Ziyuan could give a child.

With this, she'll raise her children without having to deal with a brat that brings trouble where he goes according to her visions of her alternate life.

Like the tag stated, this is definitely not Yu Ziyuan centric.

Madam Yu is absolutely VILE in this fic.

WY is raised by Lan Qiren! His life gets much better

There was a solid little twist in the end if I am remembering correctly

I am so soft for Lan Qiren in this fic

10 In Walls of Glass by Comfect (43, 459)

Summary: Lán Qǐrén thinks about different Lan rules when Wei Wuxian brings up resentful cultivation in class.

Everything goes better from there.

Seriously, everything.

We love it when Lan Qiren is challenged and isn't awful about it

The class is learning together and good things are happening

this is mostly in the study arc

11 Traveling in shadows, chasing your light by MusicMe_tc (21, 292)

Summary: "No, Lan Zhan, it won't! Why?! You still haven't told me why?! Why did you do that?! Why would you risk your life like this?!" He screams desperately again. The gentle hand goes up to the back of his head, bringing him forward.

And then, Lan Wangji whispers something to him.

He pulls back to look at Lan Wangji's face, to see if there's any hint of that being a joke, or a lie hidden underneath, but all he sees is the truth.

Or: Lan Wangji gets hurt while protecting Wei Wuxian in Nightless City. Lan Xichen, Lan Qiren and Wei Wuxian nurse him back to health in Burial Mounds, and there, everyone learns they might’ve been wrong all along.

Lan Qiren starts out as kind of a dick but learns the truth and he gets better

A little bit of angst because burial mounds and LZ is not well

Happy ending though!

12 a win-win situation by iwishfrogswerereal3 (36, 801)

Summary: Here’s how it all started!

Wei Ying just tries to raise his son, finish his degree and live a peaceful, quiet life. But his friends (and for some reason, his neighbours) are convinced that he needs a romantic partner. Nice, normal friends and family must be a lie invented by the government! At least he has a new (suspiciously cheap) apartment and a new (unfairly gorgeous) friend from the grocery store.

Lan Zhan loves his family, but they are a little bit too much. His uncle is very intent on him marrying and having children, and his brother and best friend are way too nosy about Lan Zhan's (nonexistent) love life. AND then, this strange, beautiful man and his cute son crashed into his life, and now everything is so… different?

A modern au about ruthless scheming, (found) family dinners and apartments.

This is so fluffy omg XD

Another modern day au in which Lan Qiren WILL be a granduncle.

Gave a little bit of scooby doo vibes in the sense that everyone is opening and closing doors and accidentally avoiding one another

I loved literally everything about this. So light hearted, a little bit of crack energy but the happiest of endings.

13 Discordant Rhapsody by nirejseki (49, 488)

Summary: “Become my personal disciple,” Lan Qiren said to Wei Wuxian, feeling the weight of what he said on his tongue, the bitter taste of it mixing in with the ash of the Burial Mounds. “And as your shifu, I will bear the shame of your actions for you.”

This one is a bit higher on the angst than the other ones but omg it was so good

I cried real tears for Lan Qiren. This man is truly ride or die emphasis on the almost die :(((((((((((((((((((((((((

The solidarity in this fic also made me cry ngl

Best person Lan Qiren

14 The Weight of Honor by BillyBabear (7, 325)

Summary: Wei Wuxian is a whirlwind of chaos in the disciplined halls of the Cloud Recesses, a constant thorn in Lan Qiren's side. Loud, unruly, and utterly infuriating, the boy seems determined to disrupt every principle the Lan Sect holds dear.

But when a Sect Elder crosses a line, Lan Qiren is forced to investigate. What he uncovers challenges not only his perception of Wei Wuxian, but also his unwavering belief in the fairness and integrity of the Lan Sect itself.

An au where shifters exist and are held to almost a celestial level (they are incredibly pure and righteous)

Lan Qiren makes assumptions and then learns a thing!

Short and sweet fic

BONUS!

15 Baby, You Ain't Seen Nothing Yet by TriviasFolly (177, 680)

Summary: For thirteen years, Wei Wuxian had been cautious. He hadn't done anything that could risk his new identify as Mo Xuanyu. He'd distanced himself from anything that had to do with the Clans he grew up with. Only for one coworker's sick kid to cause his past to come hurtling back at him.

His past, of course, is named Lan Wangji. And this time, he won't let Wei Wuxian go.

Okay this is not at all Lan Qiren centric and I am pretty sure he has a small part in this fic but I could not omit

this is an A/B/O mafia au but Lan Qiren is an absolute DILF/GILF tattoo artist

just too good to omit!

I hope you like the list!

I hope you enjoy this and find at least some fics you like and haven't read. I am WEAK for good uncle lan qiren fics and if you have any recs I will also eat them up.

For anyone else wanting rec lists, dm me! I love making and sharing these :)

For other Wangxian lists check out my tag bloopitynoots wangxian recs

#bloopitynoots wangxian recs #wangxian #mdzs #mdzs fanfiction #mdzs recs #grandmaster of demonic cultivation #lan qiren #fics featuring lan qiren #good uncle lan qiren #wei wuxian #lan wangji

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msilwrites · 6 months ago

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Papa Bear Material Ch 10 (Captain Price Fic) - THE DATE (FINALLY!!)

Chapter 1 Chapter 1 (Shorter Version) Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 11 (Last Chapter)

@darkangel4121@teenagellamaangel@madzzz0797@callsignferal @marmaladespread02 @poohkie90 To the other’s who want me to tag you when there’s an update, just tell me at the comments) A/N: Well, look at you now—on a date with the Captain! No escape, I'm afraid! Is this going to be good? Bad? Or very good? (Spoiler alert: it's probably the latter... 😉) Find out below and brace yourself! LOL! Warning: side effects include excessive giggling, spontaneous squealing, and an undeniable urge to swoon. You've been warned! 😂

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John’s large hand remained firmly entwined with hers, his grip both steady and commanding. His palm was warm against her skin, and the strength in his hold left no room for argument—or escape. Despite her half-hearted attempts to resist, he led her through the crowded bar with an ease that made her feel as though she was being swept away, her protests as inconsequential as leaves in a current.

By the time they stepped into the cool night air, her cheeks were flushed, not from the temperature but from the mix of frustration and the undeniable charge in his presence. His hand tightened slightly, a silent reassurance—or a warning—that he wasn’t about to let go. The parking lot was quiet, the distant hum of passing cars the only sound breaking the stillness, but even that seemed to fade into the background as they approached his vehicle.

Her eyes landed on his 4x4, sleek and imposing in the dim light. The black paint gleamed faintly under the glow of the streetlamp, and the sturdy build seemed a perfect reflection of the man guiding her toward it.

“John,” she started, her voice laced with exasperation. “Can you at least—”

But her words were cut short as he stopped beside the passenger door and turned to face her. His broad shoulders loomed, casting a shadow over her smaller frame even in her heels, and she was suddenly reminded of just how tall and physically commanding he was. Her heart gave a little jolt as his free hand reached for the door handle.

Without releasing her hand, he pulled the door open with an easy grace. Standing between her and any possible escape, he tilted his head slightly, his blue eyes fixed on hers with that maddening mix of amusement and quiet intent.

“After you,” he said, his voice low and edged with something unspoken.

She sighed, her shoulders slumping in resignation. His unwavering determination, combined with the way he blocked any route of retreat, left her with little choice. “Fine,” she muttered, stepping into the 4x4.

The interior was as polished as she might have expected: clean, organized, and exuding an understated practicality. Her gaze swept over the dashboard, where a metallic tumbler sat snugly in the drink holder, its surface worn from frequent use. The faint glow of the touchscreen lit up as the vehicle came to life, showcasing a neatly curated playlist. A soft, earthy scent filled the interior—woody, warm, and slightly smoky, like the forest after a rainstorm mixed with the comforting heat of a fireplace. It was undeniably him, a scent that seemed to settle into the very air around her.

As she adjusted herself in the seat, the door shut with a firm click, enclosing her in his world. John rounded the front of the vehicle, his steps purposeful, and climbed into the driver’s seat with the same quiet confidence that had her pulse inexplicably racing.

