#{ lets grease the gears here--

[heroichedgehammer]

"I made a friend in almost every one of my favorite places. Great people can make anywhere special, huh?"

[lemqnie]

ARCANE CHARACTERS + NEW YEARS EVE WITH YOU

JAYCE TALIS

⤠ loverboy texts you that he won't be done in the forge until late. you try to hide your disappointment. you're already dressed to the nines--a shimmery gold dress jayce bought for your for your anniversary last month sticks to your body like second skin. you were looking forward to partying it up with the kirammans. you move to take it off when you hear a knock on your bedroom door. heavily, you drag your feet to open it only to gasp in surprise when it's jayce. he stands in front of you, a sheepish smile on his face and pink dusting his cheeks and neck. he's in nothing but a simple white dress shirt, sleeves rucked up to his elbows. there's a hint of mechanic grease on his chin and you reach out to swipe it away, when he steps forward and pulls you close, apologising with a kiss. "what's that for?" you ask. he reveals what his other hand's hiding behind him: a bottle of champagne and a modest bag of fruits. "i thought we'd skip the party," he says, "stay here. watch the fireworks from over there." he nods at your balcony, the soft december breeze filtering through your room. "you said you'd be late," you accuse. he laughs. "i am. i wanted to come sooner, but i had meetings and then some and, well..." you don't know why you're still standing. you pull the man of progress in your room and the two of you steal kisses as you await the great clock to strike midnight.

VIKTOR

⤠ you've had plans since october. god knows viktor could never make enough time for himself to simply enjoy unless notified at least two months in advance. "nothing big," you promised him. with a roll of his eyes, he reaches forward with a free hand and kisses your forehead. "okay, láska." and exactly at eight pm on the dot, you show up at his flat, a bottle of wine and fresh sweetmilk rolls and grapes in tow. he lets you in, hair freshly damp from the shower. you make sure he's settled in before you set it up. you explain to him how your family rings in the new year: wishing on grapes and drunk. he laughs, wincing a little when the motion catches his back brace in a bad position. you reach over, brushing your thumb over his furrowed brows and he leans into your touch, kissing the insides of your wrist. "so," he says, accent thick and eyes heavy, "you brought the wine?" in the end, you didn't get to do your grapes until much, much later in the morning on new year's day after you wake up on viktor's bed, tangled in the sheets with him.

JINX

⤠ she swears to you that you'll get no better view of the piltie fireworks than above the cracks. she's waiting for you by the alley outside your workplace, gearing to go. you ask her if you need to bring anything yesterday and she grins, something mocking but rounded to sweet when she taps your nose. "just sturdy shoes and study old you," she sing-songs. as you climb up the treacherous cracks with her, you make good use of the shoes she told you to bring. you two finally make it up over the lanes and as you settle next to her, your breath leaves you forcefully. the view is beautiful. you can see the long stretch of roofs that make the end of zaun, the elevators, and the city of piltover. she nudges your shoulder and points with her arm to the councillor's building. "it'll be over there," she whispers. "colours like you've never seen!" the child-like wonder in her voice is what gets you. even if its minutes before midnight, you throw caution to the wind. what the hell, you thought as you turn and place your palm over her cheek. her blue eyes are wide, but she doesn't pull away as you lean in. when you kiss, you hear it behind you: the burst of fireworks, the cheer of children, and--best of all--jinx's relieved sigh against your lips.

REQUESTS ARE OPEN: CLICK HERE

[jilixthinker]

gross freak

͟͟͞♡ jisung × fem!reader

word count: 2.5k

warning: sub!jisung, dom!reader, kinda gross jisung, established relationship, masturbation (m rec), cock/balls slapping, jisung is gross but they are so in love

=͟͟͞♡ please consider reblogging if you like my works!

“Honey, I'm home!"

Jisung is kicking off his white sneakers in front of the door. They're a bit stained with mud on the sides, and he knows he’s not allowed to step inside the house wearing those unless he wants to hear your voice reverberating through the apartment. He's still wearing his soccer gear, tiny red shorts with a white stripe down the side, cut just above the knee, and a white tank top that you're sure he wore for the training as well. It's 10 p.m., but it's still warm outside, and the white fabric sticks uncomfortably to Jisung's slim body, a few yellow sweat stains under his armpits. 

His hair is still damp from the running, tied in a bun. A red hairband is pulling back his greasy locks from his forehead. He hasn't changed that in at least two weeks.

"Idiot," you chuckle in response, "how was it?"

"Uh, fine I guess" Jisung answers while kicking off his grayish, damp socks along with his shoes, "Changbin-hyung fell and ate a bunch of soil, I laughed so hard I peed my pants" he snorts.

"You all act just like children," you reply with a giggle, "I'm glad you had a good time. Are you hungry? Have you had dinner yet?"

"I ate a burger with the boys . It was huuuuge, baby. Can still feel it moving in my stomach," he replies as he finally enters in the living room delivering his signature goofy smile. 

You smile as you see him patting his tummy. Jisung is very thin, almost borderline unhealthy, but a small layer of fat sits stubbornly below his belly button, and it doesn’t go away despite all of the physical exercise. Jisung says it’s okay, that he doesn't mind. But you, you love it.

"Good. You didn’t take a shower there, did you?" you ask stretching your legs on the couch and pausing the show you were watching. 

"Nah, I didn't feel like it. I'll do it in a while." Jisung answers while opening the refrigerator and fishing out a can of sprite. He opens it with gnarled fingers and brings it to his lips, chugging half of it in one big gulp. 

"Ew, Sungie" 

Jisung widens his eyes in fake shock and leans against the peninsula of the kitchen. "Ew? To the love of your life? Your boyfriend, your future husband, the apple of your ey-"

"Enough of this," you laugh as you come closer him, leaning across the peninsula. "I could count the grease stains on your hands if I wanted to. You're dirty."

"Mean," Jisung whispers drinking the other half of the sprite and hiding a burp with one fist. "I thought I'd come home and get a better treatment than this."

You burst out laughing at his words. "Uh, did you have plans? What did you expect big boy, tell me." 

Jisung chuckles again and you can see a bit of burger sauce pooled at the corner of his lips. 

"Uhh, dunno. A massage, maybe? Showing your baby you love him?”

You laugh, "You want a massage? Come here, that can be arranged." You take a couple of steps back and sit on the couch, on the peninsula side, so you can stretch your legs. Jisung looks at you with a lopsided smile and brings a hand to his head, scratching behind his ear. You can see from a distance the oily strands of hair slipping through his fingers. You should find it disgusting. You really should.

You open your arms and offer him a big smile, "Come on, baby. You must be dead tired, hmm? The boys destroyed you. Come to mama, I'll give you what you need."

Jisung gulps and giggles, wobbling closer to you and letting himself fall into the space between your thighs, abandoning his back against your chest. Then he lets himself slide forward a little, pressing the nape of his neck against the softness of your breasts under the shirt you're wearing.

"Uh, uh. That feels nice already," he murmurs adjusting himself against your chest.

"Have you had some drinks?" you ask, bringing your hands to his shoulders and pinching them lightly. The fabric is damp and smells of sweat and the spray deodorant Jisung always puts on when he doesn't feel like showering.

"Just a couple of beers with Chan-hyung," Jisung sobs as soon as your fingers sink lightly into his muscles, "that man needs to get laid."

"Don't be cocky, Sungie," you reply with a grin as your hands descend to work on the muscles in his arms, "if it wasn’t for me, you'd be jerking off to one of your tacky porns as well. Be grateful I picked you up on the streets and decided you would be mine."

Your words are light, he knows you are joking. Even though, to tell the truth, Jisung was a virgin before meeting you, and the first time you had sex he was so nervous he came before he even managed to put the tip in. Adorable.

Jisung laughs and then he lets out a breathy moan when you run your fingers up between his shoulder blades, focusing on a knot. "That’s true. But now he’s the one jacking off to a shower wall. While me, I have a beautiful girlfriend who decided I was good enough to be adopted. I still am thankful for your bad taste in men." 

"My taste in men is great, excuse you," you retort as your chin rests on his head, near the band that pulls back his hair. "I pulled the nastiest hottest boy around. I regret nothing."

Jisung laughs. "You literally call me your rat." 

"Rats are cute," you answer back piquantly. Your fingers continue to work on the knot in Jisung's back with a little more insistence. Jisung writhes softly. "You just call me that because I'm a little gross."

You lower your head to rest a kiss on his greasy hair. There's gel residue on the strands, and it's a bit crusty.

"You know how much I love that you're a little gross. Makes me feral."

"You're a freak." Jisung laughs as your hands finish massaging his shoulder blades and descend to the front, down to his chest, to caress his sore pecs.

"Maybe," you admit. "Tell me how many beers you've had again. Just the truth this time, hmm?" 

"Five. Or six. Maybe six. Ah-" Jisung gulps when you brush your thumb on his pec, grazing his nipple. "Feelin' a bit tipsy." 

"I know, my love," you whisper as you continue massaging his chest with your fingers. Jisung's head is nestled perfectly between your breasts and you feel his ribcage swell and deflate quickly, like a baby bird. "You're all wriggly. You just can't sit still when you feel good, hmm?"

Jisung laughs embarrassed before letting a faint moan out when your fingers pinch his nipple again, more insistently. “Not fair though, you're t-teasing."

You nod a few times as your face descends to his ear, kissing the skin behind it, where you know that acrid, powerful smell typical of Jisung accumulates. “As if you didn't have a different kind of massage in mind from the beginning. Don't lie to mama, Sungie."

Jisung shakes his head tentatively, “I wasn’t trying to imply any of that”.

You chuckle at his words, bringing your mouth to his earlobe and nibbling at it. “Now say it again without drooling over yourself, mh?”

Jisung hiccups and goes limp against you, giving you enough space to keep nosing at his neck. A little bit of saliva is bubbling out of his parted lips, forming a shiny coat on his skin and you just wanna suck it off.

“Well, maybe. M-maybe just a little,” he grunts while the tip of your tongue brushes on the shell of his ear. “You’re mean for real.”

“Don’t call me mean when I’m about to jack you off, Sungie. That’s just ungrateful, don’t you think?” you whisper on his skin, breathing the sweet smell of his body in. Even his sweat kinda smells like beer. That’s disgusting and hot at the same time. Maybe you’re a freak after all.

“Oh. Oh. We’re… we’re doing that? Fuck, yeah. Suuuure, cool.” And then he lets out the nervous squeak he does everytime you’re about to touch him. It doesn’t matter it’s been years, he never gets used to you been enough attracted to him to give him pleasure even if he’s dirty. But, to be fair, Jisung is always kind of dirty.

You smile against his skin and your fingers find his nipple again, rolling it between your pointer and thumb over the fabric of his top. Jisung keens at that and you can feel the goosebumps forming on his arms under you.

“Wanna kiss. Give Sungie kiss first? Can you? Please?” He blubbers while your other hand is caressing just above his navel. He turns his face to look at you, and the angle is weird because he needs to force himself in this position, but his cheeks are flushed and cute, and his eyes so big you can almost see your own reflection in them.

The first kiss on his lips is just a peck, nothing else, and you can feel that Jisung tries, he tries so hard not to be affected too much this early, but as soon as you place your mouth on him and start to nibble lightly at his bottom lip, he lets out a broken whimper. He tastes like alcohol and ketchup, and his teeth are all sticky for the sprite he just chugged. You find yourself forcing his mouth open just after a few seconds just to be able to lick at them, feeling the sugar on the tip of your tongue.

“You’re so filthy, Sungie. You’re delicious.” You tease him a bit while sucking his own wet muscle into your mouth and slowly pulling it between your teeth.

Jisung lets out the quietest yet painful moan, "Ah- please, I just...", and he starts parting his thighs just a little bit, the tiniest movement showing how he is growing hard under his pants.

You look down and he is just the prettiest, all spread out for you.

“Never denied you anything,” you mutter as you scoot forward on the sofa to place a last peck on his lips. They’re a bit chapped, and a drop of blood stains your mouth.

Jisung’s head falls back on your chest, nuzzling between the comfort of your breasts, and he looks wrecked already. His eyes are teary and his vision fuzzy while his lips pucker, as if he was trying to suck on the air.

“Fuck, you’re so cute. Wish you had something on your mouth, uh?” you ask him as your left hand puts and end to the lazy massage on his lower stomach and finally cups him through his pants.

Jisung is fully hard already but, to an untrained eye, the two inches tent his erection is struggling to maintain makes him look like he’s just sporting half of a chub.

“Uh, uh - yeah, w-wanna suck please,” he manages while your hands goes a bit lower to graze his balls. “Please, mama- gimme anything.”

“Oh, Sungie, don’t beg,” you whisper kissing the tender skin of his ear one more time. Jisung’s soft sobs always make you feel lightheaded and needy, but you cannot show him. Not now. “Mama’s gonna give you fingers, mhkay?”

Jisung nods and parts his lips as a pavlovian response to your words, his tongue lolling out diligently out of his mouth. Your pointer and middle finger pinch the fat of his bottom lip and he moans softly at the teasing. When you finally ease your fingers inside of the heath of his mouth, Jisung lets out a weak cry. “Thank you thank you thank you thank you,” he gurgles around your digits as an indecent amount of spit oozes out and coat your palm.

When you look over his shoulder, you can see the shape of Jisung’s tiny cock angrily pointing at you, still covered by his shorts. The red fabric is somehow already wet because Jisung is always eager and leaky, and what he lacks in size he makes up in liquids.

“How many minutes today, Sungie? How much can you last for mama?” you ask, tone sticky and sweet while you thrust your fingers deeper inside his mouth and brush at the base of his tongue.

Jisung chokes on the pressure and a single tear escapes from his eyes. His cock twitches and you pat it condescendingly. “Aw, poor thing. How much? Two minutes?”

“Uh- mhhf sowy” he hiccups, mouth full of fingers and saliva, “sorry, I’m not..”

You smile and you finally wrap your free hand around his balls, squeezing it. “Don’t worry, baby. Mama gets it. Wanna come already uh?”

Your face finds its way against the crook of his neck and you lick a fat portion of skin, sucking it into your mouth. He tastes like soil, dirt and sweat. But most importantly, it tastes like Jisung. Like fried food and soda, mint cigarettes to cover the smell of unwashed teeth, ingrown hair and blemishes, acne and cum.

You bite on that sensitive spot and he sobs the most pathetic whimper out as your hand slaps his clothed cock once, twice, thrice, and your fingers go deeper and deeper, almost brushing his uvula and making him drown on his own spit.

“So-oh-sorry” he cries as his cock spasms one more time under the constriction of two layers of clothes. His knees shake and he lets out the most loud and sinful noise his voice lets him. His hips tremble with the force of his orgasm and he goes completely limp against you while spurting warm ropes of cum inside of his sweaty underwear. His eyes are glassy and full of tears while he empties himself for what it seems to be a full minute. He always cums more than he lasts anyway.

You hold him close through it as his high washes over him, arm tight around his waist, and you kiss his cheek, savoring the salt on his skin.

After a minute, Jisung turns his head in search of your reassurance, and he finds you already looking at him, your fingers falling out of his mouth to let him breathe properly.

“Well, that was a record” you chuckle at the sight of his goofy smile.

Jisung huffs and rolls his eyes at you. “I said- I said I had a few beers. That’s why.” He tries to justify himself.