He pressed the start button, and the engine rumbled to life, a steady vibration that seemed to echo through the small space between them. The low hum of the music filled the silence, and as he shifted into gear, she cast a sideways glance at him, her frustration battling with an undeniable curiosity.

The scent of him, the closeness, and the easy control with which he handled the vehicle—it was all too much, too intoxicating. He hadn’t just taken her hand back in the bar; he’d taken the lead, and now all she could do was follow.

----------

As they drove, she realized she still had no idea where John was taking her. Any attempt to ask was met with a hum, a grin, or one of his teasing comebacks that seemed designed solely to get under her skin.

She found herself staring at him, her thoughts drifting. How long had it been since she’d been intimate with anyone? A decade? Maybe more. Her gaze lingered on him—handsome, rugged, and undeniably sexy. But then, her mind turned cynical. Men like John were all the same, weren’t they? They wanted one thing, and she knew it.

Not that she minded. A man like John Price was as good a candidate as any. Sex with someone that attractive couldn’t be all bad. And with her... particular preferences, it could even be convenient. Anal, oral, fingering—it didn’t matter. She was technically still a virgin, and that was her secret to keep. A secret no one, especially John, needed to know. Maybe he’d even prefer it this way—no messy entanglements, no risk of pregnancy, no scares.

The thought crystallized in her mind, and before she could stop herself, she made the offer.

“John?”

“Mmm?” His hum was low, his attention fixed on the road, though his lips twitched in that insufferable smile.

“If I have sex with you, would you stop this silly act of courtship and dating?”

His head turned toward her, his expression shifting as his eyes darkened. The car slowed to a stop at a red light, and he leaned against the steering wheel, studying her with an intensity that sent heat rushing to her cheeks.

Her confidence wavered, but she pressed on. “We could get a room, you know?” she purred, her hand daring to slide over his thigh, testing the waters.

“Mmm.” His raspy voice was all he gave her, a sound that was neither agreement nor denial, as he turned his attention back to the road.

She leaned back, interpreting his silence as a quiet acceptance of her proposition. Yet, somewhere beneath the surface, she couldn’t shake the faint sting of disappointment. Perhaps she was right, after all. Men like John always wanted the same thing.

The drive turned quiet, save for the soft hum of the vehicle and the occasional glance John threw her way. She swallowed hard when they pulled into the drive of a boutique hotel nestled near Hampstead Heath. It was the kind of place that exuded quiet luxury, the kind she’d never have chosen herself.

Her pulse quickened. This was happening. But she had made her choice, hadn’t she? Might as well go along with it and enjoy the ride.

John stepped out of the 4x4 and rounded to her side, opening the door with that maddening confidence of his. Without a word, he reached for her hand, his warm, strong grip wrapping around hers, leaving no room for argument. He helped her down and, just as before, his large hand stayed entwined with hers as he led her forward. His other hand still clutched her bag, a silent reminder that escape wasn’t an option.

They entered the hotel, its lobby a serene blend of polished wood and ambient lighting. As they approached the reception desk, she tugged slightly at his hold. “John, hand me my bag or open it. They’ll need an ID…” she muttered, glancing toward the check-in counter.

He didn’t respond. In fact, he didn’t even slow down, his grip firm as he strode past the reception desk without so much as a glance in its direction.

Her brows knitted in confusion. What was he doing?

The answer came soon enough. John steered her toward the hotel’s restaurant, its warm glow spilling into the lobby. A host greeted them with a welcoming smile, and John’s deep voice cut through her bewilderment.

“Table reservation for Jonathan Price.”

“Ah, yes! Right this way, Mr. Price,” the host said, retrieving two leather-bound menus before motioning them to follow.

She blinked, her confusion giving way to a mix of relief and irritation as the pieces fell into place.

Upon reaching their table, John pulled out a chair for her, she sat down, her eyes sweeping across the restaurant. The space had a warm, rustic charm, with dark wooden panels lining the walls and framed artwork adding personality. Exposed beams crisscrossed the ceiling, and an ornate chandelier cast a soft, inviting glow.

Tables were set with flickering candles, creating an intimate atmosphere, while cushioned benches along the walls offered cozy seating options. In the center, a polished wooden bar stood as the focal point, its shelves stocked with an impressive array of bottles. The soft hum of quiet conversation and the clinking of glasses completed the scene, making it feel welcoming yet refined.

It was the kind of place you could easily lose yourself in—whether in good food, good company, or something more.

John took the seat adjacent to hers, murmuring a polite thank-you as the server handed them their menus. He quickly scanned his, his eyes darting over the options with practiced ease.

She narrowed her gaze at him, skepticism laced in her tone. "Weren’t you supposed to take me to bed? You know, you didn’t have to butter me up with dinner first."

John’s brow arched, and he slowly closed his menu, his piercing eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her gulp. He sighed, the sound more weighty than annoyed.

"I don’t want this to be a one-time thing, Y/N," he said firmly.

Her response came quick and sharp, laced with playful incredulity. "Oh, so you want to be ‘friends with benefits,’ then?"

John blinked, his exhale turning into a laugh despite himself. "No!" he exclaimed, shaking his head as if trying to dislodge the absurdity of her suggestion. "What is wrong with you?" His voice was lighthearted, but the exasperation was clear.

"You’ve really put me in a box, haven’t you?!" He let out another sigh, this one tinged with reluctant amusement. "No, I want to do this properly—this silly thing you call courtship and dating." His hand gestured as though he were spelling it out for her. "I don’t just want sex; I want all of you."

He looked at her, his face caught between a smirk and a frown, as if he couldn't decide whether to laugh at her or be offended by the entire exchange.

Upon hearing John’s words, Y/N froze. Her eyes widened, and her mouth fell slightly open in surprise. It wasn’t the first time someone had claimed to want her, but experience had taught her to expect disappointment soon after. Yet, there was something in the way John Price said it—calm, steady, and unflinchingly sincere—that felt undeniably different.

She bit her tongue, her lips pressing together as if to keep her thoughts from spilling out. Instead, she glanced down at her menu, finding its polished pages suddenly very interesting. She had been here before, in this liminal space of hope and uncertainty. If John’s actions didn’t match his words—if this thing they were trying didn’t work out—it would be a letdown she didn’t want to think about.

Y/N let out a soft sigh and mentally braced herself, forcing the flicker of vulnerability to the back of her mind.

John, however, didn’t miss her hesitation. His perceptive gaze softened, and he reached across the table, his large hand enveloping hers. His warmth was immediate, grounding her in a way she didn’t expect.

"Y/N?" His voice was low, a thread of concern woven into it.

"Yes, John?" she replied, her voice quieter now.

"Is there something the matter?"

"No, no... it’s nothing," she said quickly, brushing off his concern with a weak smile. She gestured toward the menu, eager to redirect the moment. "Let’s just order."

Dinner began with appetizers—crispy buttermilk fried chicken and delicate mushroom tempura. The rich flavors seemed to mirror the gradual softening of Y/N’s demeanor as John coaxed her into conversation. He started with simple, light-hearted questions: her favorite color, film, book, and other personal quirks.

By the time the main course arrived—a beautifully slow-roasted beef served with gravy and Yorkshire pudding—the ice had melted completely. Their dialogue deepened, revealing surprising commonalities: shared interests, aligned values, and even a few obscure hobbies they both enjoyed. Y/N found herself genuinely enjoying the exchange, caught off guard by how much they had in common.

When dessert was still being prepared, she surprised him further by ordering a specific whisky, neat. The amber liquid arrived in a crystal tumbler, its smoky aroma wafting gently through the air.

"You fancy whisky?" John asked, raising an intrigued brow.

Y/N grinned, swirling the drink lightly in her hand. "Ah, yes, of course! I’m a collector. I bottle samples, sell them, sometimes even trade with other enthusiasts." She took a small sip, savoring the warm, peaty burn that followed. "Want to try?" she offered, holding the glass toward him.

John blinked, clearly not expecting this from her. “A petite lass like you? A whisky connoisseur? Didn’t see that coming.” He let out a chuckle, shaking his head.

"Why not?" she teased with a playful smile.

“Maybe another time,” he replied, his tone teasing but resolute. “I’m driving, remember?”

She chuckled and nodded, amused by his restraint. “Fair enough. Another time, then.”

By the time dessert arrived, the conversation had evolved into shared laughter, punctuated by their stories and jokes. The warmth between them felt natural, as if they had known each other for far longer than a single evening.

John leaned back slightly, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "You look like you’re actually enjoying yourself."

She giggled, shaking her head as she wiped a stray tear of laughter from her eye. "Unfortunately, it does seem to be the case."

He leaned forward then, his expression softening as his fingers toyed absently with the edge of his napkin. “You know,” he began, his voice low and deliberate, “I said I’d leave it at just one date if you weren’t enjoying yourself... but I don’t think I can let it be a one-time thing now.”

His blue eyes locked onto hers, their intensity sending an unsteady rhythm through her chest. It was as if he could see straight through her, catching the flicker of warmth she had been trying to downplay all evening.

For a moment, she was speechless, searching her thoughts and feelings for clarity. Her gaze lingered on John, who watched her patiently, the sincerity in his expression unyielding. Finally, she let out a sigh, nodding slightly. "Alright," she said, her voice steady. "We can... exclusively date."

John’s grin widened with a boyish charm, and he gently took her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. The gesture was so tender it sent a flutter through her chest.

“Just so we’re clear,” she interjected, narrowing her eyes playfully, “we’re still in the dating phase. This doesn’t mean we’re in a relationship yet!”

A mischievous smile crept across his face as he held her gaze. “Oh, I know,” he replied, his tone teasing. But in his mind, the thought was resolute: She will be mine.

----------

After dinner, once the bill was settled and they left the restaurant, the shift between them was unmistakable. This time, she clung to his arm willingly, her hand looped through his, her posture relaxed. Her bag, which Price had been holding hostage all evening, was finally back in her possession—though it had taken a mix of playful convincing and shameless flirting on her part to retrieve it.

“Alright, alright,” he had relented earlier with an amused shake of his head. “Fine, take it,” he’d said with a mock sigh, handing it over. “But only because I’ve grown rather attached to it.”

“Should I be worried you’ll start carrying a handbag now?” she teased, her grin sly.

“Only if it matches my boots,” he shot back, earning a laugh from her.

As they strolled to the car, her head rested lightly on his shoulder, and her hand settled comfortably on his arm. The gesture was natural, easy, yet it sent a warmth coursing through him. John couldn’t help the grin that tugged at his lips, but he tried—poorly—to hide it.

When they reached the car, he opened the door with an exaggerated flourish. "Your chariot awaits, my lady," he said with a playful bow.

“Very dramatic,” she quipped, stepping in.

But when he leaned over to fasten her seatbelt, she batted his hands away with an exasperated laugh.

“John! I can manage a seatbelt, thank you!”

“Just being thorough,” he shot back, grinning cheekily before closing the door and circling to the driver’s side.

Once he settled in, he turned to her, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “So… are you going to tell me where you live, or am I supposed to play MI6 agent and figure it out myself? Not that I’d mind—it’s kind of in my wheelhouse.”

She rolled her eyes, a chuckle escaping her lips. “Alright, fine. I live in one of those old converted flats along the Thames.”

John drove her home, parking in the lot below her building before accompanying her upstairs. He insisted on walking her to her door, hands casually tucked into his jacket pockets, exuding his usual calm confidence.

At the threshold, she turned to him with a playful smile, leaning against the doorframe. "Care for a nightcap, Commander?" she teased, her tone flirtatious.

John grinned but shook his head. “Tempting, but no. I’m not about to be seduced into your bed.”

She rolled her eyes and swatted his arm, her laugh light and genuine. “That wasn’t my intention, Price!” She grabbed his wrist and pulled him inside, flicking on the lights as they entered.

The space was inviting, a perfect blend of industrial chic and rustic charm. Though medium-sized, it was carefully designed, exuding warmth and personality. The living room featured a small, cozy fireplace, plush seating, and a curated mix of textures and tones that made it feel lived-in yet stylish.

Through a large open archway, her workshop was visible—a creative haven that clearly reflected her skill and dedication as an artisan. A sturdy table held drying clay projects, different tools hanging on the wall, with a turntable on one side and a kiln neatly positioned on the other. Another area was dedicated to glass and metalworking, with tools and materials organized with meticulous care. A desk featuring a large drawing tablet and monitor highlighted her work in design, seamlessly blending traditional craftsmanship with modern techniques. Every corner of the studio showcased her artistry, demonstrating her talent and attention to detail.

“Sit,” she commanded, guiding John to the sofa. He complied, watching her disappear through another arch that led to the kitchen. She returned moments later, holding a small sample bottle of one of her prized spirits.

“Try this,” she said, handing it to him with a smirk.

John raised a brow, uncapping the bottle and giving it a curious sniff. But before he could say anything, she added with a teasing grin, “And now, you may go.”

He stood reluctantly as she tugged at his arm, though he resisted just enough to draw out her efforts. “You’re heavier than you look,” she muttered, swatting his arm again when he chuckled.

She gave him a playful tug, leading him to the door, but when it swung open, she refused to release his hand.

John paused, turning to her with a quizzical look. "What is it now?"

"Really, Price?" she said, her eyes holding a teasing intensity, as if she expected more from him.

John raised an eyebrow and smirked. "What? Did I forget something? Should I be calling a cab for myself?"

Y/N sighed, standing on her tiptoes to plant a sudden, soft kiss on his lips. John froze for a moment, surprised, before his strong arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her off the ground and pulling her closer. Her hands instinctively moved to his shoulders, deepening the kiss as her heart raced.

They broke apart at the same time, their breath coming in short bursts. Y/N swatted him lightly on the chest, and he chuckled softly. She gave him a playful shove toward the door, and with a mischievous grin, closed it with a gentle yet firm thud against his face.

John stood outside for a moment, laughing under his breath, as the soft echo of the door closing lingered in the air, leaving him with a silly grin and a heart full of warmth.

John made his way to the elevator lobby, sighing contentedly as he glanced down at the small taster bottle of whisky in his hand. The kiss still lingered on his lips, and he couldn't wipe the grin off his face. He was practically glowing, already imagining the next date, his mind already plotting how to make sure she couldn’t possibly say no.

He chuckled to himself, shaking his head. "Oh, she’ll be mine. I’ll make sure of it."

His thoughts were a blend of determination and excitement, and already, he could picture the next move in his mind. The only thing left to figure out was how to make it as irresistible as tonight.

She may have closed the door on him this time, but John was resolute—she would be his, and he’d make sure of it. Not just for another date, but for something lasting, something real. He couldn’t help but chuckle to himself, imagining her rolling her eyes at his persistence. But he didn’t care. One way or another, she was going to be his partner—his forever.

A/N: Talk about sweet moments! John is just so thorough, so decisive—you don’t even know what hit you! 😏 The following chapter(s)… well, as promised, things might get a little sexy, spicy, and seductive. Hold on tight, it's just the beginning… and it’s about to get very interesting… because now, my dear, you’re officially at the mercy of John Price! 😈🔥

Edit: On to the last chapter!!!!! 😈🔥 ------->

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scary-grace · 1 year ago

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Enough to Go By (Chapter 7) - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

Your best friend vanished on the same night his family was murdered, and even though the world forgot about him, you never did. When a chance encounter brings you back into contact with Shimura Tenko, you'll do anything to make sure you don't lose him again. Keep his secrets? Sure. Aid the League of Villains? Of course. Sacrifice everything? You would - but as the battle between the League of Villains and hero society unfolds, it becomes clear that everything is far more than you or anyone else imagined it would be. (cross-posted to Ao3)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

Chapter 7

Kurogiri snatches you from the alleyway behind the clinic. You’re ready for it, or as ready as it’s possible to be when you don’t know what Tenko’s planning. When you reappear, you’re not in the bar – instead you’re in the hallway outside Tenko’s room, and the door to his room is open. He looks pleased to see you. The hand’s already down off his face.

“You’re here. Good,” he says – but his expression shifts from anticipation into something sharper almost instantly. “What is it? Are you –”

This has been the worst twenty-four hours you’ve had since the night you first saw Tenko again. Between the visit with your family and the news about Kazuo and your encounter with Tenko’s master, you don’t have it in you to pretend. You take an unsteady step closer to him. “Can I, um –”

“What?” Tenko asks, but some part of him must know, because his arms lift from his sides, opening to leave space between them. You take another step closer, until you’re well within the space, and you know when he realizes, because he takes a sharp breath. “Yeah, you can. Go ahead.”