You wink at him and you blow a raspberry on his nose. He always try to be the bigger man, but it never works.

“Whatever you say,” you concede. “Go change your underwear now. And take a shower.”

Jisung lazily shakes his head. “Nah. Too tired. Imma do it later.”

“You’re gross, Jisung.”

“And you’re a freak.”

©️jilixthinker, 2024. please do not copy, translate, or republish my works anywhere.

[aspenmissing]

ᴀʀᴄᴀɴᴇ: ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛɪɴɢ ᴏɴᴇ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ-ɪꜱʜ

3311 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ꜰɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ, ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ᴏᴜʀ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴀɴᴅ/ᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ.

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ��ᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx/ᴘᴏᴡᴅᴇʀ

JAYCE

The workshop hummed with the sound of gears turning and tools clattering, the faint scent of oil and metal hanging in the air. Jayce was in his element, bent over the prototype for a new hextech device, his muscles flexing as he tightened a bolt with a wrench. Y/N leaned against his desk, watching him work, a teasing smile playing on their lips.

“Y’know,” Y/N quipped, “for a guy who’s built like a brick wall, you still manage to look like a puppy concentrating on its first puzzle.”

Jayce shot them a mock glare but couldn’t hide the small chuckle. “A puppy that’s about to change the world,” he countered, brushing grease off his hands. “Don’t distract me.”

The moment of levity was interrupted by a sharp, high-pitched chittering sound. Both their heads snapped toward the corner of the workshop, where a blur of skittering legs darted across the floor.

“Oh, no.” Jayce froze, his confident demeanor crumbling as the creature came into view—a massive, hairy spider the size of a dinner plate. “Nope. Nope. That thing is not staying in here.”

Y/N blinked, stunned. “Wait, that’s what you’re freaking out about? Jayce, you’ve literally fought off Piltovan thugs with nothing but your fists. This is just a spider.”

Jayce was already halfway behind Y/N, his large hands gripping their shoulders. “I can punch a thug. I can’t punch that. What if it crawls up my arm? What if it—oh, gods, what if it jumps?”

“Jayce Talis,” Y/N said with mock exasperation, glancing over their shoulder at the towering man, “you’re six feet of pure muscle and you’re hiding behind me? This is embarrassing for both of us.”

The spider, seemingly emboldened by Jayce’s retreat, scurried closer. Jayce flinched, his grip tightening on Y/N. “Okay, okay, just kill it or throw something! Please!”

Rolling their eyes, Y/N grabbed the nearest object—a rolled-up schematic—and approached the spider with exaggerated caution, partly to mess with Jayce. “Relax, hero. I’ll save you from the big, bad bug.”

With a swift motion, Y/N swatted the spider, sending it tumbling toward an open window. The creature landed on the sill, paused for dramatic effect, and finally disappeared into the city beyond.

Y/N turned back, arms spread in triumph. “There. The beast is vanquished. You may now return to your work, my fair knight.”

Jayce let out a long breath, his cheeks tinged with embarrassment. “You’re never letting me live this down, are you?”

“Not a chance,” Y/N grinned, poking his chest. “You’re lucky I’m here to protect you, big guy.”

Jayce groaned but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at his lips. He pulled Y/N into a quick hug, muttering, “My hero,” before returning to his work, albeit with a wary glance toward the window every so often.

VIKTOR

The dim light of Piltover’s laboratory district cast long shadows across the cobblestone streets. Y/N was on their way to deliver Viktor a stack of documents he'd requested, braving the late hour at his insistence that their findings were urgent. The streets were quieter than usual, save for the occasional hum of distant machinery or the clatter of boots on stone.

As Y/N approached the entrance to the lab, a low voice echoed from the shadows behind them.

“Well, well. Out a bit late, aren’t you?”

Turning sharply, Y/N spotted a man emerging from the alley, his face partially obscured but his posture unmistakably menacing. Another figure stepped out to his left, smirking as he cracked his knuckles.

“Not the best place for a stroll,” the second one said, his voice dripping with malice.

Y/N’s breath hitched, their grip tightening on the documents. They took a step back, heart pounding, and glanced toward the lab. A warm glow spilled from the windows—a beacon of safety if they could just get inside.

“Don’t even think about running,” the first man growled, stepping closer.

“Get away from them!”

The sharp voice cut through the tension like a blade. Viktor stepped into view, his cane tapping rhythmically against the ground. Despite his limp, he moved with purpose, golden eyes blazing with determination.

The thugs faltered for a moment, clearly surprised.

“And who’re you supposed to be? Their bodyguard?” one sneered, though his tone betrayed unease.

Viktor’s grip tightened on his cane, his expression hardening. “You will leave them alone,” he said, his voice low and unwavering. “Now.”

The first man snorted, lunging toward Viktor. But Viktor was quicker than they expected. He swung his cane with surprising force, striking the thug’s leg and sending him staggering.

“Stay behind me, Y/N,” Viktor said firmly, positioning himself between them and the attackers.

The second thug charged, but Viktor was ready. With a calculated step, he sidestepped the attack, using his cane to unbalance the man and send him crashing to the ground.

The first thug scrambled to his feet, glaring at Viktor. “You’ll regret this,” he spat before grabbing his companion and retreating into the shadows.

For a moment, the street was silent except for Y/N’s quickened breathing. Viktor turned to them, his stern expression softening.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice tinged with concern.

Y/N nodded, their hands trembling slightly. “I… I think so. Thank you, Viktor. I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t shown up.”

Viktor’s lips curved into a small, reassuring smile as he reached out, his slender fingers gently wrapping around her trembling hands. The warmth of his touch steadied her, grounding her in the moment. “I am just glad I was nearby. Piltover may shine bright, but even its shadows can be dangerous.” He paused, studying them. “You should not have come alone. Next time, send for me.”

Y/N nodded, warmth blooming in their chest despite the lingering fear. Viktor’s protective nature was always understated, but in this moment, it felt like a shield, steadfast and unyielding.

“Let’s get inside,” Viktor said gently, gesturing toward the lab. “You can explain what was so urgent once you’ve had a chance to breathe.”

As they stepped into the light, Y/N couldn’t help but feel a new sense of safety, knowing Viktor would always be there to protect them.

JAYVIK

The lab buzzed with quiet activity, the hum of Hextech crystals resonating in the air. Y/N worked at the center station, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she adjusted the array of lenses for their latest experiment. Viktor stood beside her, leaning on his cane, a rare smile tugging at his lips as he offered suggestions.

“This alignment should amplify the crystal’s energy tenfold,” Viktor said, his golden gaze gleaming with anticipation.

Y/N nodded, sharing his enthusiasm. “Exactly. If we time it just right, we’ll create a stable energy flow. It could change everything.”

Jayce, watching from across the room, frowned. “Are you two sure about this? That crystal looks ready to blow at the slightest mistake.”

“It will be fine, Jayce,” Viktor replied, waving him off. “We have accounted for every variable.”

“And this setup is flawless,” Y/N added confidently. “Just watch.”

But the warning signs were subtle—too subtle to catch in time. A spark jumped from the crystal, striking the array. The lenses shattered, and the lab was bathed in an ominous blue glow. The surge of energy crackled, fast and unforgiving, surging toward Y/N and Viktor.

“Y/N! Viktor!”

Jayce moved in an instant. Vaulting over the workbench, he shoved them both out of harm’s way. Viktor stumbled, catching himself on his cane, while Y/N landed heavily against a shelf. Jayce turned to shield them both as the crystal exploded with a deafening crack.

The blast wasn’t as violent as feared, but the force knocked Jayce to the ground. The aftermath left a haze of smoke and the acrid scent of scorched metal hanging in the air.

“Jayce!” Y/N scrambled to his side, her hands trembling as she checked him for injuries. “Are you okay?”

Jayce groaned, pushing himself up on one elbow. “I’m fine. Just… next time, maybe listen when I say it looks dangerous?”

Viktor limped over, coughing slightly but otherwise unharmed. “That was reckless, Jayce. You could have been seriously injured.” His voice held a mix of frustration and gratitude.

“Someone had to step in,” Jayce replied, flashing a tired smile.

Y/N exhaled shakily, helping him to his feet. “Thank you, Jayce. You saved us.”

Jayce rested a hand on her shoulder, his expression softening. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

“And next time,” Viktor added, glancing between them, “we’ll ensure no one needs to play the hero. Safety measures first.”

“Agreed,” Y/N said, her voice firm, though the gratitude in her eyes lingered as she met Jayce’s gaze.

Jayce smirked, his hand lingering over hers. “Fine. But don’t think I won’t keep an eye on you two.”

Between Jayce’s protectiveness and Viktor’s careful planning, Y/N felt a rare and cherished sense of safety—one she would never take for granted.

VANDER

The Last Drop was bustling as always, voices rising in a chaotic medley of laughter, arguments, and the clinking of glasses. Vander moved with practiced ease, the hulking man weaving through the crowd to check on patrons, break up the occasional spat, and lend a hand wherever needed.

You were behind the counter, sleeves rolled up as you juggled pouring drinks and taking orders. The lively atmosphere didn’t bother you much—it was part of the charm of the Undercity, and working alongside Vander always made the chaos worthwhile.

“Y/N!” Vander called, his gravelly voice cutting through the noise. You glanced up to see him gesturing toward the back. “Can you grab some more glasses and the case of rum from the pantry? We’re runnin’ low.”

“On it!” you replied, setting down your rag and slipping past him. As you brushed by, his hand briefly rested on your shoulder, a quiet but affectionate acknowledgment.

The pantry was tucked in the back, shelves packed with various supplies. It wasn’t the most organized space, but you’d managed to navigate it before. You stepped inside and began grabbing what was needed: the case of rum, a few boxes of cocktail ingredients, and a stack of clean glasses.

The rustling as you reached for one of the higher shelves echoed through the pantry. You stretched further, trying to grab a box teetering at the very top. As you pulled it down, something shifted above.

A faint creak and scrape caught your attention, but before you could look up, the weight of a heavy wooden crate loomed. It tipped forward, hurtling straight down.

“Y/N!”

Vander’s voice was the first thing you registered before his broad form appeared at the doorway, moving faster than you thought someone of his size could. In one fluid motion, he threw his arm over your head, catching the brunt of the falling crate. His other hand knocked it aside, sending it crashing harmlessly to the floor with a loud thud.

You stumbled back, eyes wide as the shock of what just happened sank in. Vander remained where he was, arm still braced protectively above you. His chest heaved with a sharp intake of breath as he glanced down at you, concern etched into his rugged features.

“You alright?” he asked, his deep voice softer than usual.

You nodded, swallowing hard as your heart raced. “Y-Yeah, thanks to you.”

He lowered his arm and let out a relieved sigh, his tense posture easing. “Damn supplier, I told them to make sure the crates were put properly on the shelf” he muttered, casting a glare at the offending object. His eyes flicked back to you, scanning you over as if to double-check for injuries. “You gotta be more careful back here, love. Could’ve been bad.”

“I didn’t realize it was so unstable,” you admitted, shaking your head. “I should’ve paid more attention.”

“Nah,” Vander said, stepping closer and cupping your face with a calloused hand. “Ain’t your fault. It’s my job to make sure you’re safe.” His thumb brushed gently against your cheek. “Lucky I caught it in time.”

The closeness of him, the way his voice softened just for you, made your cheeks flush. Despite the scare, you couldn’t help but smile.

“Guess I owe you one,” you said, placing a hand over his where it rested on your face.

Vander chuckled, the sound low and reassuring. “You already do enough around here. Just promise me you’ll holler next time you need somethin’ from the top shelf, yeah?”

“Promise,” you replied, your grin widening.

He gave you one last look, his expression a mixture of affection and lingering worry, before pulling you into a brief but warm embrace. “C’mon,” he murmured against your hair. “Let’s get back before they burn the place down without us.”

With Vander’s arm slung protectively over your shoulders, the two of you left the pantry together. And though the Last Drop’s chaos hadn’t abated, you felt a little more grounded knowing he’d always be there to catch you when it mattered most.

SILCO

The Undercity always carried the stench of betrayal, but tonight, it was worse. Silco stood by the window of his office, his mismatched eyes scanning the chaos outside. The shimmer of neon lights reflected off the glass as shouts and gunfire echoed in the distance. The deal with the Chem-Barons had gone sideways, and now retaliation was inevitable.

Y/N stepped into the room, her boots clinking against the floor as she approached him. “They’re moving faster than we thought. Enforcers, thugs—it’s a mess out there,” she said, gripping the hilt of the dagger at her side.

Silco turned, his face a calm mask despite the storm brewing outside. “They’ll come for me first. They always do.”

“Then they’ll find me standing in their way,” Y/N replied, her voice steady and sure.

A rare flicker of something softened Silco’s sharp gaze. “You don’t owe me this.”

Y/N smirked, leaning against the desk. “Maybe not. But you’ve saved me more times than I can count. Besides, I’m not about to let you handle this alone.”

The first explosion rattled the walls, shaking dust from the rafters. Silco grabbed his revolver, tucking it into his coat. “Then let’s make sure they regret their decision.”

=

The fight erupted in the darkened corridors of the Last Drop. Smoke filled the air as bullets whizzed past. Y/N was a force of nature, darting between attackers with her blade, her movements fluid and deliberate. When one thug lunged at Silco, she was there, her dagger plunging into his side before he could strike.

“Focus!” she shouted over the chaos, her eyes meeting Silco’s for a brief moment.

Silco, despite his usual distaste for direct combat, held his own. He aimed with precision, each shot taking down a would-be assailant. When Y/N found herself cornered by two brutes, he stepped forward, firing a round into one and cracking the other over the head with the butt of his gun.

“You’re reckless,” he hissed, grabbing her arm and pulling her back into cover.

“Look who’s talking,” she retorted, her breath coming in sharp gasps.

The two shared a fleeting grin before a new wave of enemies surged forward.

=

When the dust finally settled, the air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and sweat. The last of their attackers lay motionless, and the bar was in shambles. Silco slumped against the wall, his hand pressed to a gash on his shoulder. Y/N knelt beside him, tearing a strip of fabric from her sleeve to bandage the wound.

“You’re lucky they didn’t aim better,” she muttered, tying the makeshift bandage tight.

Silco chuckled dryly. “And you’re lucky I was watching your back.”

Y/N met his gaze, her expression softening. “Always.”

For a moment, the weight of the Undercity’s darkness lifted. They had survived another night together, their loyalty to each other unshaken.

“Come on,” Y/N said, helping him to his feet. “We’ve got a mess to clean up.”

Silco leaned on her slightly as they walked. “It’s always a mess in Zaun. But with you, I can handle it.”

And in the shadows of the Undercity, they stood as each other’s shields—unbreakable, unyielding, and fiercely protective.

POWDER/JINX

The sound of crackling glass and twisted metal echoed through the ruined streets of Zaun. The air was thick with the smell of smoke, and the dim flicker of streetlights barely lit the chaos around them. Jinx was pacing back and forth, her wild eyes scanning the area, her fingers twitching nervously as if she were on the edge of something.

“Y/N, this place is so fun,” Jinx giggled, her voice echoing with manic energy. “It's a playground for all of us!”

But you could sense something was off. The usual playful madness in her voice was clouded by something deeper, more dangerous. You knew Jinx all too well—when the chaos and explosions weren’t enough to keep her occupied, it meant something far worse was brewing inside her.