He hugs you back too tightly, but you’re probably hugging him too tightly in the first place. He can’t decide where to put his hands. He keeps trying different spots, but no matter where he touches you, it’s never with more than three fingers down. For your part, you keep your hands still on his back, resisting the urge to run them over his shoulder blades or along his spine. He’s really thin. Almost malnourished thin. No wonder his wounds take so long to heal.

You let your head fall against his shoulder, let your eyes fall shut. “What happened?” Tenko asks. He adjusts his grip on you without fully letting go. “Why do you look like that?”

His master said not to tell Tenko – no, advised you not to tell Tomura. But he also said he’d have no further dealings with you. You don’t know where Kurogiri is, what Kurogiri might say, so you speak as quietly as you can, your mouth just below Tenko’s ear. “I met your master.”

Tenko stiffens. “What?”

“Kurogiri took me to him. I thought he was taking me to you, but –”

“What did he want?” Tenko asks. His voice is tense, already going flat. “What did you tell him?”

“He wanted to know how I knew you. I told him about how we met last year, when you came to the clinic.” You feel Tenko’s shoulders relax slightly at that. “I used the right name. I don’t –”

“Here.” Tenko pulls away from you, but only long enough to pull you through the door to his room and shut it behind you both. “What else did he ask?”

“About my quirk. He said he’d give me one, but he changed his mind.” You try to remember, but it’s hard verging on impossible. All you can think of is the hand closing over your face, the enormous figure looming over you. “He said I was your game piece, not his. What does that mean?”

You look up at Tenko. Tenko’s expression is somehow grim and calculating at the same time. “He says everything’s for me. Everything should be as I want it, so he won’t take you away,” he says. Then, almost to himself: “But he was suspicious. If he finds out –”

“Finds out what?”

“Here.” Tenko pulls you closer than before. This time you feel his chapped lips against your ear. “I was supposed to say goodbye to my old name. When he gave me my family to wear.”

His family to wear. His family – the hands. You almost throw up. Tenko keeps talking, faster now. “I didn’t think about it. I hadn’t in years, until – and I feel different when I hear it. Different than I’m supposed to. I want the same things, but more things. I don’t know how to say it.”

“You’re not supposed to be Tenko anymore.” You feel him nod. “You feel more like that when you’re with me.”

Tenko nods again. “You always know how to say it right.”

“I know you,” you say. His grip on you tightens. “You’re in trouble with him because of me.”

“No.” Tenko’s index finger taps a pattern on your back. “I feel better when you’re here.”

That doesn’t mean he’s not in trouble. It just means he cares about it less, or he’s less worried than you are. “Just be careful with my name,” he continues. “Call me Sensei’s name around everyone else, even Kurogiri. When it’s just us, like right now –”

“Tenko,” you say, and he nods. You feel a little better, maybe. You don’t know for sure. And you know you’ve been hugging him for way too long. You step back. “Sorry about this. I –”

“Don’t,” Tenko says. “I told you. I don’t mind.”

The two of you look at each other for a moment. In your peripheral vision, you can see that the room’s even cleaner than it was the last time you were here. The coffee table still has a pileup of games on it, but there’s also an open energy drink can sitting there. With a flower sticking out of it.

You fixate on the flower. “Where’d you get that?”

“I found it,” Tenko says, but he can’t hold your gaze, which means he’s lying and he probably stole it. “So you wouldn’t get confused this time.”

“About whether it’s a date?” you ask. He nods without looking at you. “Okay. It’s a date.”

“It’s a date right now,” Tenko corrects. “The new members of the League will be here at midnight. Do you have a disguise?”

“I think so.” You’ve been carrying it around in your bag, since you don’t have a way to predict when Tenko will call for you. “Do you want to see it?”

He nods. You fish both pieces of it out of your bag and put it on, situating the veil over your face and peering at Tenko through the filmy fabric. “Can you see my face?”

“Not really.” Tenko tilts his head, studying you. “What is it?”

“My friends and I dressed up as vampire brides last Halloween, but I went a little too hard on the bride part,” you say. “I was going to use a mask, but it was hard to breathe, and I couldn’t see very well. And the veil covers my hair, too.”

Tenko nods again. “What’s the crown made of?”

“It’s supposed to look like thorns.” You cringe a little bit. “Hirono made me wear it with the costume, and I still needed something to hold the veil in place. Does it work?”

Tenko comes closer. A lot closer. “Not at this range,” he says. You’d have to agree. If you can count his eyelashes through the veil, he can definitely see your face. “I’m not letting any of them that close to you or me. You can take it off now.”

You lift the crown off, and the veil after it, and Tenko takes them from you, setting them down on the end of the coffee table next to the hand he usually wears on his face. They look unbelievably weird laid out next to each other – like the costume pieces they are, things the two of you can take on and off whenever you want to instead of symbols of what Tenko already is, what you’re getting yourself into. “The others won’t be here for a few hours,” Tenko says. “Do you want to play a game?”

“Do you need to do anything to get ready for the meeting?” you ask. “It sounds important.”

“The plan’s already done. I’ll tell you about who will be there, but we don’t need anything else. Just –” Tenko lifts his head as if to scratch at his neck, then lowers it again. “I don’t want to think about it right now. I’ve thought about it enough. Can we –”

“Yeah,” you say at once. “Let’s just play.”

You play Call of Duty again, starting off in co-op mode this time. You were so worried that your skills would atrophy that you made Ryuhei and Mitsuru play with you until you got better, something Tenko remarks on right away. “I can’t believe you practiced.”

“I wouldn’t be much of a sidekick if I stayed dead weight,” you say. “Don’t worry. It won’t last long.”

The two of you still have a ways to go before the intermediate levels, and with the pressure off, Tenko starts telling you about the allies he’s collected. Mostly guys – for whatever reason, there aren’t a lot of female villains. The two women are Hiikishi, who goes by Magne, and Toga, who goes by Toga. Magne’s an adult with a serious record, and Toga would have a serious record if she was an adult, which she isn’t. “Seventeen?” you say, startled. “She’s just a kid.”

“She’s a Stain fan,” Tenko says. He rolls his eyes, then takes out an entire group of enemies advancing on the two of you without looking at the screen. “So are two of the others. One of them’s got a fire quirk. He’s an asshole. The other one – he’s hard to get a read on. Keep an eye on him.”

“I can do that,” you say. You see a solitary enemy sneaking up behind Tenko’s character, adjust your viewpoint minutely, and shoot them before they can shoot him. “Who else?”

Toga apparently isn’t the only kid who’s taking on a life of villainy. There’s another high school student, too, and you think about what Kazuo said, about the question of whether the creation of new villains can be prevented. Two of the other new allies fall into the category of those Kazuo said would be drawn to violence regardless. You recognize both names from the news, and you’ve listened to enough true-crime podcasts at Mitsuru’s behest to know that at least one of them is supposed to be behind bars. “Did you break them out?”

“Kurogiri’s doing that,” Tenko says, unworried. “They’re the distraction. Compress will be doing the real work.”

“Compress?”

“We were lucky to find him,” Tenko says. There’s a nasty grin on his face. “You’ll hear more about him when we go over the plan. We – dammit.”

The two of you leveled up while you were talking, and there are twice as many enemies as before. You decide to drop the line of questioning and focus on the game. Playing with Mitsuru and Ryuhei, you never got through the first of the intermediate levels. Tenko’s better than they are by a long shot, but you’ll need all your wits about you to avoid dragging him down.

You and Tenko play in silence for the most part, working together as a team, and you notice the two of you shifting closer together as the game continues, moving from your separate corners of the couch to the middle of it. You’re paying attention to the game, but every so often your mind drifts – to the flower in the energy drink can, to the fact that this is apparently a date, to the fact that Tenko let you hug him and hugged you back. If this is a date, if he keeps calling it a date, there must be something he wants from you that’s more than this, more than whatever the two of you are doing right now. You could ask what it is. Part of you doesn’t want to know.

You and Tenko clear one or two intermediate levels, but on the third one, you know the two of you are in deep trouble. You’re low on health already, courtesy of getting dinged a few times on the level before, and your skills, while improved, aren’t good enough to let you hold your own. Tenko’s having to protect you, just like you were worried he would, and in the process, he’s taking damage, too. Despite that, courtesy of Tenko’s skills and your weird accuracy, the two of you progress to the end of the level. Almost.

“Come on,” Tenko hisses. He’s two seconds away from disintegrating his controller. “We can make it.”

No, you can’t. Not both of you. But if Tenko can get through, he can get to a save point, and you can finish the level later. If you both die, you have to go back to the beginning. With that in mind, it’s an easy choice. You maneuver your character between Tenko’s and the enemies sneaking up on him from behind, and shoot as many of them as you can before they overwhelm you. Tenko turns to stare at you in horror. “You died?”

“You didn’t. Go!”

Tenko swears, shoots the enemies you couldn’t kill, and clears the level at speed. He saves his progress. Then he turns on you. “What happened?”

You point at the screen, which is showing a slow-motion replay of your character getting absolutely shredded by enemy fire. “You were blocking for me?” Tenko looks unhappy. “Idiot. We could have won.”

“I was slowing you down too much,” you say. “I could help you get through, so I did. Now you don’t have to start over.”

“But you do.”

“I’m the sidekick. It’s okay,” you say. You’re not sure why he’s looking at you like that. “And even if I wasn’t your sidekick – there’s no way I’d let my best friend lose.”

Tenko doesn’t say a word in response. Instead he sets his controller aside, then lifts yours out of your hands and does the same. You’re sitting really close together right now. He said this was a date. You make eye contact with Tenko, or try to. He’s not looking into your eyes. He’s looking at your mouth.

He’s being really obvious. You wonder if he knows. “Have you kissed anyone before?”

“Yeah. You.” Tenko doesn’t look away from your mouth. “Don’t you remember?”

For a moment you don’t. But then you remember the picture of the two of you on Valentine’s Day, and what happened after the picture was taken – you taking the valentine from him, planting a poorly-aimed kiss half on his mouth and half on his cheek, and promptly running away. You’re surprised he’s counting that. But you would count it, too, if it was the only thing you had to count.

“I remember,” you say. “So this is going to be our second kiss.”

“Who said I was going to kiss you?”

“You’ve been staring at my mouth for the last minute and a half. I’m not sure what else you could be doing,” you say. Tenko’s face turns red, which means you’re right, but he still doesn’t make a move. “Did you change your mind?”

“No.” Tenko shakes his head. “I don’t know where to put my hands.”

“Don’t do anything with them for now,” you suggest. Your heart is beating faster. “Let’s just try it and see how it goes.”

He’s leaning closer now, shifting position to close the gap even further. The flush in his cheeks is darker than before. “I’m not going to be good at it.”

“Hey, I was pretty bad at Call of Duty last time,” you say. Tenko starts to argue that kissing and Call of Duty have absolutely nothing in common, and you cut him off. “You know how I got better? I practiced.”

Tenko finally tears his eyes away from your mouth. “You wouldn’t have had anything to practice if I hadn’t taught you how. You should kiss me.”

“I kissed you the first time,” you say. “It’s your turn.”

It’s quiet for a second. “Fine,” Tenko says. He leans in and you tilt your head to the proper angle and your lips meet for the first time in fifteen years.

You really don’t want to count the kiss when you were five as your first kiss, but Tenko’s counting it, so you sort of have to. His lips are rough against yours, not in pressure but in texture, and you’re careful as you kiss him back. Careful for a whole host of reasons. His hands are curled into fists on his thighs, and you don’t want him to move without thinking. You don’t want him to pull away, either, which is what he’ll do if you go overboard. It’s not the hottest first kiss you’ve ever had, but it’s the most intense by far. The fact that your lips are the only point of contact makes it even more so.

You’re trying to be careful, but you’re not careful enough – Tenko’s lower lip splits, and you taste blood. You sit back in a hurry. “Sorry. I didn’t mean –”

“I don’t care.” Tenko closes the gap between you again, presses his lips against yours a second time. “Do you?”

“I don’t want to stop kissing you,” you admit. You feel Tenko’s lips curve into a smile, spilling more blood onto yours. “But you have to let me make it up to you.”

“How?”

You unfold your hands from your sides and raise them, setting them on Tenko’s shoulders. Tenko freezes. You risk dragging your thumbs slowly across his collarbones, too prominent just like his shoulder blades and vertebrae are, and see his eyes fall half-lidded. A slow shudder runs through him, shedding tension in its wake. “Do you mind?” you ask.

“No.” Tenko kisses you again.

Kissing Tenko is – strange. It’s not bad. Definitely not bad, and definitely not something you want to stop doing, but still, it feels strange. Part of it is the taste of his blood on your lips, the almost-starved ridges of his shoulders and spine under your hands, the fact that you can touch him but he can’t touch you. And part of it is the missing piece of time, those fifteen years where you would have known each other if this hadn’t happened to Tenko – whatever this was. It feels almost like a blink. When you look back in your memories, you’re little kids, linking pinkies on the way to school. Now you’re kissing on the bed in Tenko’s room with Call of Duty paused in the background. Or making out. If the total lack of daylight between your mouth and Tenko’s is anything to go by, you graduated to making out already.

You can’t get your tongue involved without tasting even more of his blood, but the sound he makes and the shudder that runs through him when you swipe your tongue across his lower lip to clear it away makes it almost worth it. His fists are no longer resting on his thighs – now they’re on yours, fingers uncurling and curling again. You dare to slide one hand upward, tracing the back of his neck, and Tenko groans, shudders. The thought comes to you, again, that you should be careful with him. He’s so thin, so shaky under your hands. If you push him too far, he might break apart.

Tenko’s trying to talk without disconnecting his mouth from yours. That’s not going to work. You wrap your arms around his neck so he knows you’re not going anywhere and sit back. “What is it?”

“I want to touch you.” Tenko’s eyes are locked on yours this time, and the hunger and desperation you see there takes you by surprise. “I don’t know how to make it safe. I don’t want –”

Something happens to him then. You don’t know how to describe it. Something flashes behind his eyes, and his shoulders tense beneath your hands, muscles turning so rigid and brittle that they feel as though they could shatter. “It’s okay,” you say quickly. You shift closer to him without asking first, halfway into his lap, trying to give him some of the contact he wants without getting his hands involved. “You could go slow. Or be careful. Or if you had gloves –”

Tenko’s eyes light up. “Wait here.”

You shift out of his lap as requested and he gets to his feet, heading for one corner of the room. You take a second to get composed. You can still taste Tenko’s blood on your lips, and when you raise your hands to touch your cheeks, they feel hot. Kissing him feels good, is good – but you’ve always liked your makeouts a little more hands-on, and once Tenko’s able to touch you safely, you can’t vouch for how well you’ll behave yourself. Are you really the only one who’s ever kissed him? He must be a quick study. Even with his blood on your lips, you’re already missing the heat of his mouth on yours.

Tenko’s back a moment later. He has a pair of gloves on – gloves that are missing the first three fingers. It takes all five to activate his quirk, which means you’re safe, and he still has the chance to touch you directly. He hesitates before he sits down again. “Do you really want –”

“Yes.” You catch his hand – it’s safe to do that now – and pull him down beside you. He makes a startled sound, which you immediately muffle in a kiss. It’s cute, but there are sounds you like better. “I want you.”

You were going to be more specific with what you wanted – I want you sounds heavy as all hell when the two of you have only just gotten physical – but Tenko doesn’t give you the chance. He wraps his arms around you tightly, so tight that it’s almost hard to breathe, but he doesn’t hold you that way for long. Soon enough his hands are roaming across your back from shoulder to hip, freezing briefly when they encounter your bra through your shirt, all while he deepens the kiss to an almost unsustainable degree. It’s like he’s trying to steal the air out of your lungs.

Tenko’s hands seize your shoulder, your hip, and grip hard. You don’t like being handled roughly, but held – that’s something different. You swallow a gasp and press closer to him, almost in his lap again. His grip on you tightens further and he pulls you the rest of the way. Your lips unlock from his in the move, coming loose with a slurping sound that would probably make you cringe under other circumstances, with someone else. As it is, you seize the opportunity to catch your breath.