"Stay close, Jinx," you said, your voice low and firm, as you stepped closer to her. The familiar weight of the dagger hidden at your side reassured you, but it wasn't just the weapon that kept you calm—it was the responsibility you felt for her. She was more than just an explosive whirlwind to you. She was the girl you protected, the one you'd do anything to keep safe.

Her eyes darted to you, still wild, but there was a flicker of vulnerability beneath the madness. “Don’t worry about me, Y/N! I’m fine! No one can stop me!”

But before you could respond, a group of enforcers emerged from the shadows. They moved swiftly, surrounding you and Jinx. They were not just any enforcers, either. These were the ones who'd been hunting her for months—the ones who saw Jinx as a threat to their fragile order in the undercity. And now they had her in their sights.

"Move, Jinx!" you barked, pulling her back protectively. You placed yourself between her and the approaching soldiers, your stance firm and unyielding. "Not today."

One of the enforcers sneered, raising his weapon. "Step aside. You know we can’t let her go free."

You felt your heart racing, but you didn’t hesitate. Your hand hovered over the hilt of your dagger, ready to defend her with everything you had. Jinx, seeing the confrontation, froze, her usual chaotic energy replaced with a strange sense of attachment to you.

“Y/N…?” Her voice was quieter now, almost unsure.

“No one is touching you, Jinx,” you whispered, your tone soft yet unyielding. “Not on my watch.”

Before the enforcers could make another move, you lunged forward, your dagger flashing in the dim light. The first enforcer’s weapon was knocked from his hands, and you quickly incapacitated him with a well-placed strike. The others hesitated, unsure of whether to engage or retreat. You could see the fear in their eyes, but you weren’t about to give them the chance.

With a quick glance to Jinx, you noticed the faintest glimmer of relief in her eyes. She stepped forward, her usual mania gone for a moment, replaced by a deep trust. She didn't need to be told what to do. She picked up a nearby bomb and threw it with a wild grin, her laughter ringing out as the explosion sent the remaining enforcers scattering.

“Nice job, Jinx,” you said, giving her a small, approving nod. She beamed at you, her previous anxiety melting away as she clung to your side.

“You’re the best, Y/N,” she said, her voice laced with genuine gratitude. Her chaotic persona might’ve been what others saw, but you saw the frightened girl behind it, the one who trusted you more than anyone else in this world.

You gave her a smile, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “And I’ll always protect you, no matter what.”

[phant0mth1ef]

more of bakugou x support course reader!

after you’d fixed his gauntlets, he realized just how much you’d improved them as he was training in class one day, noticing how they’re able to withstand his blasts as if nothing had happened, and noticing that you etched the word dynamight onto the rim of the silver at the bottom of the grenade shaped gauntlet.

he found himself in the support course work room once again, looking aroundbto see if he could find you to, well, somewhat thank you and ask if you had any other recommendations to add to his costume.

his shoes hit the floor as he was able to fully see the room during the day, watching as the students shuffled around and didn’t just casually cater to someone standing in their doorway, they were too engrossed in their own projects.

he grabbed one’s shoulder as they tried to speed by him, almost dropping the poor boy as his items fell on the floor.

“where’s extra #1?” he asked, his eyes squinting at the boy who just wanted to grab his things and go.

“who?” the boy squeaked.

“extra #1!” he whisper shouted as the confusion on the boy’s face never faltered.

“…”

“l/n.” he finally gave up, realizing the boy wasn’t gonna understand what he meant.

“oh! she’s currently over at mirko’s agency! she designs support gear for her y’know! she’s so talented.” the boy gushed as bakugou swore he saw a slight blush on his cheeks before pushing him forward and letting him go, walking out the door.

he normally wouldn’t do this. but oh man did he really need that support gear today! the boy was walking around town looking for the number 5 hero’s agency, even stopping some people on patrol to ask!

he was outside the doors, watching with anticipation as he looked inside, watching power loader scold you, a sheepish smile on your face.

bakugou opened the doors, a soft music playing in the background as he caught the end of your conversation with the teacher.

“and get your grades up or i’m taking your keys to the lab!”

you put a hand behind your neck as you looked towards who had just walked in the door, a look of confusion on your face as you spotted the blonde hero in training.

you had grease on your face and dirt covering your arms up to your elbows, and yet he didn’t find himself completely repulsed, just fascinated.

“bakugou? what’re you doing here?” you spoke, a large screw in your hand as you waved him over.

“i, uh, i need your help with something.”

you nodded.

“d’ya have anymore recommendations for me? like to add onto my hero outfit? i liked the way you messed with my gauntlets.

“you came all the way over here to ask me that?” your tone was questioning, and your face wasn’t having any of it.

“listen! i’ve got a mission soon and if you do have anything to add i want it on by then! got it, extra?!” he got defensive quick.

“are you forgetful or do you just like to piss me off?”

he was stubborn, you were stubborn.

the perfect match for one another!

“tch. y’know what i don’t even know why i bothered coming out here! clearly you’re just an egotistical asshole.” he turned around.

“fine! then go! i’m not exactly asking to design your support gear anyway! bitch.” you said with pride, although you whispered the last part.

as the door jingled, signaling his exit, you could hear footsteps approaching from behind you.

“well well well, seems like we’ve found someone with enough spunk to finally match yours!” mirko clapped, announcing that out loud to everyone who was sitting in the lobby.

“tch. he wishes.”

“i dunno, the way you were talking to each other, i’d say there’s some romantic tension there, aren’t i right akari?” she turned to her assistant who nodded.

the next day bakugou showed up to the lab, just sitting there waiting to be acknowledged, although you blatantly ignored him the whole time he was there, going on with your day while people from his class walked in and were instantly assisted, even deku.

he would sit there and wait. and that’s all he’d do. day after day for a whole week before you finally begun to notice him sitting there.

“alright i can’t focus with you huffing and puffing in the corner over there!” you dropped your tools, clanking against one another as they hit your workspace.

“i don’t want to help you. but you’ve got persistence. i’ll give you that.” you said as you grabbed some things from a drawer, shoving them into his chest.

“what’s this?”

“a mix of different things. smaller compact grenades that pack a bigger punch than your other ones, these are ear plugs that’ll allow you to hear without damaging your hearing further, this is a roll of tape. for you to shut up.” you gave a chesire grin at the last one.

surprisingly, he chuckled. he didn’t think he’d ever find someone who… “matched his freak,” as mina would describe it.

he also found himself liking the feeling of sitting there and watching you in your element, so much that he begun to come in after classes just to chat with you while you worked.

you weren’t as bad as he thought, he wasn’t as bad as you thought.

you could get used to this.

[ilovekittycats2]

High Maintenance

Jake Seresin x reader

(use of y/n)

In which,

Hangman keeps breaking his jet, and you’re not sure if fixing it or dealing with him is more exhausting

or,

one act of recklessness makes you realise that there may be more to Jake Seresin than meets the eye.

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

Jake “Hangman” Seresin was good at a lot of things—flying jets, making cocky comebacks, and driving people absolutely insane. Unfortunately for you, as the Navy’s top mechanic, his messes always landed squarely on your plate. “You fly like you’re trying to piss me off, Seresin,” you snapped, tossing a grease-streaked rag onto the workbench. 

Hangman leaned against the side of his F/A-18 with his signature smirk. “I fly like I’m the best, sweetheart. It’s not my fault if your tools can’t keep up.” Sweetheart. That nickname alone was enough to make your blood boil. “If you’re the best, why do you spend so much time breaking your jet?” His grin widened. “Because I know you’ll fix it.”

This was your dynamic—a constant battle of wits with an undercurrent of tension neither of you acknowledged. Hangman was insufferable, arrogant, and way too charming for his own good. Worse, you hated how your pulse raced when he leaned a little too close or shot you that lopsided grin. 

Keep it together, Y/n.

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

The call came through like a punch to the gut: Jake Seresin’s bird was in trouble. You’d been elbow-deep in another jet’s maintenance when the commotion started, and the urgency in the tower’s tone made your stomach knot. Hangman might have been the cockiest pilot in the squadron, but he was still one of yours—and whether you admitted it or not, that mattered.

You ran to the runway just as his F/A-18 skidded to a stop in a haze of smoke and screeching metal. The landing gear barely held, and the right engine let out a sickening hiss as flames licked at the exhaust. When the canopy opened, Jake climbed out slower than usual, his movements careful, deliberate. For the first time, he looked... human.

“You okay?” you barked as you closed the distance between you.

He nodded, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Engine failure. It cut out at altitude, but I managed to bring her in.” His voice was steady, but his hands betrayed him, trembling ever so slightly.

You studied him for a beat longer than necessary, searching for any cracks in the façade. His usual bravado was gone, replaced by something raw and unguarded. “Let me worry about your jet,” you said, pulling your gaze away. “Just... don’t touch anything.”

The hours that followed were grueling. You stayed on your feet, wrench in hand, sweat dripping down your temple as you fought to diagnose the failure. Jake didn’t leave, hovering just outside your workspace like a restless ghost. He wasn’t offering quips or trying to charm his way into a response this time; he was just there, quiet and watchful.

“Why are you still here?” you asked finally, not looking up from the engine bay.

He hesitated, and when he spoke, his voice was softer than you’d ever heard it. “Didn’t feel right leaving her—and you—like this.” The confession made you pause. For a moment, you just stared at the mess of wires and metal in front of you, trying to ignore the strange warmth curling in your chest. “Well,” you said, trying to keep your tone even, “if you’re staying, make yourself useful. Hand me the wrench.”

To your surprise, he did.

When the jet finally roared back to life in the early hours of the morning, you stepped back, exhaustion tugging at every muscle. Jake, who had barely moved from his spot all night, let out a breath of relief that mirrored your own. “Thanks for saving my ass,” he said, and this time, there wasn’t an ounce of sarcasm in his tone.

You turned to him, wiping grease off your hands onto a rag. “Don’t get used to it,” you said, but the sharp edge in your voice was missing.

Jake smiled—small, tentative, and not at all like the cocky grins he usually threw your way. As he walked off into the dawn light, you found yourself watching him longer than you should have, wondering what it meant that Jake Seresin, for once, wasn’t acting like Jake Seresin.

And why it made your chest feel so strange.

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

hey guysssss once again sorry this is bad but i really wanted to write so idk....... lmk if you want a part 2 and send reqs!!!! pls!!!

[rootedinrevisions]

Shattered and Rebuilt

SUMMARY: After a week of poor decisions drifts you and Tyler apart, a life-threatening tornado brings you and Tyler face to face with your deepest fears. Amidst the wreckage of the storm, you discover the vulnerability and love you've been hiding from each other. As you navigate jealousy, insecurity, and past mistakes, you must find a way to rebuild what was almost lost and redefine what it means to be truly vulnerable with each other.

A/N: Thank you so much to @imagine-all-the-fandoms for sending this request in! I know you sent it back in November, and I'm so sorry it's taken me so long to get it posted. I wrote this and then kept adding more and more to it because I kept coming up with new ideas or ways to develop the story even further. Hopefully you enjoy it! xx

WORD COUNT: 11.9k

TAGS: In Comments.

The hum of Tyler’s red Dodge pickup truck filled the air as the tires crunched over gravel, signaling your arrival at the roadside gast station. Out the window, Oklahoma stretched endlessly, a patchwork of flat fields and distant clouds that carried a whisper of the chaos you were chasing this week.

A “Once in a Lifetime Tornado Outbreak” they had called it. And as soon as Tyler got wind of it, you and the rest of the team were loading up the gear and making your way from Arkansas to Oklahoma.

“All right,” Tyler announced, his voice warm but laced with a slight hint of his usual no-nonsense drawl. “Gas stop. Grab whatever you need ‘cause after this, we’re not stoppin’.”

From your spot in the backseat, you stretched, bumping into Ben, the South London journalist currently occupying your personal space as you were squished between him and some of the gear Tyler kept in the backseat. He shifted awkwardly with an apologetic smile.

"Quite the operation you’ve got here," Ben said, his crisp accent standing out like a sore thumb in this dusty corner of America. "I imagine this stop isn’t just about petrol, though. Snacks are the real fuel, yeah?"

Boone, in the passenger seat, barked out a laugh and twisted around to face us. "Damn straight, mate. Tyler’s got a thing for gas station jerky. Won’t admit it, but he eats that stuff like it’s gourmet."

Tyler shot Boone a glare that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Yeah, and you’re one to talk with your armful of chocolate donuts every time we stop. Besides,"—his gaze flicked up to the rearview mirror, locking with yours for just a second too long—"some people come outta these places with enough candy to stock a piñata."

You smirked, leaning forward between the seats so your chin rested on the back of Tyler's shoulder. "Are you saying you have a problem with my impeccable snack choices, Owens?"

He didn’t look at you, but you didn’t miss the twitch of his lips. "Didn’t say that. Just pointin’ out that your ‘impeccable choices’ mean sticky fingers all over my truck."

"Like jerky grease is any better?" You shot back, raising a brow.

Boone groaned, pulling a ball cap down over his face. "Here we go again."

Ben leaned over, amused. "This feels like foreplay, doesn’t it?"

"Ben!" I shot him a look, feeling heat crawl up my neck, but Tyler, ever unflappable, simply chuckled as he parked by the gas pump.

"Y’all are hopeless," Tyler said, pushing open his door. He turned to you, one boot on the pavement and an easy grin playing on his lips. "You comin’, or are you too busy defendin’ your snack habits to stretch your legs?"

"Depends," You said, hopping out of the truck and closing the door with a satisfying slam. "You gonna buy me a drink, or are you just here to trash talk my love of Skittles?"

His eyes glinted under the brim of his weathered Stetson. "That depends. You gonna keep makin’ me regret lettin’ you in my truck, or you finally gonna admit you’d be bored if you rode with Lily?"

You rolled your eyes, tossing Tyler a glance over your shoulder as you headed toward the gas station with Boone, Lily, Dexter, and Dani in tow. "If I admit it, you’ll never let me live it down. And we can’t have that."

Tyler’s laughter followed you as the glass doors of the gas station swung shut behind you, the cool air blasting away the lingering warmth of the Oklahoma sun. The gas station smelled like cheap coffee and cleaning supplies, the fluorescent lights humming faintly overhead. 

You stood in the candy aisle, staring at the two options of brightly colored Skittles packets as if your life depended on the choice between regular and sour.

"Regular or sour," You muttered under your breath, weighing the pros and cons as if this wasn’t a completely ridiculous debate. Regular was classic, reliable—always good. Sour was bold, unexpected, a little more fun. Your fingers hovered between the two when a glimpse of movement outside the window caught your attention.

You glanced over the top of the shelf, peering out into the midday sun, where Tyler’s familiar figure was strolling across the grassy lot. Your brow furrowed slightly as you followed his path to…her. 

She was standing just off to the side of the gas station, her light hair pulled up with a claw clip swaying in the breeze as she gazed out at the horizon. She was new. Or at least you assumed since you’d never seen her. She was apparently tagging along with Storm Par for the week, and while you didn’t know much about her, she seemed okay.

Tyler reached her, and you watched as she turned to him as he said something. He gestured out toward the horizon, his hands moving as he spoke, probably talking about something weather-related.

That was just Tyler—always the helpful one. Always looking out for everyone, wanting to make them feel welcome.