Tenko looks up at you. His fingers are pressing deeply into your skin, hard enough to bruise through your clothes. His chest rises and falls rapidly, pressing against your own, and his red eyes are wide, pupils dilated. When you shift, trying to get settled in his lap, he sucks in a sharp breath. “Hold still.”

You’re comfortable now. You don’t mind. You look at him, studying the small things, the ones you remember from before. The tousled, slightly messy texture of his hair. His eyelashes, always a little longer than you expect them to be. The birthmark at the corner of his mouth, which you lean in to kiss lightly. You’ve always wanted to do that. Half the reason your first kiss was so messy was because you couldn’t decide whether to aim for the birthmark or his lips.

When you draw back, you see a surprised look on Tenko’s face. “You like that?” he asks. You nod, and a strange expression flickers across his face. “My grandma had it too.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“My other one. I saw in a picture.” Tenko’s thumb moves in slow circles over your hip, like he’s rubbing a worry stone. You don’t think he even knows he’s doing it. “She was a hero.”

“Really?” You didn’t expect him to say that. He nods. “You never told me.”

“I was going to.” Tenko’s eyes shift away from yours. “I found out that day.”

That day. It takes you a second to parse that, but once you do, your blood runs cold. The question balances on the tip of your tongue, a question you’ve been asking yourself for fifteen years, a question you know you shouldn’t ask him. You don’t need to know what happened. You saw what happened. All you need to know is that he’s here.

“Hey,” you say softly. Tenko won’t look at you, so you reach out, cupping the curve of his cheek, turning him back to put you face to face, if not eye to eye. “I’m glad you told me now. Better late than never. It would have been good to know for our games.”

Tenko scoffs at that. “We used to play some stupid games.”

“I liked them,” you say. “I like any game I play with you.”

Tenko’s been avoiding eye contact, but now he looks at you, and your breath catches. You can’t let him look at you like that. You’ll say more than you mean to. “Do you want to keep talking?” you ask. “Or do you want to make out some more?”

For a second you think Tenko will opt for talking. He looks like he’s thinking about it. Then the hand on your shoulder shifts to wrap around the back of your neck, and he drags you down for another kiss.

This position seems like it works for the two of you. The difference in your heights is perfect for it, and it gives you a little more control over the kissing while giving Tenko the chance to put his hands wherever he wants. He keeps them well clear of anything too forward, and eventually he finds a place he likes for both of them – one on your lower back, beneath the hem of your shirt, and the other around the back of your neck. It keeps you close, as if there was any chance you’d pull away.

You’re kissing too deeply to talk, except for once, when Tenko pulls away to make eye contact. “No more dates with heroes.”

You only went on that one date with Sugimura. After the night on the rooftop in Hosu, you had to accept that your feelings were elsewhere. “None for you, either.”

Tenko snorts. Then, almost as an afterthought: “No more with anybody.”

“You’re trying to lock it down already?” you tease. “It’s only our second date.”

“I don’t care.” Tenko’s expression is serious. “I don’t want another sidekick. You shouldn’t want another –”

He trails off, searching for the word. The word that follows naturally is ‘hero’, but you understand why he won’t use it. “I don’t want that,” you say. “You can lock me down. As long as I get to lock you down. It’s only fair.”

When you’ve had talks with guys about exclusivity in the past, they’ve looked vaguely annoyed. Tenko actually looks pleased with the thought. Not that that stops him from ribbing you about it. “You’re the one with seven siblings. You don’t like sharing?”

“I hate it.” you say, and he laughs. “You would, too, if you were me.”

Tenko smirks. He leans back from you without loosening his grip. “Go ahead, then,” he says. “Lock me down.”

He really shouldn’t challenge you like that. It gives you ideas. You lean in like you’re going to kiss him again, diverting at the last second to kiss the side of his neck, and Tenko’s complaints about how you don’t get to lock him down if you won’t even kiss him evaporate in seconds. You keep kissing him anyway. He wants you to lock him down? Fine. You’ll make sure everybody who looks at him knows that he belongs to somebody, even if they don’t know who that somebody is.

His neck is sensitive, and he’s not the quiet type. As high as his pain tolerance supposedly is, he’s almost absurdly sensitive to pleasure, and you like the idea of making him feel good a little too much. You know it’s working when Tenko’s grip on you changes, when he starts scrabbling for purchase on your back or your hip rather than holding tight, but even better than that is the unsteady sound of his breathing in your ear, the little noises he makes. You like it when guys are vocal. After one sound that crosses the line into a moan, you stop, and speak without lifting your mouth from his skin. “Locked down enough for you?”

“Fuck,” Tenko mumbles. You draw back to look at him and find his face flushed. “Maybe a little more –”

You kiss his mouth this time. You’re getting used to the taste of blood.

You don’t hear footsteps in the hallway or hear the door open, but you absolutely hear Kurogiri’s voice issuing from the doorway. “Shigaraki Tomura. It is nearly midnight.”

You pull away from Tenko, but not completely enough – there’s a rope of saliva stretching between your lips and his, which you deal with by leaning in to kiss him again. Tenko’s clearly embarrassed by Kurogiri’s presence, but that doesn’t stop him from kissing you back before he pulls away. “Knock next time,” he snaps at Kurogiri. “Are they here?”

“I will retrieve them shortly. Once the two of you are presentable.” Kurogiri apparently doesn’t trust the two of you not to go back to making out. He stands in the doorway, watching as you scramble out of Tenko’s lap and Tenko gets to his feet. “So the date went well?”

There’s that syntax shift again. “Shut up,” Tenko mutters. “Don’t act like you didn’t break my rule. You took her to Sensei. You’re lucky I don’t kill you.”

“If his orders contradict yours, my instructions are to follow his,” Kurogiri says. Tenko’s head snaps up. “I thought you were aware.”

“Now I am.” Tenko straightens his shirt and settles the hand over his face. He turns to face you and you wince. “What?”

You’ve seen the sketch of him from the USJ incident. It’s been all over the news for the past few weeks. “The hands for your neck – you might want them. There’s, um, evidence.”

“Evidence?” Tenko repeats, puzzled. Then his face turns red around the hand. He hurries to the far corner of the room and lifts a set of hands out, quickly securing them around his neck. “Can you see it now?”

You shake your head. “It is well hidden,” Kurogiri remarks. He looks to you. “Your disguise?”

You forgot about that. You collect the veil and crown off the end of the coffee table and secure both over your head. “I will retrieve the others,” Kurogiri says. “But first, the two of you.”

Warp gates open beneath your feet and Tenko’s, and when they close, you find yourselves in the bar again. Kurogiri himself vanishes, and Tenko settles into his usual seat. You stand there awkwardly. “Where do you want me to be?”

“Sit here.” Tenko taps the bar, and you scramble up. “Watch everybody. Keep an eye on the Stain fans. Act like you already know the plan. I should have told you already. I just –”

“You had other things to think about.” Your veil hides your face better than the hand hides Tenko’s – your face can flush until you’re practically glowing and no one will be able to see it unless they’re right up close. “How will I know if you want me to step in?”

“You’ll know when, if you need to. I trust you.” Tenko looks left, then right – then down at his hands. “Fuck. I can’t wear these. They’ll –”

“Here.” You hold out your hands for Tenko’s, and when he extends them, you peel the gloves off and tuck them away. With the model hands on and all ten fingers exposed, he’s different. You’re not sure how to quantify it, but you know it’s there, and it prompts a question. “Should I call you Shigaraki or Tomura?”

“Shigaraki,” he says, and you nod – but then, as the first warp gates begin to appear, he changes his mind. “Tomura. You’re different than they are. They should know from the start.”

So he’s planning to make your status distinct from the others, right from the beginning. You don’t know if that’s a good idea, but before you can protest or push back even slightly, the first of the allies Tenko’s gathered step through the portals, and you fall silent. Unless something goes horrendously wrong, you’re going to stay that way for the duration of the meeting.

The first two villains to arrive are also the youngest – the girl, Toga, and the boy who named himself Mustard, after the gas. Next up is the fire quirk-user, notable because of his patchwork skin and the staples holding the living tissue to the dead. You stare from behind the safety of your veil. You have no idea how his body is holding together. It shouldn’t be possible.

Next is a heteromorph, green-skinned and purple-haired, wearing a Stain mask. He must be the one Tenko – no, Tomura – said was hard to get a read on. The one you’re supposed to watch.

Magne arrives, followed shortly afterwards by a masked man – Compress, definitely, because the two men who arrive last are the murderers Kurogiri must have just broken out of prison. They scare you in a way the others don’t, and you’re so wary of them that you almost miss the arrival of the last villain. And you really shouldn’t miss his arrival. After all, he’s the only villain here who you’ve met before.

“Twice?” you say, startled, and Tomura looks up at you. Luckily, everyone else is still getting their bearings, and at least you said it quietly. “Sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Tell me later,” he says, and then he faces the other villains.

You’re not sure what he’s going to say, where he’s going to start, but in spite of the hands and the crew of monsters he’s assembled, all you can see is your childhood friend when he speaks. He sounds like he always did, laying out the details of the story before the game begins. “The heroes have regained their confidence. Because they dealt with Stain, they think it’s all been solved. I know that at least a few of you have questioned the effectiveness of what the League’s done so far. So have I. So we’re going back to what worked last time. We’re going to attack UA.”

Your stomach lurches. No wonder Tenko didn’t tell you. He must have known you wouldn’t approve. “They’ve tightened up security since your last attack,” Toga pipes up. “I took a look around, like you said. Nobody noticed me, but the whole campus is locked up tight.”

“Good work,” Tomura says, and Toga grins. Her incisors are sharp. “Toga’s reconnaissance confirmed my conclusion: UA is impregnable for now, which is why we’re not attacking the school itself. They’re running a summer training camp at a remote location, with significantly less security. That’s where we’ll hit them.”

“Them,” the fire quirk-user repeats. “Not All Might.”

“Not yet. We need to level up before we take him on.” Tomura’s shoulders are tense. “Hitting the camp, threatening their precious students – if the heroes can’t even protect their own kind, they can’t claim to be capable of protecting everyone else. Besides, that’s not the only reason we’re going there. You all are a good start, but we’ll need more allies if we want to win.”

“Why do you need more?” Mustard asks. “You’ve got us. We’re not good enough?”

Based on the belligerence, this is a sore spot. If Tomura can’t navigate it, you’ll step in – but somewhere beneath the hands, Tomura’s still the kid who knew how to make everybody feel included. “We can’t fight a war on just one front,” he says. “You and the others will win the strategic battle by destroying UA’s sense of superiority. And while you’re doing that, Compress and Toga will collect what we need to win the PR battle as well.”

“Indeed,” Compress agrees. “Are there other students you’d like me to capture, Shigaraki? Or are you interested only in the victor from the Sports Festival?”

The explosion kid. You remember him – the one who was so batshit berserk that he had to be muzzled and chained to a pole for the award ceremony. Tomura wants him for the League? “Use your discretion,” Tomura says. “He’s the priority. If you see others who are better suited to us than to the heroes, take them, too.”

“And I’ll get the blood,” Toga chimes in. Everyone turns to stare at her. “My quirk lets me turn into the people whose blood I drink! I can make myself look like a student, and I can say anything I want.”

Like a living deepfake. You knew Tomura was smart, but this is verging on diabolical. “What about the rest of us, then?” Muscular asks. There’s a sharp smile on his face, and just like Tomura, he’s tense. “Are we supposed to just stand around?”

“There will be pro heroes present,” Tomura says. “Mustard will incapacitate the students, but the pros will be more difficult to handle.”

“Difficult? For me?” Muscular scoffs and takes a step forward. “Just because an underground hero handed you your ass doesn’t mean I’ll have a problem.”

“If Eraserhead cancels your quirk, you’ll be in the same spot as me,” Tomura says shortly. He gets to his feet. Not good. “If you think I’m that easy to defeat, try your luck.”

It looks like Muscular wants to. Tomura’s hands are open at his sides, rising slightly, and just like you did in the convenience store last year, you speak up. “Both of your records speak for themselves,” you say, and Muscular turns to stare at you. “Tomura recognizes that the pros pose a threat to the success of the plan. And he recognizes that you’re well-equipped to handle them. That’s why you’re here.”

It’s quiet for a second. Muscular doesn’t step back into line, and neither does Tomura – but neither of them make a move, and when Tomura speaks again, Muscular doesn’t interrupt. “If you haven’t been given a more specific assignment, your job is to sow chaos,” he says. “Dabi, Spinner, Magne, Muscular, Moonfish – deal with the pros. If you have the opportunity to kill them, do it, as slowly or as quickly as you’d like. If not, keep them out of the way.”

“What about the students?”

Moonfish sounds like he’s speaking through a mouthful of razors. It makes your skin crawl, but Tomura doesn’t flinch. “The focus needs to be on the heroes and their failings, not on a bunch of dead kids. If that happens, that’s all anyone will talk about,” Tomura says. “Hurt them. Don’t kill them. That goes for all of them – except one.”

“Which one?”

“Midoriya Izuku.”

“No.” The green-skinned heteromorph speaks up for the first time. “Not him.”

Tomura turns towards him, incredulous, and the heteromorph keeps talking. “Stain spared his life. He recognized him as a true hero. I won’t subvert Stain’s will like that.”

A joke pops into your head – Stain’s not gonna fuck you – and you clench your jaw shut. “Stain’s will?” Tomura repeats. “Stain lost.”

“His ideas still live,” the heteromorph – Spinner, you think – says. “Are you following in Stain’s footsteps or not?”

You see Tomura’s shoulders tense again and realize that you’ve got approximately three seconds before he blows his top. “Stain and Tomura share a belief that hero society is rotten to the core,” you say. “The fact that the only examples of true heroes Stain could find are All Might and a fifteen-year-old illustrates the decay. Don’t you think?”

You’ve put Tomura and Stain on the same conceptual level, and you’ve put Spinner on the spot – and most importantly, you’ve contained Tomura for the time being. “I guess,” Spinner says after a second. “I still don’t think –”

“If you’re worried about following in Stain’s footsteps, follow them by killing false heroes,” Tomura interrupts. “There will be plenty to choose from at the training camp. Don’t concern yourself with Midoriya Izuku. Act as your ideals demand.”

Tomura glances around the room. “That goes for all of you. Use what methods you’d like. Act as you see fit, so long as those actions don’t imperil our common goal. Disrupt the camp, disable any pro heroes who get in your way, kill them if you want, and assist Toga and Compress in completing their objectives.”

It’s quiet. You can tell Tomura’s waiting for an argument, and when one doesn’t come right away, he picks one. “Does anyone have issues with their assigned role?”

“I have an issue,” the fire quirk-user says. Dabi, you think. The one Tomura said was an asshole, and when he points one finger at you, you decide you agree with Tomura’s assessment. “What’s your role? Who are you?”

“Yeah,” Muscular says. “What’s under that veil? And why do you talk so much?”

“She’s our medic,” Tomura says. “She’s trustworthy.”

“She’s hiding her face.”

“So am I,” Twice pipes up. “And Compress. Shigaraki, too. Besides, it’s good to have a medic! If the medic’s good.”

You owe Twice for having your back, even if he doesn’t know you. Dabi doesn’t look convinced. “What’s your name?” he repeats.

“You get her name when I get yours,” Tomura says. “My alliance with her existed before the League did. She’s trustworthy.”

Toga squints at you, then takes a few steps closer. “I like your costume,” she says. “You look like a bride.”

“I can’t see your face at all,” Magne says. “Hopefully it’s cuter than the veil is.”

“I hope so, too,” you say. Magne laughs.

Tomura doesn’t like that. You can tell. “Kurogiri, bring the maps,” he orders. A warp gate opens in the middle of the room, disgorging a map taped to a rolling whiteboard. “I don’t know your quirks as well as you do. We’ll devise this attack plan collectively.”

Tomura wasn’t in school long enough to learn what a pain in the ass group project are, but given that villains don’t like being bossed around, it’s not the worst strategy. You hang back, physically and verbally, steering clear of Dabi and Muscular and only stepping in when the temperature needs to be turned down. You’re the least powerful person in a room full of people who think nothing of throwing their weight around. In some ways, it’s just like being at home with your family.