That’s all it was, you told myself. Just him being his usual kind, good-natured self. But then he gave her that smirk. The one that was all effortless charm and made you feel like you were the only person in the world he cared to talk to.

A strange pang stirred in your chest, sharp and sudden, and you quickly looked away.

It’s nothing. You grabbed the bag of regular Skittles off the shelf, hesitated, and grabbed the sour ones too. He’s allowed to talk to whoever he wants. He’s even allowed to flirt with whoever he wants.

Still, the pang lingered as you made your way toward the checkout. Passing the jerky section, you paused, scanning the shelves until you  found it—Tyler’s favorite brand and flavor. Without thinking, you grabbed two bags and tucked them under your arm.

At the drink cooler, you slid open the glass door and grabbed two bottles of his usual drink. It was an easy rhythm, something you’d done countless times without a second thought. He’d grumble and tease you about spoiling him, but you always noticed how he’d crack a smile and finish every bite and sip.

By the time you reached the register, your arms were full. Skittles for you, jerky and drinks for Tyler.

You dumped the lot onto the counter, pulling a crumpled twenty out of your pocket as the cashier scanned the items. You focused intently on the cashier’s polite small talk, anything to keep from glancing out the window again.

Because you didn’t care. Or at least, that’s what you kept telling myself.

* * *

The motel’s neon vacancy sign buzzed faintly in the warm night air later that day, casting a faint red glow across the gravel lot where the storm-chasing teams had gathered. Most of the trucks were parked in a line, their roof racks empty, and gear scattered across the lot as repairs and tune-ups were underway.

The hum of your laptop filled the air as you and Dani hunched over the screen. The numbers were staggering.

“Nearly fifty thousand people at one time,” Dani said, leaning closer to the screen. She looked at you with wide eyes and a grin. “This is huge. One of our biggest streams yet.”

“Yeah, we did it,” Boone said from the doorway, his arms crossed as he leaned against the frame.

“Now we gotta figure out how to top it,” Dani smirked, nudging your shoulder. She glanced at you slyly. “Maybe we should give the viewers more of you and Tyler. That always gets people talking.”

You rolled your eyes, though your face heated at the comment. Before you could respond, a familiar voice cut through the chatter outside.

“City girl.”

The nickname made your head snap up. You turned toward the roof of the truck, seeing Tyler perched, his hands still fiddling with a piece of equipment as he looked up toward the staircase.

Your gaze followed his line of sight to see Kate— that was her name—standing on the landing of the second-floor staircase. She leaned casually against the railing, looking down at Tyler with a faint, curious smile.

“The cells to the west will choke each other out, she said. The one to the east will put on a show,” Tyler recited, his tone laced with amusement.

“Didn’t throw you off the scent,” Kate replied smoothly, her expression unreadable.

“Hey, that’s what makes Tyler famous,” Boone chimed in, grinning as he wiped his hands on a rag.

“You mean on YouTube?” Kate raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching in a barely-there smirk.

Tyler froze for a second, glancing up from the equipment in his hands, and you could almost see the flash of slight irritation in his eyes. He hated when people reduced what he did to just being about clout.

“Uh, y-yeah. Yeah, we’re on the YouTube,” he said, trying to recover with his usual confidence. “We’ve got, what, about a million subscribers now?”

“Yes, sir!” Lily called from across the lot, her voice cheerful as the rest of the group laughed.

“Kate what?” Ben interrupted, scribbling furiously in his notepad. He glanced up at her, pen poised. “Your surname, just in case I include you in my piece.”

Kate hesitated, her posture shifting slightly as if the question made her uncomfortable. “Oh, um, just Kate’s fine,” she said finally.

“She’s a tricky one,” Tyler said, his voice light but teasing.

Boone pointed his finger toward Kate, grinning. “Actually, you made a good call earlier. That eastern cell? It looked stronger, but the cap never broke. You nailed it.”

“Where did you guys all meet?” Kate asked, quickly steering the conversation away from herself. “Did you, uh, study meteorology at the U of A?”

A chorus of laughter erupted from the group. Dani shook her head, Lily and Dexter chuckled, and you stifled a smile.

“No, no,” Boone said, raising a hand. “All right, Kate, me? I just flow with the wind, you know? Never went to, like, school or nothing.” He pointed toward Tyler. “Now, Tyler, though—he studied meteorology.”

“Him?” Kate asked, her tone incredulous as she looked at Tyler.

Tyler simply nodded, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Yeah, he’s a cowboy scientist,” Boone continued. “He’s got this natural instinct. Taught me everything I know—”

“Boone,” Tyler interrupted, his tone sharp enough to cut Boone off before he said too much. Boone just shrugged. “Our crew’s not like your crew, Kate. We don’t need PhDs and fancy gadgets to do what we do. I guarantee you these guys have seen more tornadoes than anyone else in this lot combined.”

“Is that right?” Kate said, her tone thick with skepticism.

Tyler leaned back against his truck, lifting a can of Budweiser to his lips. “But if you can keep up, we’ll put you in the episode,” he said with a smirk before taking a slow sip.

“Wow,” Kate replied dryly, her sarcasm thick.

“Where are you chasing tomorrow?” Lily asked, looking up at Kate.

“Oh, no. No, no, no,” Tyler said, cutting in before Kate could answer. “Not falling for that again. Kate’s from New York. Can’t trust a thing she says.”

Kate shot back without missing a beat. “Well, can always trust a guy who puts his face on a T-shirt.”

The group erupted into laughter, and you glanced over at Tyler, catching the way he ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek in response to her quick jab.

You rolled your eyes. Of course, he’s flustered, you thought, shaking your head. You couldn’t believe he was letting her get to him like this.

* * *

THE NEXT EVENING

The team returned to the motel just as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the sky in hues of orange and pink. The exhaustion from the day’s chaos was written all over everyone’s faces. After hours of chasing storms, and helping devastated families sift through the rubble of their lives, the weight of it hung heavy in the air. But there was a collective unspoken agreement—you needed to decompress before the next round.

Boone stretched his arms overhead as he leaned against the truck, his voice cutting through the quiet. “Alright, I don’t know about y’all, but I need a drink. There’s a bar down the road that looked promising. Who’s in?”

Dani perked up immediately. “Count me in. I could use a little fun after today.”

Dexter didn’t even hesitate. “I’m game.”

Ben nodded, brushing dust off his shirt. “Sounds nice.”

You glanced at Tyler, who stood off to the side, wiping his hands on a rag after finishing some last-minute adjustments to the equipment. “What about you, Ty? You coming?”

He paused, tossing the rag onto the tailgate before meeting your gaze. “Think I’m gonna sit this one out. Got some old friends from the rodeo circuit in town. Thought I’d swing by and catch up.”

“Oh, come on,” you teased, crossing your arms. “You can’t leave me with these guys.” You gestured toward Boone, Dani, Lily, Ben and Dexter, who were already debating what drink to start with. “And besides who’s going to make sure I don’t get into trouble?”

Tyler chuckled, his smile easy but firm. “You’ll be fine. Besides,” he said, pointing a finger at Boone and Dani, “if anyone’s gonna get into trouble, it’s those two.”

You hesitated for a second, then ventured, “I could come with you instead. I don’t mind skipping the bar.”

He shook his head, a soft look in his eyes as he leaned against the truck. “Nah, you go have fun. You earned it.” He smirked. “Just don’t go using my credit card this time. Pay for your own drinks, sweetheart.”

Boone let out a loud laugh. “You hear that, sweetheart? Daddy Tyler says no spending his hard-earned YouTube money!”

“Ha ha, very funny,” you shot back, rolling your eyes as Tyler fought to hide his grin.

“Seriously, though,” Tyler said, his tone lighter but still genuine, “go unwind. You guys deserve it after today. I’ll catch up with y’all later.”

With that, he grabbed his hat off the dash and settled it onto his head, giving you one last nod before heading off in his truck. You watched him for a moment as he drove away, the familiar rumble of his engine fading into the night.

“Well,” Boone said, clapping his hands together, “guess it’s just us. Let’s go get a drink.”

You followed the others down the road, but your thoughts lingered on Tyler. Something about the way he’d brushed off your offer to join him left a strange feeling in your chest.

Shaking it off, you decided to focus on the night ahead—Tyler could handle himself, and so could you.

The bar was alive with the sound of laughter, clinking glasses, and a live band playing a familiar country tune in the corner. Boone and Dexter were deep into a game of darts while Dani and Ben sat at the bar debating their drink choices. You sipped your second drink of the night, enjoying the rare chance to unwind after the chaos of the day.

Just as you started to relax, your phone buzzed on the table. At first, you ignored it, assuming it was some random notification, but the persistent buzz caught your attention. Picking it up, you saw the words that sent a chill through your veins: Tornado Warning: Seek Shelter Immediately.

Your heart leapt into your throat as you quickly opened your weather app. Your fingers moved on autopilot, pulling up the radar. The ominous red box of the warning covered the area around the motel, and the storm cell you saw forming earlier had grown stronger—far stronger.

“Oh, my God,” you muttered, your eyes locking on the radar.

The tornado wasn’t just nearby. It was forming right over the motel and the rodeo.

The others noticed your sudden change in demeanor. “What’s up?” Boone asked, stepping closer as he wiped his hands on his shorts.

“There’s a tornado warning,” you said, your voice tight. “It’s right over the motel—where Tyler is.”

Boone’s face went pale. “Are you sure?”

You spun the screen around to show him. The rotating cell was unmistakable, its path heading straight for where Tyler and the equipment were. “We have to go. Now.”

Ben stood abruptly, grabbing his jacket. “Is it normal for one to form that fast like that?”

Dani shook her head and grabbed her phone, already calling Tyler, but the call went straight to voicemail.

“He’s not picking up,” she said, her voice edged with panic.

You grabbed your keys, adrenaline surging as you bolted toward the exit. “We can’t wait. We need to get to him and warn him before it touches down.”

The group rushed outside, the once-clear night now eerily still. The wind had picked up, and the air carried that unmistakable electric charge that came before a storm. Clouds swirled above, illuminated by flashes of lightning.

As you all piled into Boone’s van, your hands shook, not just from fear but from the overwhelming thought of Tyler being caught in the middle of it. You could only hope he’d noticed the signs in time to take cover, but with the storm forming so quickly, the chances felt slim.

Just minutes later the van screeched to a halt in front of the motel, and all you could do was stare at the scene before you. The motel looked like a warzone. The roof had caved in on one side, chunks of debris littering the parking lot. A power line was down, sparking dangerously near the edge of the lot. The neon motel sign flickered weakly, barely clinging to life.

Your breath caught when you saw Tyler’s truck. The hood and windshield were buried under a pile of rubble. But it was there.

He’s here.

Without waiting for the others, you threw the door open and bolted out into the night. Boone’s voice called after you, but it was muffled by the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears.

“Tyler! Tyler!” you shouted, your voice cracking as you scanned the wreckage. You tripped over a piece of broken siding but barely noticed, your eyes darting frantically through the chaos. “Tyler!”

And then, through the haze of rain and debris, you saw movement by the pool. A figure emerged, soaked to the bone and covered in dirt, but unmistakably him.

Tyler.

Your feet moved on instinct, the world around you a blur as you sprinted toward him, your heart pounding like a drum in your chest. Each step felt impossibly long, the distance between you and him stretching endlessly even as you pushed yourself harder. The rain soaked through your clothes, stinging your skin as debris crunched beneath your feet, but none of it mattered. All you could see was him, standing there, alive.

When you reached him, you didn’t slow down. Your body collided with his, and your arms wrapped tightly around his neck, clinging to him with everything you had. It was as if letting go would make him vanish, as if the storm might take him from you after all.

“Tyler,” you choked out, your voice thick with relief and fear. Your fingers dug into his soaked shirt, gripping it like it was your lifeline.

His arms came around you immediately, strong and steady, pulling you against him with a quiet desperation. You could feel the warmth of his skin beneath the chill of his wet clothes, the solid reassurance of his chest rising and falling with each breath. His hands splayed across your back, holding you tightly, as though he needed the contact as much as you did.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing despite the tremor in it. His breath was warm against your temple as he pressed his cheek to your head, his lips grazing your hair. “I’m okay, sweetheart. I’m fine. I promise.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, burying your face against his neck, the faint scent of rain and dirt clinging to him. “I thought—” Your words caught in your throat, a sob threatening to break free. “I thought I lost you.”

He pulled you even closer, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head. “You didn’t,” he said softly, his voice firm and steady now, as if willing you to believe it. “I’m here. I’m okay.”

The strength in his embrace felt like a shield against everything—the storm, the fear, the chaos. In that moment, nothing else existed. It was just you and him, the rest of the world fading into a dull hum.

Finally, you pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands still clutching his arms. His green eyes met yours, and you saw a mixture of relief, exhaustion, and something deeper—something unspoken but unmistakable. Rain dripped from his hair, streaking down his face, but he didn’t seem to notice. His focus was entirely on you.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. His hands stayed on you, one at your waist, the other brushing lightly against your shoulder. The air between you felt heavy, charged with emotions too raw to name.

Then a voice broke through the moment. “Kate! Are you okay?” Dani called out, her voice carrying across the rubble.

You turned your head, and your stomach dropped. There, climbing out of the pool behind Tyler, was Kate. She was just as soaked, her hair plastered to her face, and she looked shaken but unharmed. Behind her, a mother and her young daughter emerged as well, both clutching each other tightly.

Your chest tightened. Kate was with him?

You looked back at Tyler, and something flickered in his expression—relief, maybe, or concern. You couldn’t tell.

“What happened?” you asked, your voice quieter now, almost afraid of the answer.

“I’ll explain later,” he said, his tone even but weary. His arms loosened around you, and he took a small step back, his gaze shifting briefly to Kate and the others.

You felt Boone’s hand on your shoulder as he and the others caught up. Dani and Lily rushed to check on Kate and the mother and daughter, their voices buzzing with questions.

But you couldn’t focus on them. Your eyes stayed on Tyler, searching his face for something—an answer, an explanation, anything to quiet the unease now gnawing at you.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING

The morning sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, a pale glow stretching across the room and nudging you awake. The sound of your phone buzzing on the nightstand pulled you the rest of the way from sleep. With a groggy groan, you rolled over and grabbed it, squinting against the brightness of the screen.

It was a text in the group chat, from Tyler.

“Not looking like an active day for storms. You guys take the day off, relax a little. I’ll be back later—gotta go do something.”

You stared at the message, rereading it a couple of times. There were no details, no clues about where he was going or what he needed to do. Just that vague statement—gotta go do something. It was so typically Tyler, giving just enough information to let you know he’d be fine, but not enough to satisfy your curiosity.

A faint pang of unease settled in your chest. After everything that had happened yesterday, you weren’t sure you liked the idea of him heading off on his own, even if the radar was clear. But Tyler wasn’t the type to sit still when something was on his mind.

The group chat pinged again. Boone was the first to respond. “Copy that. Holler if you need backup.”

Dani chimed in next. “What’s the plan for later? We still grilling? Going into town? Let us know!”

You stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Part of you wanted to ask Tyler where he was going, but you stopped yourself. If he wanted to tell you, he would have.

Instead, you sent a quick reply. “Okay. Be safe, Tyler.”

The unease didn’t fade as you set your phone back down and stared at the ceiling. You couldn’t help but wonder what it was he needed to do—and why he felt like he had to do it alone.

* * *

THE NEXT DAY

The next afternoon, you still hadn’t heard from Tyler. His silence gnawed at you more than you cared to admit. You told yourself he was fine—that if something had gone wrong, someone would have heard about it by now. But that didn’t stop your mind from replaying yesterday’s text or the way he’d disappeared without a word.

When your phone lit up with his name, your stomach did a little flip. For a second, you hesitated, your thumb hovering over the screen. You wanted to answer. You wanted to hear his voice, to ask him where he’d been and what the hell he’d been doing for the past day and a half. But you didn’t.

With a frustrated sigh, you let the call go to voicemail and tossed your phone onto the bed.

Boone raised an eyebrow from where he was sitting across the room, scrolling through weather models. “Was that Tyler?”

You nodded, avoiding his gaze.

“Why didn’t you pick up?”

You shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant. “He disappeared for a day and a half without telling anyone. He can wait a little longer.”

Boone didn’t push it, but the look he gave you said he didn’t quite buy your indifference.

It wasn’t long after that when Lily’s phone started ringing. She glanced at the screen, then at you. “It’s Tyler.”

Your stomach twisted as she answered, putting him on speaker.

“Tyler?” she said.

“Hey, Lil,” came his familiar voice, sounding calm and easy, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. “I need your help with something.”

“Where are you?” Lily asked, her tone more concerned than yours had been.

“I’m a few hours away. We’re headed to a trailer dealership outside of town. I’ll send you the address.”

There was a pause as Lily glanced at you, her eyebrows raised. Boone leaned forward, curious.

“What are you doing at a trailer dealership?” Lily asked, voicing the question on everyone’s mind.

“I’ll explain when you get here,” Tyler said, his tone giving nothing away. “Can you come?”

Lily sighed and looked to you, Boone, and the others for input. When you didn’t say anything, Boone nodded. “We’ll be there.”

“Thanks,” Tyler said, sounding genuinely relieved. “I’ll text you the address.”

When the call ended, Lily turned to you. “So, are we going?”

You hesitated, but only for a moment. As annoyed as you were with him, you couldn’t ignore the slight urgency in his voice—or the curiosity bubbling up inside you.

“Yeah,” you said finally. “Let’s go see what this is about.”

The team pulled into the dealership parking lot, the mid-afternoon sun glaring off the rows of shiny new trailers. Your stomach twisted with a mix of curiosity and apprehension as Boone parked the van.

“Is that… Kate?” Lily said, squinting toward the far side of the lot.

You followed her gaze, and sure enough, there she was—climbing out of Tyler’s truck. Your breath hitched. Tyler was already walking around to meet her, his familiar, easy smile plastered on his face as they exchanged a few words.

Boone let out a low whistle, smirking as he glanced over at you. “Well, well, well. Looks like Kate’s the new partner-in-crime.”

“Relax,” you said quickly, rolling your eyes. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh, really?” Dani chimed in, her tone teasing as she leaned over the seat to get a better look. “Because it kinda seems like it is.”

“Guys, come on,” you muttered, your cheeks flushing despite your best efforts.

“You’re totally jealous,” Boone added with a grin.

“I’m not jealous,” you shot back, maybe a little too quickly. 

Boone and Dani exchanged knowing looks, but you ignored them, crossing your arms as you watched Tyler and Kate make their way over.

When Tyler reached you, his expression softened, his eyes flickering with something you couldn’t quite place. 

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and sincere.

“Hey,” you replied, your tone guarded as you shoved your hands into your pockets.

“I’m sorry for disappearing yesterday,” he said, his brow furrowing slightly. “I should’ve told you where I was going.”

You shrugged, forcing a small smile. “It’s fine. I wasn’t upset.”

He studied you for a moment, his gaze lingering like he didn’t quite believe you. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly, looking away. “I’m fine.”

But you weren’t. Not really. It wasn’t jealousy—not exactly. It was the sting of realizing you didn’t mean as much to him as you thought you did. You’d always assumed the team was more than just a group of storm chasers to Tyler, that you were family. His silence, his absence, had left a hollow ache in your chest that you couldn’t quite shake.

Tyler didn’t press the issue, but the way his lips pressed into a thin line told you he wasn’t entirely convinced.

“So,” Boone said, breaking the tension as he stepped forward, clapping Tyler on the shoulder. “What’s with the trailer dealership?”

A grin spread across Tyler’s face, his previous seriousness melting away.

“Follow me,” he said, motioning for you all to follow him.

As the group trailed behind, you couldn’t help but glance back at Kate. She was chatting with Lily about the drone, her smile bright and easy, and you hated the way it made your chest tighten. Shaking your head, you focused on Tyler, determined not to let your insecurities get the best of you.

The energy in the group shifted after Tyler and Kate’s arrival at the dealership. While everyone seemed excited about the new trailer and the possibilities Kate’s glorified science experiment brought, you couldn’t shake the knot in your chest. The idea of Kate tagging along, so comfortable around Tyler, and his seeming indifference to the team yesterday had left you feeling off-kilter.

You stayed back, letting the others crowd around Tyler and pepper him with questions about Kate’s experiment. You only half-listened, nodding absently when someone directed a comment your way. 

Tyler glanced at you a few times, his eyes narrowing in quiet concern, but you avoided his gaze, pretending to be preoccupied with your phone or the horizon.

The drive back to regroup was tense in your own head. When Boone brought up seating arrangments now that Kate was traveling with the team, you quickly volunteered to ride with Lily in the van.

“Whoa, breaking tradition?” Boone teased as he slid into the driver’s seat. “You always ride with Tyler.”

“I figured she could use some company for once,” you said lightly, keeping your tone casual even as you avoided Dani’s raised brow.

Tyler didn’t say anything, but you could feel his eyes on you from across the parking lot as you climbed into the van.

The day unfolded like a blur. The forecast showed a massive storm system moving in, with conditions that could easily spawn tornadoes. There wasn’t much time for idle chatter as everyone scrambled to prep equipment and finalize routes. You busied yourself with anything that kept you moving, anything that didn’t involve standing still long enough for Tyler to corner you with questions.

He tried a couple of times, calling your name softly as you passed, but you brushed him off with hurried excuses. “Sorry, I need to grab this,” or “Let me double-check the radar first.”

Tyler wasn’t one to push, but the way his jaw tightened each time you slipped away told you he noticed.

By the time the team split into vehicles to chase the storm, the air was thick with tension—not just from the impending weather, but from whatever had shifted between you and Tyler.

“You sure you don’t want to switch back?” Boone asked as you climbed into the passenger seat of the van.

“I’m good,” you said, forcing a smile.

From the side mirror, you caught a glimpse of Tyler in his truck. His eyes lingered on you for a moment before he turned his attention back to the road ahead.

The storm loomed dark on the horizon, a swirling mass of gray and green that promised chaos. You focused on the task at hand, pushing everything else to the back of your mind. Whatever conversation Tyler wanted to have would have to wait—assuming he still wanted to have it after today.

The storm had reached its peak intensity, and you were well aware of it. The air was thick with tension, but it wasn’t just from the storm—it was from everything that had been building between you and Tyler over the past days. But that was all drowned out by the noise of the wind, the clattering of debris, and the sound of the storm tearing through the world around you.

The team had done everything they could to guide people to shelter. You were now in the theater with the others, feeling the tremors of the wind pushing against the walls, the heavy sounds of destruction that seemed to grow louder by the second. It was chaos—people crying out, the wailing of the sirens, and the unrelenting storm closing in fast.

You’d just seen Tyler heading toward Kate, and the pang in your chest was sharper than before, but before you could even process it, the ceiling above you gave way. A deafening crash followed by an intense, blinding flash of debris. The next thing you knew, you were on the floor, trapped beneath the wreckage. The weight of it made it hard to breathe, and panic set in as you struggled to move, only to realize you were pinned down.

"Tyler!" you screamed out, his name being the first thing that came to your brain. But you barely heard your own voice over the wind outside was deafening, the sound of the tornado ripping apart everything in its path—closer now, just outside the building. You knew he probably wouldn't hear you.

The world around you felt like it was collapsing, and the reality of it hit hard. This wasn’t a close call. You were in the storm’s path, and you had no idea if you’d make it out. Your chest tightened as you cried, helpless.

You were terrified—scared out of your mind—and the thought that this was how your life would end, trapped here under rubble with nothing you could do, made you feel utterly alone.

Then you felt a hand. His hand. You knew it without having to look. His strong, warm hand took yours, and everything in you instantly calmed just a fraction. 

“Tyler, please—go find something to hold onto!” you managed to shout.

Tyler’s voice, loud but distant, called out to you through the noise, his words a lifeline. “I’m not leaving you.”

The wind howled, tearing through the air with force, and the walls of the theater groaned. But Tyler’s grip never wavered, his hand wrapping tighter around yours, holding you in place. His other hand reached out and wrapped around the metal chair leg next to you, anchoring himself as best as he could to something solid, something that could keep you both from being swept away.

You closed your eyes and tried to steady your breathing. The storm was closing in, its fury pressing down on the entire town, and you knew that at any moment it could sweep through the building and tear you apart.

It was a sickening feeling—waiting, knowing that every second might be your last. But as you lay there, thoughts of what could have been surged inside you. All the things you’d never get to do with Tyler, all the feelings you’d never be able to express if this was truly the end of your life. You saw flashes of what a life together might have looked like: a first date that you’d spent months fantasizing about, a wedding, a family. You’d never even gotten the chance to tell him how you felt.

And then, in the quietest moment, you turned your head toward him. His face was intense, focused, trying to keep you safe. You locked eyes, and you knew—this was your moment, even if it seemed impossible.

“I love you!” you screamed, your voice cracking with emotion.

But the wind was too loud, the storm too ferocious. He couldn’t hear you over the chaos. He glanced back at you, his brow furrowed. “What?” he yelled back, his face a mask of confusion.

You shook your head, frustrated, heart pounding, but there was no use in trying to say it again. The storm was too loud, and you could barely catch your breath.

But at least you said it. Even if it was in the middle of this madness, even if he couldn’t hear you. You said it. And that was enough.

You squeezed his hand harder, letting the feeling of it fill you. You were scared, yes, but you weren’t alone anymore. Tyler was there. And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to get you through. Or at least let you die in peace knowing that the one person you loved most was with you when you took your last breath.

The storm passed as suddenly as it had come, leaving a heavy, suffocating silence in its wake. The deafening roar of the wind disappeared, and for a moment, the world felt still—too still after everything. You blinked, disoriented, the faint ringing in your ears slowly fading, and then the reality of the situation set in. Boone and Dexter were kneeling beside you, their voices sounding distant at first, then clearer as they checked on you.

"Are you okay?" Boone's voice was sharp, urgent, but also full of concern.

You tried to speak, but your throat was raw. Instead, you muttered Tyler’s name, your breath coming in shallow gasps. His hand—his warmth—was gone. And that instant panic surged again. You reached for where his hand had been, but the space was empty. You looked around, your eyes darting, searching for him.

“T-Tyler. Is he—?” Your heart skipped, the thought barely finished before it threatened to break you. Were you alone again? Had you been abandoned in this moment of chaos?

Boone and Dexter exchanged a quick glance before assuring you, "He’s fine. He’s okay." They both turned their heads to glance at Tyler, who was standing at the front of the theater, his body tense, scanning the room as if looking for something—or someone.

You felt your pulse calm just slightly. He was alive, and that was something. But then, the silence between the men and you stretched long, and your chest tightened again. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe it was the weight of the last few minutes of your life flashing before you.

But as they started to help remove the debris from you, trying to free you from the mess of broken wood and metal, you couldn’t help but watch Tyler.

For a second, you held on to the hope that he’d come over, that he would check on you. You had been through hell together in the last few minutes. You thought, maybe, just maybe, he’d come running to you now, just like he did during the storm. You waited, your body aching, heart racing, trying to ignore the pain as you glanced over at him, your chest tight with anticipation.

But that hope shattered as soon as you saw him climb onto the stage, his attention locked outside, and without a glance in your direction, he bolted for the exit. Your heart dropped like a stone in your chest. He didn’t even hesitate, not even for a second. He and Javi rushed out, their voices barely audible as they called for Kate, their shouts cutting through the stillness.

The silence in the theater felt deafening, and it echoed in your head as your world seemed to spin. In that moment, it hit you like a punch to the gut. Tyler hadn’t even looked back at you before running to her. All the things you thought you had between you, all the moments you’d shared that made you believe you were more than just a passing person in his life… none of it seemed to matter.

Tyler was gone, running after someone else.

Your vision blurred, your knees buckled, and your body felt weightless as everything you’d been holding back came crashing down. A sob broke free from your chest, a sound so raw and painful that it felt like it was tearing you apart. You couldn’t even catch your breath before your legs gave way entirely.

Before you hit the ground, Boone’s arms were there, catching you. “Hey, hey, I’ve got you,” he murmured, his grip strong around your shoulders. But his words were drowned out by the sound of your heart shattering.

It felt like the world had closed in around you, like you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. All you could do was fall, over and over again. You wished, for just a moment, that Tyler would have come to you. But it was too late now.

And as Boone gently helped you back up, you couldn’t shake the feeling that a piece of you had just been lost forever.

* * *

The paramedic’s voice was a soft hum in the background, but all you could focus on was the sharp ache in your chest. They had checked your vitals—pulse, blood pressure, everything. You had a slight concussion, they said, but nothing too serious. Some cuts, bruises, and a few scratches, nothing compared to what could have happened. You nodded along with the questions, but your mind was elsewhere, and your gaze kept flickering to the ambulance beside you.

Kate was on the stretcher. Her eyes were closed, and Tyler stood beside her, speaking in a calm tone to the paramedic who was tending to the cut on her head. He was focused on her—his attention so completely on her that it felt like the world around you shrank. Your heart fell, almost as if it were being dragged down into your stomach.

You pulled your knees up to your chest, the ache inside growing stronger with every passing second. The images from the past few days started to replay in your mind. Tyler, always by her side. The way he complimented her ideas, how he seemed to listen to her like he had no other cares in the world. How he just... dropped everything to help her, as if she were the only one who mattered.

And now, even after everything—after the storm, after the danger he’d been in right alongside you—here he was, tending to her. He hadn't even come to check on you.

It felt like the last little thread that had been holding you together snapped.

You looked down at your hands, fingers trembling as you tried to push the thoughts away. Why does it hurt so much? You had no right to feel jealous or upset. Kate was a part of the team now, and Tyler was always protective of everyone.

But something in you felt like it wasn’t just about the tornado. It was about the way he kept gravitating toward her in a way he never did with you.

It wasn’t just the storm anymore. It wasn’t just the crisis. It was... something more. Something you hadn’t wanted to admit. The realization settled like a stone in your chest. You had cared for him, and you still did. More than you’d let yourself believe, more than you could let go of. But he wasn’t looking at you anymore. He wasn’t thinking of you when things got complicated. He was looking at Kate, helping her, being there for her, even now.

A wave of bitterness washed over you, but you couldn’t make yourself leave. You didn’t know if you wanted to be near him or as far away as possible, but all you could do was sit there, watching him talk to her as if nothing had changed.

Everything had changed.

Lily’s voice cuts through the fog of your thoughts, her tone gentle but full of concern. “Hey, are you okay?” She’s standing nearby, her arms crossed, her eyes searching your face, sensing the distance in your gaze.