Tomura asked you to watch, and you start piecing together an understanding of the group’s dynamic. The most stable individuals in the group are Kurogiri, Magne, and Compress, all by a long shot. The most easily dysregulated is Mustard, and while you think Dabi and Muscular can probably control themselves, you also think they’ll choose not to. You have a pretty good grasp on Twice from your previous meeting. Moonfish doesn’t say enough for you to be able to tell, but he also doesn’t start fights, and Toga’s a dark horse. So is Spinner.

Spinner’s hard for you to figure. He’s got no criminal record, but unlike Toga and Mustard, he’s old enough to have collected one. He’s probably the biggest Stain fan of the group, the only one who pushed back against Tomura on ideological grounds, but he’s also something of a team player. His role in the attack gets settled early, and he shifts to the outskirts of the group. After a few minutes psyching yourself up to do it, you slide down from the bar and join him.

He glances over at you, then double-takes. “You look like a ghost in that thing,” he says. “It works, though. I’d hide my face if my face mattered.”

“How do you mean?” you ask. “You’re joining the League of Villains. Your face is about to get pretty famous if you don’t cover it up.”

Spinner laughs, but there’s a rueful note to it. “I’m not exactly breaking hearts by turning to a life of crime. At least this way I’m doing something with my life.”

Weird and weirder. “What were you before this? If it’s okay for me to ask.”

“Only if it’s okay for me to ask how long you’ve known Shigaraki.”

You think about that. “Does ‘a long time’ count as an answer?”

“That depends. Is it months or years?” Spinner asks. You don’t know if you should answer that, and Spinner can tell. “I know I pissed him off earlier. You shut it down pretty fast. I figure either it’s your quirk or you just know him really well.”

“It’s not my quirk,” you say. You think back to the first time Tenko told you his new name. “Less than forever, more than a year.”

“I was a shut-in,” Spinner says, answering your question without responding to your answer to his. No wonder he’s got a record. It’s hard to get a record when you don’t leave your room. “That video of Stain’s is the first thing I ever saw that made sense. If you all have the same goal as Stain did, then I’m in the right spot.”

You nod. Someone is raising their voice in the group, and you key in – but it’s just one of the versions of Twice, getting excited about something. Spinner glances curiously at you. “You sure you don’t have an alias or something?”

You shake your head. You might be at a meeting of villains, wearing a disguise, listening to them plan to kidnap one high school student and traumatize the hell out of a few more, but picking out a name for yourself feels a little far. If Tomura thinks you need a name, he’ll probably give one to you.

The meeting breaks up two hours after midnight. You missed hearing the date the attack will take place, possibly on purpose, and when the group splits, leaving just you and Tomura and Kurogiri, you don’t ask what it was. Kurogiri pours drinks for you and Tomura. You sit down at the bar next to him, and he speaks without looking up from his glass. “What did you find out about Spinner?”

“He was a shut-in before. As long as you can tie your goals to Stain’s, he’ll follow along,” you say. Tomura nods. “How did the rest of it go?”

“I’m leaving some of the on-site planning to them. I’m not there to give orders, so they need to be able to adapt.” Tomura takes a sip of his drink. “Dabi’s a pain in the ass, like I thought, but I’m giving him temporary control of a Nomu to use during the fight. That should keep him quiet for now.”

He’s thought of everything. “You’re good at this stuff,” you say. “You barely needed me.”

Tomura looks up. “Yes, I do.”

It’s quiet for a little bit after that. You and Tomura drink, you staring down into your glass and Tomura staring at you, until you look up at the clock behind the bar and realize what time it is. “I have work in the morning. I have to go home.”

“Stay.” Tomura catches your sleeve with three fingers, but a small portal opens, depositing your bag a few feet away on the bar. “Kurogiri can take you to work from here.”

“I can’t show up in yesterday’s clothes. And I need to sleep. So do you.” You’re right, and Tomura knows it. He scowls anyway. He’s never happy when you leave, but right now he looks unhappier than usual. “What is it?’

“Once the attack happens, I can’t bring you back until things settle down.” Tomura’s looking unhappier by the second. “The brat can’t see you until I know he’s with us.”

“Oh,” you say. You wonder how long that will take. “That’s okay. I understand.”

“It’s not okay,” Tomura snaps. “It’s – take that thing off. I need to see you.”

You take it off quickly. “Kurogiri,” Tomura says. “Turn around.”

“I will return in five minutes.”

Kurogiri vanishes, and once he does, Tomura lowers the hand from his face, pries the other two from around his neck, and just like that, he’s Tenko again. “It’s not okay,” he repeats. “I need you with me. I feel different when you’re here.”

“Different than what?” you ask. He must think it’s a positive change, or he wouldn’t want you to stay. Tenko doesn’t answer. “Send Kurogiri to get me as soon as it’s safe, Ten. I’ll be waiting.”

You see his eyes light up ever so slightly, but it fades fast. “You’ll forget.”

Your heart aches, but this is something you can fix. “Let me show you something.”

The last forty-eight hours have been chaos, and you’ve spent most of it miserable, terrified, drunk, hungover, or making out with your childhood best friend on his couch. But somewhere in the middle of that, you managed to get into one of the two boxes you brought home from your parents’ purge and take something out. You couldn’t bring yourself to wear the locket, but you tucked it into your bag along with your disguise, and when you put your disguise away, you fish it out.

Tenko looks suspicious. “Who gave you that.”

“My parents, probably. That’s not the important part.” You close your eyes and struggle to come up with an explanation, one that doesn’t make you sound obsessed or insane or too invested in this, in him. “I found this in a box in my parents’ house. There was a lot of stuff in there about you and me.”

“Like what?”

“Pictures,” you say. “A birthday gift from you. The valentine you gave me. I put all that stuff in there when I was ten and taped it shut.”

“Why?”

“My parents were taking me to get my memory wiped the next day, so I really would forget.” You see Tenko’s eyes widen. “I hid that stuff from them, but I saved it for me. So even if the memory wipe worked, I could open it up and remember you again.”

You open the locket and hold it out for Tenko to inspect. You see his expression twist. “I never forgot about you,” you say. “When we saw each other again, that’s why I reacted that way. I always hoped you were alive. If I didn’t forget you in fifteen years, a few days or weeks or months isn’t going to make a difference.”

Tenko’s jaw is clenched. The tendons in his neck stand out, and his hands are curled into fists at his sides. You were trying to help, but it looks like you’ve made it worse. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I shouldn’t have –”

Tenko seizes you and yanks you into his arms. “Shut up,” he mumbles, his voice muffled by your shoulder, or maybe your chest. “How am I supposed to let you leave now?”

“You have to. It’ll be okay,” you say. “I did promise not to go on any dates with heroes.”

It’s quiet for a second. Your arms are around Tenko, and you feel his shoulders shake. “That’s not funny.”

You know that particular note in his voice. It makes you feel better. “Don’t laugh, then.”

Tenko snorts, hugs you closer and tighter. Then he lets you go. “Next time you’ll stay,” he says.

“If I have the next day off, sure,” you say, and Tenko smiles slightly. “We never got to have sleepovers before.”

It’s true. You asked and so did he, but your parents said you were too young, even though neither of you would have been farther from home than right across the street. You see Kurogiri reappear out of the corner of your eye and know you’re out of time. “Be careful,” you say to Tenko. “Come find me as soon as it’s safe.”

“I will.” Tenko gets to his feet. “Turn around, Kurogiri.”

“Believe me, there’s nothing going on over there that I want to see.”

One of these days you’re going to ask Tenko why Kurogiri’s like that, why he seems like he’s two people in one. Not tonight. There isn’t time. You have time for one more kiss with Tenko, but that’s all – and the instant the two of you separate to take a breath, Kurogiri warps you away, dropping you back in your apartment. Your bag lands on the couch next to you. You still have the locket clenched in one hand. There are still a few drops of Tenko’s blood on your lips.

You lick them away, feeling twenty kinds of insane as you do it. Your mind is crowded with dozens of questions, thoughts, images, memories, all of them demanding to be addressed at once. You kick off your shoes, move your bag to the floor, and lie back on the couch. Your eyelids are heavy the instant you’re horizontal, and by the time it occurs to you that you should let go of the locket or at least put it somewhere safe, you’re fast asleep.

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