You force a small nod, but it’s not enough to convince anyone, not even yourself. You swallow, trying to push down the tightness in your chest. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little... tired, I guess.”

Dani, who’s standing with Lily, watches you for a beat before speaking up, her voice a little quieter now. “Are you sure? You’ve been through a lot, you don’t have to push yourself.”

You shake your head again, feeling the weight of everything pressing on you—everything you’d been ignoring. “I think... I think I need a break.” The words slip out before you can stop them. “Maybe it’s time I head home. Take a step back from everything. Sit the next few chases out, you know? Take a few weeks off...maybe longer even.”

Lily exchanges a look with Dani, but they both nod, understanding. It’s not like they hadn’t noticed how distant you’d been, how quiet you’d grown since the storm.

Dani gives your shoulder a light squeeze, trying to offer comfort without pushing too hard. “You do what you need to do,” she says softly. “We’ll hold down the fort here.”

Before you can respond, you hear Tyler’s voice from behind you. You don’t have to turn to know it’s him, the way his footsteps slow as he approaches, the weight of his presence so familiar it almost hurts. “Hey, can we talk for a minute?”

Your chest tightens. You want to look at him, to tell him everything that’s been swirling around inside you since the storm. But all you can do is shake your head. “I’m really tired, Tyler. I think I’m just going to head back to the motel. You should stay with Kate. Make sure she’s okay. I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

His eyes lock onto you, the regret and confusion in them almost enough to make you change your mind. Almost. But you can’t do it. You can’t have that conversation with him now, not when it feels like everything is unraveling at once.

Tyler opens his mouth to say something, but then stops himself. He takes a breath, clearly fighting the urge to press, to make you listen to him. Instead, his shoulders slump slightly, and he nods, his voice quieter now. “Okay... I’ll... I’ll check in on you later.”

You force yourself to look at him, your heart aching as you meet his gaze. There’s so much you want to say, but all that comes out is a soft, “Thanks.”

You turn away before you can see his reaction, before you can see the disappointment or confusion written across his face. You walk toward the back of the ambulance, the air around you feeling heavier with each step. You know this is what you need, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

Tyler doesn’t chase you this time. And maybe that’s what hurts the most.

Tyler watches you retreat into the distance, his heart heavy, something gnawing at him that he can’t quite put into words. He exhales sharply, his mind racing, but he tries to push it aside for the moment, turning toward Lily and Dani, who are still standing a few feet away.

“Is she okay?” Tyler asks, trying to mask the tension in his voice, but the question falls flat. His eyes shift between the two of them, but neither of them meet his gaze immediately.

Lily sighs, crossing her arms, her expression a little more intense than usual. "Are you really asking that, Tyler?" she says, her tone laced with a mix of frustration and concern. "You’ve been... oblivious, man. It's clear what’s going on. You’ve been hurting her.”

Dani steps forward, her brow furrowed. "You think she’s just fine? After everything she’s been through, and after all this time? She's been into you, Tyler. It’s obvious, and you’ve been... distant. All week."

Tyler’s chest tightens at her words. His stomach sinks with the realization, as if the weight of it all finally lands on him. He looks away, running a hand through his hair, his thoughts running in circles. Distant? Has he really been that blind? His gaze flickers back to where you’d disappeared, and a heavy sigh escapes him.

He thinks back to the past few days, the way he’d been caught up in whatever this thing with Kate had become—just... busy. He hadn’t meant to pull away from you. But the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes how often he’d been preoccupied with her, how often his focus had shifted, and how often he’d ignored you in the process.

And then, his mind flashes back to the theater. To you, trapped and terrified, and how his heart had pounded in his chest just being by your side. He had held your hand, clung to it like his life depended on it. And in that moment, he felt like he couldn’t bear the thought of losing you. He could still feel the warmth of your touch, the way your hand had fit so perfectly in his, like it was always meant to be that way. He had been so focused on getting through the storm, keeping you safe, that he hadn’t heard you when you shouted, but there was something in the way you looked at him before the wind swallowed everything up. 

Something he didn’t catch then... but he swore he saw your lips move. I love you.

His heart stutters at the thought. He’d read your lips. He’d seen it, and yet... he never said anything, never gave you a chance to tell him in a way that could’ve mattered. The weight of it presses down on him now, his mind spinning with the missed opportunity, and the fear of losing you in ways that don’t have anything to do with storms.

The urgency to fix this suddenly takes over. He can’t let you leave like this. Not without trying, not without giving you something—anything to show that he sees you, that he gets it, that he doesn’t want to let you go without telling you what’s been building inside of him.

"I’ve gotta fix this," he mutters to himself, more to his own conscience than to anyone else. 

Lily nods, her expression softening just slightly. “You’d better. She deserves to know how you feel before you let her slip away.”

Tyler doesn’t need any more encouragement. He starts moving toward the ambulance where you’d gone, his heart beating harder now. He won’t let it end like this. He can’t.

You'd said you'd talk to him tomorrow. But tomorrow isn’t soon enough for Tyler.

* * *

BACK AT THE MOTEL

You stand frozen for a moment, the knock on your door taking you by surprise. You weren't expecting him—weren't sure you even wanted him to show up. But when you peer through the peephole and see Tyler standing there, looking almost apologetic, your chest tightens. The emotions from the past few days swirl around you—hurt, confusion, and a trace of something else you didn’t want to acknowledge: hope.

You stand there for a beat, considering what to do. Should you let him in? You feel a little too vulnerable, too exposed. But then you hear his voice through the door, low and sincere.

“Please, just give me a chance to explain, darlin’.”

Your heart stirs, but your frustration, the pain of feeling ignored, holds you back. You sigh and open the door, mentally preparing yourself to face him.

“Tyler—” you start, your voice tinged with everything you’ve been holding in, but he cuts you off before you can say anything more.

Without warning, he reaches up, his hand gentle but firm as it cups your face. Your breath catches in your throat as his lips meet yours in a kiss that catches you completely off guard. It’s soft at first, hesitant, as if he’s testing the waters, but then, as if something inside of him snaps when you don't pull away, it deepens, becoming urgent, almost desperate.

Before you can process what’s happening, he’s pulling you into the room, walking you backward as the door falls shut with a soft thud behind him. The kiss never breaks, and the moment is so intense, so full of emotion, that it takes every bit of your willpower not to melt into him entirely. His hands slide down your back, pressing you closer to him, while your own hands find their way to his shoulders, gripping him tightly as if you need to anchor yourself.

Tyler pulls away just slightly, his forehead resting against yours. His breath is ragged, his eyes searching yours, full of regret and something more.

“I'm sorry,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve been so stupid, so blind to how much I’ve hurt you. But I need you to know... I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. You mean more to me than anything else, and I can’t let you leave thinking otherwise.”

You feel his lips brush against your jaw, trailing soft, warm kisses down your neck. Your breath hitches at the sensation, your heart pounding in your chest. The intensity of it all swirls inside of you—the confusion, the hurt, the aching desire to believe him. But there’s a part of you still hesitant, still unsure.

“Tyler…” you breathe, trying to pull back just enough to make eye contact, but he kisses your neck, whispering apologies and promises against your skin. “You’ve hurt me. All week… you’ve been…. I thought—”

“I know,” he interrupts, his lips finding the curve of your shoulder. “I know I hurt you, and I never meant to. I’ve been an idiot, and I’m asking for a second chance. A real chance to prove to you how much you mean to me.”

The raw sincerity in his voice, the way his hands hold you as if he’s terrified you’ll slip away, makes your heart flutter despite the ache in your chest. He’s here. Right now, he’s here, trying to make things right.

“I’ve been a fool,” he says softly, his lips brushing against your skin once more. “But I can’t lose you. Please, forgive me. Let me make it right.”

You close your eyes for a moment, letting his words wash over you, feeling the weight of everything between you two in that single breath. You want to believe him. You want to feel what he’s offering, but the fear of getting hurt again lingers.

But in that moment, with him so close, his presence surrounding you, your heart softens just enough to let him in. Your hands slide to the back of his neck, pulling him in for another kiss—one that’s slow and full of unspoken understanding.

The moment Tyler pulls back just enough to speak, you catch your breath, eyes locked with his as your heart races. His arm slips around your back, pulling you in even closer, his touch possessive but gentle. You feel the heat of his body against yours, the tension between you palpable.

“Jump,” he says, his voice low, urgent.

You hesitate for a brief second, the heat of the moment overwhelming you, but you do as he asks. Wrapping your legs around his waist, you hold on to him tightly. In one fluid motion, he lifts you effortlessly, his grip firm and confident, one hand on your back while the other moves down to your ass, helping to steady you. The way he holds you makes you feel small, protected, and undeniably wanted, and it makes your chest tighten with a mix of desire and something softer, something more vulnerable.

With ease, he carries you across the room, his steps steady as he approaches the bed. As he lays you down gently, you catch your breath again, your eyes meeting his in the dim light of the room. The weight of everything—the past few days, the uncertainty, the rawness of the moment—it all lingers in the air between you.

You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, but you don’t look away. “I’m still mad at you,” you say quietly, your voice steady despite the fluttering in your stomach.

Tyler’s gaze softens, and for a second, he doesn’t speak, just studies you with that same intensity that’s been there all along. “I know,” he says, his voice low, sincere.

Before you can respond, he leans back in, his lips capturing yours once again. This time, the kiss is different. It’s not just apologetic or desperate. It’s full of promises—unspoken words, a connection you’ve both been fighting to acknowledge. His lips are warm against yours, and you melt into it, losing yourself in the sensation, the depth of the emotion between you.

His hand moves to your face, brushing back a strand of hair as he deepens the kiss, each movement slow and deliberate. You can feel the weight of everything that’s been left unsaid pressing between you, but in this moment, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the now, the feeling of his body against yours, the way his hands move with intention, as if he’s trying to make up for everything he’s missed.

As the kiss deepens, Tyler’s hands begin to move with purpose, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. His fingers slide down your sides, brushing against the soft fabric of your t-shirt. You can feel the heat radiating off of him as his lips leave yours, trailing down to your jaw, then your neck, each kiss a quiet declaration.

His hands grip the bottom of your shirt, tugging it gently as his lips continue their descent, kissing along your collarbone, and then lower, just above your stomach. You can’t help but gasp softly at the sensation, your breath hitching as his lips move slowly, deliberately, pressing light kisses between the curve of your breasts.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers against your skin, his voice a low murmur, the words vibrating against your body like a promise. “God, you’re perfect.”

He pushes the fabric higher, inch by inch, his lips following the trail as if memorizing every inch of you. Your skin tingles under the heat of his kisses, and you feel the overwhelming pull of desire tighten in your chest. He moves with a careful, almost reverent pace, as though he’s savoring this moment with you, drawing it out.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he breathes against your skin, his hands now lifting your shirt higher, his eyes drinking in every curve, every movement of your body as he works it over your head, leaving you bare under his touch.

His lips trail upward, kissing you again—softer this time, but with just as much intensity as before. You feel his warmth, his presence, his need in every touch, every whispered word. His hands move gently over your body, as if reminding you that you’re not just wanted, you’re wanted deeply.

“Every inch of you is perfect,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice filled with the raw sincerity you’ve longed to hear.

You start to undo the buttons on Tyler’s flannel, your fingers brushing against his chest with each movement. His skin feels warm, a contrast to the cold air around you, but you’re too focused on him to notice anything else. His breath hitches slightly when you reach the last button, and he smirks, a playful glint in his eyes as you move your hands to tug it off his shoulders.

The moment the shirt falls to the floor, you reach for the white tank top underneath, eager to see more of him. Tyler leans back slightly, his lips curling into a smirk that melts away any hesitation you might have had. With a smooth motion, he lifts it over his head, revealing his bare torso to you. 

Your eyes immediately follow the muscles that line his chest and stomach, the way his abs ripple slightly with every breath, and the trail of dark hair leading downward.

You reach out without thinking, your fingers brushing over the dusting of hair on his chest. The connection feels electric, and you can’t help but marvel at the feel of him—his warmth, his strength, everything about him drawing you in. Your hands trail down, and you can feel the pulse in your fingertips as they brush the waistband of his jeans. Without hesitation, you reach for his belt, your fingers working quickly to undo it, your heart pounding louder with every moment.

Tyler’s eyes lock onto yours, and he watches you with an intensity that makes your stomach flutter. “You’re killing me, you know that, sweetheart?” he mutters, voice rough with desire.

His hands are at his sides, waiting, the energy between you both crackling with anticipation. The space between you both feels charged, and you can sense he’s just as eager to see where this moment takes you as you are.

You continue your movements, unbuckling his belt, slowly but steadily, until it’s free. The moment is slow, deliberate—your body aching to feel his against yours.

Tyler’s hands are gentle as he reaches for you again, his fingers brushing against your skin with an almost reverent touch. There’s no rush in the way he moves, only a quiet assurance that makes your heart race. His eyes lock with yours, searching for any sign of hesitation, but you only find warmth and something deeper—something that has been growing between you for days, for weeks, maybe even longer.

He slowly unclasps your bra, his touch light but firm, as if he’s giving you space to decide, to feel comfortable in this moment. As it slides off, you feel exposed, but not in a way that makes you want to retreat. Instead, you feel seen, truly seen, for the first time in a long while. Tyler’s gaze never wavers from yours as he guides your jeans down, his hands steady, but there’s a softness in them that matches the way his eyes soften when they meet yours.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice low and filled with something raw, something unspoken. His words hang in the air between you, and you find your breath catching in your throat. It’s not just the physicality of the moment that feels intimate, but the sincerity behind his words.

As he slides your jeans off, he pauses, his hands resting lightly on your bare skin. He lets out a soft sigh, not in impatience, but in awe of how everything feels so right.

When you’re left in nothing but your panties, Tyler takes a step back for a moment. He looks at you as though trying to commit every detail to memory, but there’s no judgment in his eyes, only admiration and something more—something tender that makes your heart flutter.

And when you look at him, really look at him, you see more than just the strong, muscular form in front of you. You see the man who’s been there for you, the one who makes you feel safe, cherished, and—maybe for the first time in a long while—truly desired.

Tyler’s fingers brush your cheek gently as he kneels in front of you. “You don’t have to rush this,” he whispers, his voice low and filled with understanding. “We take it one step at a time. Only if you’re ready.”

You take a breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle around you. There’s no more hesitation, no more uncertainty—just a quiet, steady confidence that you feel in your bones. As you look into Tyler’s eyes, the connection between you feels stronger than ever, a bond forged through everything you’ve been through together.

“I want you, Tyler,” you say, your voice steady, even though your heart is pounding in your chest.

A smile spreads across his face, tender and genuine. His eyes soften, and for a split second, you see something vulnerable there—a rawness that only you’ve seen. Without a word, he leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, a kiss that says everything you need to hear. He pulls back just slightly, his hand cupping your cheek.

Tyler takes a step back to finish undressing the rest of the way. His movements are deliberate but unhurried, as though savoring the moment. You watch him, your heart racing, your mind a whirlwind of thoughts, but in this moment, all that matters is him—his closeness, the way his presence fills the space between you.

He stands before you, bare and vulnerable, just like you, and there’s no shame, no fear. There’s just you and him, together in this quiet intimacy, and it feels like everything has finally clicked into place.

Tyler moves back to you, his hands gentle as he reaches for you once more. He pulls you closer, his body flush against yours, and the world outside seems to disappear, leaving only the two of you in this moment.

"I don't have a condom, sweetheart."

"I'm clean. And as long as you are, I don't mind. I'm on birth control."

"I'm clean, sweetheart."

As Tyler slowly moves closer, you feel the intensity between you, the emotions that are thick in the air. Everything about this moment feels different, more profound than anything you’ve experienced before.

When he finally slides inside of you, it’s not just physical—it’s as if everything aligns. The way his eyes never leave yours, the way he holds you with such tenderness, like he’s memorizing every curve of your body, every breath you take.

It feels like he’s giving you a piece of him—his vulnerability, his trust, his love. The connection between you two isn’t just about the act, but about something deeper, something you both crave. This is more than just sex. It’s making love, it’s the two of you sharing something raw, unspoken, and powerful.

The slow, deliberate rhythm between you two feels like it’s meant to last forever. His hands are gentle but firm, guiding you closer to him, pulling you into him with such care that it takes your breath away. Every movement, every soft kiss, every whisper in your ear—it’s all full of love. It’s like he’s telling you, without words, that he’s here, he’s not going anywhere, and that he wants you in every way possible.

You meet his gaze, your eyes locked, and you see everything in them. Desire. Affection. A deep, undeniable connection that’s been building between you for so long. When he looks at you like this, you feel seen. You feel cherished, loved, and completely accepted for who you are.

His lips brush against your forehead, soft and tender, as if to reassure you, and you lean into him, wrapping your arms around him, pulling him closer. You let yourself surrender to him, to the love he’s offering. It’s the most vulnerable, intimate thing you’ve ever done, and you can’t help but feel completely safe in his arms.

You know, in this moment, that nothing else matters but the two of you. And for once, you feel like you belong—fully, entirely—right here, with him.

As you and Tyler lay there in the aftermath, the room feels still, the air thick with the emotions that linger between you. You both lay in the warmth of each other’s arms, your bodies entwined under the sheets. He holds you close, his chest rising and falling steadily against your back, and you feel the rise and fall of his breath like a soothing rhythm, grounding you.

Tyler presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering there as he wraps his arm around you more tightly. 

His voice is low, tender, almost like a whisper, as he speaks, “I love you.” 

The words feel like a promise, like they’ve been waiting to be spoken for so long, and now they’re finally free.

You turn your head slightly, meeting his gaze as you settle into the comfort of his embrace. His eyes are full of vulnerability, and you can feel the rawness of everything he’s just shared with you. 

He continues, his voice thick with emotion, “I’ve been so caught up in helping Kate and trying to figure out this theory and experiment with her... but I never stopped thinking about you. I never stopped wanting you.”

You let out a shaky breath, feeling the weight of his honesty settle in your chest. “I didn’t know where I stood with you.” You admit in a whisper. “The way you’ve been spending so much time with her... I just couldn’t help but feel like I was losing you.”

Tyler gently tilts your chin up with his finger, guiding your face toward his as he presses a tender kiss to your lips, slow and full of reassurance. “You haven’t lost me,” he says, his voice thick with sincerity. “I've always been yours. You’re the only one I want, the only one I’ve ever wanted.”

A rush of warmth floods through you at his words, and you close your eyes, letting the vulnerability between you both fill the space. You nestle into him, your head resting on his chest. His hand moves gently through your hair as he continues, “I know I messed up, and I’m sorry. I should have been more open with you. You mean everything to me. Do you think you could ever give me a chance?”

Tears well up in your eyes as you hear him speak so honestly. You didn’t realize how much you needed to hear those words, how much you needed him to understand how deeply you cared.

You bury your face in his chest, your hands clutching his arm as you whisper back, “Don't mess it up, Tyler. Because I love you, Tyler. I really do...and I don't think I'd survive if you broke my heart.”

He squeezes you tighter, his arms enveloping you with a warmth that makes everything else feel small. “I love you too,” he whispers back, his voice rough with emotion. "And believe me, I've got no intentions of breaking your heart...just maybe changing your last name."

As you begin to drift off, the quiet hum of the room and the steady beat of Tyler’s heart fill the space between you. But then, he breaks the silence, his voice soft and warm as he speaks. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. You look up, meeting his gaze, and he’s studying you with a tenderness that makes your heart swell. “Would you… would you let me take you on a date?”

You smile at the thought, the idea of spending time with him in a peaceful setting, away from the chaos of the past few days, feeling comforting. 

“Somewhere nice and quiet,” he adds, as though reading your mind, his voice hopeful.

You nod, your heart fluttering at the thought of a simple, intimate evening with him. “I’d like that,” you reply, your voice soft but sure.

Tyler smiles in return, but then, his eyes fall to your face, his gaze focusing on the cut on your head that’s barely visible against your hair. His thumb gently brushes over it, a soft, tender motion. 

“What about this?” he asks quietly. “Are you okay?”

You meet his eyes again, and though the pain is there, it’s not overwhelming. You nod, brushing off the worry. “I’m a little sore, but I’ll be okay,” you assure him, reaching up to touch the place where he’d just brushed.

But Tyler doesn’t look convinced. He gently presses his hand against your cheek, his thumb still gently tracing the curve of your jaw. His voice drops a little, and you can hear the raw vulnerability in it. 

“I was so scared,” he admits, his words softer now, almost a confession. “I was so scared I was going to lose you. I’ve never been more scared in my life.”

The weight of his words hits you like a wave, and your breath catches in your throat. You can see the fear in his eyes, the way he holds you like you’re something fragile, something he never wants to let go of.

“I wasn’t sure what I was going to do if something happened to you,” he continues, his voice cracking slightly.

Your heart swells at his vulnerability, and you reach up to cup his face, your thumb grazing his cheek. “I’m right here,” you whisper, your voice firm yet filled with tenderness. "I'm okay."

Tyler closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling deeply, and you can feel the tension leave his body as he holds you a little tighter, like he’s trying to keep you as close as possible. “I don’t ever want to feel that way again,” he admits, his voice low, sincere. “I need you to know… you’re everything to me.”

You nod, your eyes welling up with emotion, and you lean up to press your lips to his, a soft kiss full of reassurance and affection. When you pull away, you rest your forehead against his, your breath mingling. “I love you, Tyler,” you say again, just to remind him, just to make sure he knows.

“I love you too,” he replies, his voice full of conviction. “I’ll keep reminding you every day for the rest of my life if that’s what it takes.”

You smile at that, feeling the sincerity in his words wash over you. The world outside may still be chaotic, but in this moment, with him holding you close, everything feels right. And spending the rest of your life with Tyler Owens doesn't sound too bad.

[deadsetobsessions]

Pt. 3

Again, the timing is icky but pretty much everything about it is icky.

——

Bruce wondered when Talia al Ghul would stop upheaving his life.

He loves Damian, but one surprise child was a lot, considering the cult deprogramming they’d had to do.

A second, older, surprise child? That was a bit overkill.

At least this time, the conception was consensual.

Bruce cradled his head in his hands, still-gloved fingers gripping onto sweat-soaked hair. The glow of the bat computer shone on his lone figure, sat huddled before endless screens of investigations and the unraveling threads of Bruce’s sanity.

How was he to cope with the knowledge that a child- his child, like Dick and Damian and Tim and Jason and- suffered so at the man he thought he had beaten so soundly?

It was his fault, Bruce thought, that Ra’s al Ghul tortured his… Bruce’s… daughter so brutally. It was no doubt, a way to assuage his anger at Bruce’s denial of being his heir.

His mistakes always came back to haunt him, but it never laid its furious eyes and hands on his own person. No, when Bruce made mistakes, his loved ones paid for it.

He tried his best, pushed harder as Batman, in penance. But this… his unknown daughter, trapped in the shadows of the league where it is cold and cruel and brutally painful…

How could he repent for the sin of letting his daughter suffer and chained at the hands of Ra’s al Ghul? How could he show her that the shadows could be kind? That he would rather break his own spine and get lost in the time stream again before he could even fathom hurting her? He found himself stuck in the same loop of thoughts that plagued him when Damian first came into his orbit.

The screens turned black, and Oracle’s call sign flashed onto the dark pixels.

“Oracle. I hadn’t finished looking at the cases.”

“Go to sleep, Bruce.”

“No, there is still work to be-” his voice, dipping into the growl, died a quick death when Barbara cut him off.

“Your daughter is coming tomorrow. So, unless you want to look like a disheveled grease racoon when you meet her, go shower and get some actual sleep.”

Bruce paused, feeling oddly offended. His eye bags weren’t that bad.

Bruce caught sight of his reflection in one of the blacked out monitors.

…Nevermind.

He sighed. “…Thank you, Barbara.”

“Anytime, Bruce. I’m always here to kick your ass into gear.”

Bruce huffed, but obligingly got up to change and shower. Alfred silently appeared at the elevators, polished shoes tapping against the stone floor as he raised an imperious eyebrow at Bruce.

“I see Miss Barbara has managed to persuade you to retire at an hour common to regular man, Master Bruce.”

“Ah, yes, she… did.” Bruce felt the urge to apologize, because if Alfred’s up because of him, it’ll wear down harsher on the older man’s health. If there was one thing he took seriously, it would be the health of his loved ones. “Sorry, Alfred. I’ll head up to bed soon.”

“See to it that you do, Master Bruce. I will warm dinner that you had missed by many hours and bring it to your room.”

Bruce lingered as the butler turned around and began making his way back to the main house.

Alfred paused and turned around once more. “If I may offer you some advice?”

“Please. Always.”

Alfred sniffed delicately, most definitely thinking of the times Bruce decided not to take his very well reasoned and seasoned advice. “You have done well with Young Master Damian.”

“Most of that was Dick,” Bruce interrupted, man enough to admit that he wasn’t a present or a particularly good father figure before his jaunt through time and space. Alfred shot him a chiding look, reprimanding him for interrupting. Bruce rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Perhaps, but you have put in effort towards all of your children in a way that I have yet to see since Master Jason had… gone.”

“I’ll never make that period of time up to Tim.” Bruce whispered. Another thing he was guilty of. Tim still avoided some spaces in the manor, even when Bruce had-

“That is because you sit here, wallowing in your guilt,” Alfred returned. He added a belated “Master Bruce,” and it sounded like ‘you utter buffoon.’

“But…”

“You must take the first step, Master Bruce.”

“What if she hates me? What if I’m not ready- what if I can’t help her?”

“You will try. She deserves that, at the very least. You must try. Even if you are not ready for the day, Master Bruce, it can not always be night.”

“… You’re right.” Bruce straightened his shoulders. Time doesn’t wait. He, of all people, knew that.

“You will find that I am hardly ever wrong.” Alfred primly rested his hands atop each other.

“Thank you, Alfred.”

“Of course. It was also meant literally, Master Bruce, for the sun shall try its best to peek out of Gotham’s smog in approximately three hours and fourteen minutes.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Bruce grouched.

——

Her mother gave her a slow, cautious hug, akin to approaching a wild animal.

She huffed, and pulled her mother into a crushing hug. She allowed herself, for the first time in a long time, to linger and cling onto her mother’s shirt. Another tendency that Ra’s had thought he’d beaten out of her.

“Be careful,” the reincarnation whispered.

“You as well, my beloved daughter.”

‘You do not have to remind me that I am beloved, mother. I know.’

Talia al Ghul tucked a strand of the reincarnation’s curled hair behind her ear. “No, I do not believe that you do. But that is… my own fault. I will tell you and remind you that you are beloved to me as long as I can. I have two decades of it to make up to you, habibti.”

The flight attendant- a League operative- returned from placing her bags onto the private plane.

——

A sleek car made its way up Wayne Manor’s winding driveway. She’d declined the offer to pick her up from the airport. She had wanted a vehicle of her own, and some time before she met every one else. No doubt, knowing what she knew of her brother and Bruce Wayne, not to mention the little photographer, they were most likely tracing her path to Wayne manor obsessively.

She tapped her nails on the wheel as she drove towards her brother. Brothers. And… Bruce Wayne. On one hand, she’s kept them safe. On the other, she’d sacrificed years of getting to know them. It was odd, to feel this intensely awkward and nervous after years of intense hatred or apathy sprinkled by the the occasional love and fondness for Damian and her mother.

“Hmmm.” She hummed, slight smile spreading a bit more as the sound came out without pain. Two weeks, and the novelty of freedom had not worn off. She thinks that it would never wear off. She cherished it.

The gate had opened without needing a code, so they most definitely knew she was here. It’s a good thing she had prepared gifts in advance. Dodging Gothamites as they drove and jaywalked had been a rather unforeseen ordeal that she was not looking forward to repeating.

She rolled to a smooth stop at the front doors, giving the intricately carved oak doors a passing glance. She huffed a laugh as she saw Damian, flanked by Bruce Wayne and Alfred Pennyworth, staring proudly outside at the front door. They’re anticipatory of her arrival. Warmth spread through her heart, and for the first time in a long while, it wasn’t the heat of rage.

She opened the doors with a quiet click and hiss, stepping out onto the heated paved driveway, and closed the door. At the steps, the two older men had frozen but Damian had come walking quickly towards her.

“Damian,” she whispered as he came near her, suffusing as much fondness as she could into his name. Her little brother all but sprinted towards her, screeching to a stop in front of her with excited eyes.

“Welcome to Wayne Manor, ukhti.” He said formally. Her eyes softened and she pulled him into a hug.

(yā waṭawāṭī alṣṣḡīr is the phonetic spelling.) ("وطواطي الصغير" is the actual spelling. I think.)

“I have missed you, ya wat-wat alssgirr,” she whispered. The familiar endearment, “my little bat,” rung warmly like a warm crease ruffling his hair. The silks of her clothes and the ever present warm sand and candle scent wrapped around him like a hug… like the hug she was currently giving him.

(Her clothes were in blues and silvers. It suited her, she who had been forced in green and golds and cuts of black.)

“I still can not believe you all but told me who father was and I still could not figure it out until mother told me.”

She pulled back. ‘Damian, you were five.’

“I have little doubt you were smarter at my age, ukhti, so do not lie to me.” Damian grumbled. Nevertheless, he stepped back.

‘No, you were smarter.’

And to her, he was. It’s not like Damian had the edge she did, and he wasn’t the one trapped for twenty something years. She had foolishly thought that Ra’s wouldn’t dare to harm her too much, seeing as she was his blood, but Damian knew from day 1. She made sure he did. If she was half as smart as Damian, she would have bent her knee and obeyed, no matter how she felt about killing. She would have taken warning Ra’s issued and soaked in the poisonous praise to bide her time to escape. She could not- she did not- do what Damian found effortless, and paid the price for it.

“Unlikely,” Damian said, turning around fully, but she could see the tips of her brother’s ears burning. Ah, perhaps she had been to stingy with compliments if he was shy hearing a mild one, sincere as it might have been. “This is Alfred Pennyworth. He is the butler, and an integral part of the family.”

Damian glanced at her, taking in her suddenly impassive face, and nods. Good. His attitude towards Pennyworth when he first arrived was… mildly shameful. His ukhti was smart enough to know that and therefore he won the argument.

On her part, the reincarnation followed along like she hadn’t mildly stalked this family for decades. It was nice to see excitement rearing on her brother’s face. It was rare in the league and Gotham’s gloom had ironically cheered him up far more than the suns of desserts ever did. She nodded at Alfred Pennyworth, who had admirably recovered from his earlier shock.

“And this is… Bruce Wayne. Our father.”

She tucked a strand of curled hair back, impassive blue eyes meeting her… father’s.

She offered him a short nod.

——

“My word,” Alfred Pennyworth muttered as his charge’s (his son’s) daughter step out of the car. Her steps were silent, graceful, and lighter than a gazelle.

The way she moved, even as she hugged young master Damian, whispered of leashed lethality and treacherous waters. She moved like if grace had a form and Alfred was willing to bet his entire career that not an iota of air got close to her without her knowledge of it, and it reminded the aging man of the young Miss Cassandra. He knew then, that she could have pretended to be unassuming and that he would have had a hard time equating her with danger. That she showed them her potential for death was a sign of trust.

But it was not the way she claimed death as her own name that caught the former spy’s attention.

No.

It was her blue eyes and the way they ever so slightly crinkled fondly as she laid eyes upon her younger brother. It was the way her hair, curled in a nostalgic style, that curtained her face as she spoke to the young Wayne heir, though he could not hear her voice. It was the way that she tucked Damian against her side, protective but encouraging.

It was the way that she, despite Talia al Ghul’s features, resembled his dearest friend, Martha Wayne, in her every movement.

Alfred Pennyworth felt like he was decades younger, standing before Martha as she fondly tucked Bruce against her side and successfully needled Thomas into going to see Bruce’s favorite movie.

It felt like he had his best friend once more, just a little.

From the way Master Bruce stared, it seemed as though he thought the same.

Alfred straightened when young master Damian introduced him. He was the Wayne Family Butler. And she was definitely a Wayne.

Master Bruce stood there like a lout as his daughter greeted him. Alfred shot him a scathing look- he had taught Master Bruce much better manners than to gape, the nerve!- before smoothly directing the attention away. His hands moved as he spoke.

“Welcome to Wayne Manor, Miss-”

She made a sharp motion to cut him off and signed something. Alfred might be a tad rusty in Arabic sign language (like he and the rest of the family hadn’t spent the last two weeks frantically memorizing and brushing up on their sign language) but he knew a name sign when he saw one.

“al Ghul.” Damian recognized. He did not use regular Arabic Sign Language with her often, vastly preferring their own established sign, but that did not mean he slacked. “You may call her al-Ghul.”

‘Or nothing at all,’ Damian’s sister signed. She looked at him like she was waiting. A test, Alfred realized.

Alfred pushed the slight twinge of disheartening disappointment away. He had wanted to call her Miss Wayne, to perhaps indulge in a bit of nostalgia for a while longer. But he shan’t do it at the expense of his charge.

“Miss al Ghul,” he continued, not missing a beat, imitating the name sign with pin point accuracy. She lifted her chin. Alfred sighed in relief. He passed. And now, perhaps he should revive Ra’s al Ghul and have a nice, entirely civil conversation about Miss al Ghul’s expectation that her wishes would go ignored.

Alfred will bring his shotguns and most likely would abandon pretenses as soon as that old goat got into his crosshairs. Old as he might be, he was still a very good shot, and civility was reserved for those with honor.

“Please head inside. I am sure young master Damian would love to guide you on a tour,” Alfred continued like he didn’t think of violent second deaths for Ra’s al Ghul. “Perhaps Master Bruce will join you, if you are amendable, once he has managed to stop imitating the rather life like form of a smooth brained sloth.”

Alfred congratulated himself on the small crinkle of humor that graced Miss al Ghul’s otherwise expressionless face. Well, expressionless to those that did not know where to look. Fortunately, Alfred and the rest of the family were used to stoic caveman micro expressions, courtesy of Bruce, and therefore it would not be much of a problem.

“I will bring your bags up to your room.”

She scrutinized him and then dipped her head.

‘Be careful. There are dangerous things in there.’

“I assure you the utmost privacy in regards to your belongings,” Alfred said.

“Pennyworth will not peruse your belongings, ukhti. He has more honor and respect than that.”

Alfred would like to interrogate Talia al Ghul to see who he must introduce some lead to, that clearly disrespected Miss al Ghul’s privacy like so. But for now, he will bask in the warmth of young master Damian’s implicit trust.

Miss al Ghul nodded. She opened the trunk of the car- the interior of which Alfred could now perceive to be entirely customized and of extremely quality material. She handed the keys and gave him access to her luggage. Then, placing her hand at young master Damian’s shoulder, followed the young master into the halls where she ought to have been raised. Or, at the very least, ought to have taken a step in at least once before today.

Master Bruce lingered at the doorway, torn between following the siblings and helping Alfred with the luggage (read: running away.)

“The daylight is wasting, Master Bruce.”

Master Bruce skittered in behind them like a newborn colt, wobbling and anxious.

Well, it’s time for Alfred to do his job. There was only a single duffle bag.

Hm. He’ll have to tell Master Bruce to take her out for necessities. He hardly doubted that a single bag could last her very long. And Alfred Pennyworth was hellbent on convincing his granddaughter to stay, may the gods have mercy on whichever poor soul that tried to convince her otherwise for he won’t.

——

She followed Damian as he led her deeper within the walls of a home she knew by heart from afar. She was like the little photographer in that way. Bruce Wayne trailed behind them like a particularly awkward ghoul, and she found it amusing to equate this turtle necked man was the illustrious Dark Knight. How dangerous.

“This is the first parlor. It is for guests of the… regular persuasion.”

Ah, for the civilians. She nodded.

“Ah, the silverware was selected by Alfred.” Bruce interjected, gesturing to the display silverware by the door. Their cabinets were intricate without taking away from the paintings upon the delicate ceramic.

She looked at him, wondering why he was following before giving up and nodding. It was his house.

(Bruce, for his part, felt like his daughter had laid judgement upon him… and found him lacking.)

‘It is… adequate.’ She sighed to Damian. Damian tutted.

“It’s fine to say quaint, sister. It could hardly compare to the palace.”

Bruce jolted, plans for converting the manor into a palace already in the making.

No, he couldn’t. Alfred would murder him with his favorite dish.

‘I like it, even if it is smaller.’

“….you do?”

‘You are happy here. It is warm to you. I like it.’ She repeated.

Damian latched onto her sleeve. “I- I shall show you my art. And then introduce you to the rest of the bumbling fools we have for brothers-”

She tilted her head. Bruce paused as well when Damian’s words cut off.

“If… you want them as brothers. It would be… helpful, to integrate.”

She waited.

“But… I am the first. Your blood. And-”

‘I will make room in my heart for them, if you wish it. I already know some of them.’ She allowed a small smile to show. ‘But that does not mean you will ever lose your place, little bat.’

Damian felt extremely thankful that father had not managed to pick up their version of sign language yet.

“Well… as long as you’re aware.” He marched further into the manor. She followed, once more, a look of fond indulgence gleaming in her eyes.

——

She stood in front of a painting her younger brother had done.

‘I made it two weeks ago,’ he’d told her, fingers curled into her palm.

It was green. She hated green. And gold. And ominous. Rage. Harsh, bold strokes and spots where the texture of the canvas were either globbed over or painfully showing through.

Her hands traced the single stroke of blue amidst the turbulence of green.

She tucked Damian against her side and realized that perhaps he understood after all, what it felt like. Perhaps not all of it, but enough.

——

“Here is your room, ukhti.” Damian stood watch as his sister scanned the room. She quickly removed three listening devices as Damian sighed.

‘You’ve gotten better.’ She crossed the room and plucked the listening bug from its place on the door frame.

“Clearly not good enough.” Damian huffed. “But I have beaten your knife game record. What do you think of the room?”

His sister rolled her eyes and handed him a blade she pulled from somewhere on her person.

An implicit challenge.

“No cutting your fingers off, please.” Father interceded.

“Begone, father. We are doing sibling bonding, something I remember you insisting that I participate in.”

Damian shut the door on his stupefied face, matching his sister’s sharp smirk as he splayed his hand on the dresser and raised the blade.

——

Alfred walked in with a covered plate and paused at the sight of the dresser.

Then, he looked on as Damian sat at the desk, rapidly signing to his sister in their own version of the language as said sister pulled out an entire wardrobe and a half to fill in the walk-in closet.

Alfred made a note to study some more magic.

“Miss al-Ghul. I bring you a snack that young master Damian made and to inform you that the others will be arrive en masse, within an hour.” Alfred paused. “Might I interest you in a mat before the two of you decide to… take a gander at furniture redecoration in the future?”

“Of course, Pennyworth. Apologies.”

“I’ll try to make sure they won’t overwhelm you. They can be a lot, at once.” Bruce said from the doorway. Miss al Ghul glanced at him and dipped her head in thanks. Her eyes wandered right back to the dessert.

Alfred made another note.

‘You made this for me?’ She asked, switching to standard.

Damian grumbled. “Do not eat it. I could not get the spice quite right, no matter how many variations…”

‘I am sure it will be good.’ She took the plate from Alfred’s hand and uncovered it.

They all had the fortune of witnessing a true, genuine wide eyed smile from a stoic face.

Alfred inhaled sharply. He had thought Master Bruce and young master Damian had inherited Thomas’ dimples. But she had inherited his entire smile.

‘Bstilla!’ She turned to Damian. ‘My favorite! You made this?’

“I know that. I am not incompetent as to not notice when you snuck three of them from the palace kitchens. You must give me the recipe from the cooks. I could not get it to taste like the spices they used. I even imported spices!”

Miss al-Ghul, like she had forgotten he and Master Bruce were there, stabbed a fork into the pie and put it into her mouth.

“Ukhti! Don’t- do not eat that! Spit it out! The pastry is too thick and-”

She held up her hand. ‘It’s good. I know what it is missing.’

She strode to her magic bag and pulled out a bottle.

She sprinkled flakes on top and offered a forkful of b’stilla to the young master who, shockingly, did not insist on his own utensil.

His expression lightened. “This is it. What is it? You know of the chefs’ methods?”

She sprinkled the mysterious spice on the food. ‘You’ve never eaten anything the chefs have made. I made your food by hand to prevent assassinations and inoculate you against toxins. Also, this is poison.’

Alfred stiffened.

“It’s what?!” Bruce spoke up, rushing into the room, finally to try and look Damian over.

‘It is fine. He has been immune since he was three.’

Miss al Ghul placed a piece of poisoned b’stilla in her mouth and ate. Young master Damian batted his father off, saying that poison inoculation was hardly a surprise. What was a surprise, though, was something else.

“That is- you- you’re the one who made my meals?” Young Master Damian demanded, looking guilty. “But- I- why did you not tell me? I made all of those demands in the middle of the night- what about the time I sent back the knafe fifteen times?”

She nodded.

“Why would you- why did you not tell me?”

‘You knew what grandfather thought of women. And besides, it was the only time I was allowed sweets. He did not want me to ruin my figure as it would lower my marketability.’

Alfred itched for his gun.

“You are not a commodity,” Master Bruce stated, intense as he tended to be. Miss al Ghul blinked at him.

‘… I am aware. But… thank you.’

“Ah. Yes. Of course.” And there went the emotionally intelligent Master Bruce. May he rest in peace until the next time he decides to make an appearance.

“I believe today is a chocolate chip cookie day, do you not, young master Damian?”

“Yes, Pennyworth, I believe it is.”

‘I have never tried it before.’

“You will love it. Pennyworth’s cookies are the best in the world, as is expected.”

Alfred watched as young master Damian tugged his sister out and marveled. The sides of his grandson they rarely get to see was so easily pulled out by his older sister.

——

Y’all I wanted to write her meeting the siblings but Alfred came out of no where and went haha nope feel the angst of a man who lost his best friend and had to raise her vigilante child.

Alfred, seeing Bruce put on the bat cowl for the first time: martha, why have you forsaken me

——

Me: what would baby assassins play as a binding game?

Me, remembering my past as a kid: I Spy, but with trackers and bugs. oh wait… THE KNIFE GOES CHOP CHOP CHOP

——

Also, I think B’stilla was food meant only for royalty and was probably rooted in slavery, so I thought it would be a meaningful nod to her position of privilege and how she are like a king but was treated as a… bed warmer and a slave. Yeah. If anyone knowledgeable on food history wants to school me on b’stilla, feel free to do so. I did like, a cursory research at best.

[skelliko]

๑-context: a summer activitie with them

๑-featuring: kazutora, chifuyu, Baji, Mikey, inui, shinichiro, Kokonoi, Rindou, ran, mitsuya,

°- kazutora hanemiya

• exploring abandoned places and going so far out into the city, climbing over fences just to get into the buildings and running from the police or other pedestrians that had caught you trespassing in someone else's property even though it's not like you both are doing anything harmful there. your just enjoying each others company whilst getting excitement in exploring new places that may be even a little dangerous but what's a little fun if you don't 'ball it'

°- chifuyu matsuno

• making hand made jewelry is a cute activity, you had to teach chifuyu how to tie the string right otherwise it'd come loose but after he got the jist of it y'all were making many sets of matching bracelets that you wear all the time in different colours and patterns. though sometimes it gets frustrating when it comes to tying the string and you can't seem to get the loop right or when your fingers accidentally let go of one side of the string and then all the beads fall downwards and both of you end up crawling on the floor trying to recollect every lose bead, but that doesn't happen often.

°- Baji Keisuke

• forest walks, not all the time but sometimes he'd suggest wandering around a forest, picking up weird shaped branches to show you, finding a bug on a leaf and if you don't like bugs then he'd be a nuisance about it and chase you around with the it. but if you have a heart with bugs then hed look around trying to find the coolest looking one specifically to show/give you and he'd dedicate to it even if he does occasionally get a little grossed out by them.

°- manjiro sano/ mikey

• constant motorbike rides! if you have your own motorbike then the both of you will be riding till you reach the end of earth and seeing which one can out do the other. but if you don't then you'd be latched on at the back of his bike and going with the flow of the wind to cool off from the heat. mikey would also try teaching you how to ride a motorbike, he's more patient with you than anyone else so you can take your time with taking in the information so that you know how to switch gears and dont attempt in going through a wall.

°- Inui seishu / shinichiro sano (I couldn't decide)

• due to him being in the bike shop and working on fixing some motorbikes here and there, there'd be trips to visit him holding a sweet, cold treat to give him on his lunch breaks. though when you're teasing him a little too much he'd purposely smear his oil grease stained fingers across your skin to leave a large, black mark and it'd cause a small fit of smiles and laughter but also some small annoyance on your side as you have to scrub the mark off from you by the sink.

°- Kokonoi hajime

• perfect time and weather to go visit new towns and enjoy the beautiful scenery that neither of you thought you could see until now. browsing into small business shops that you haven't seen/been into before and if something catches your eyes that you'd die for to have then Koko would buy it for you in a heartbeat because seeing you smile with light in your eyes at an item makes him want to keep you in that gleaming mood.

°- rindou haitani

• spontaneous night outs where you start the night to be all cozy watching a series with a tub of ice cream to then be all dressed up and sparkly after one text or phone call from rindou mentioning a club is doing a certain theme. the both of you may seem to be there for the party but actually it's the attention you both bring, getting all dressed up is the fun part and most of the time you do it together and have matching outfits or accessories, give everyone around a sight to see and only then do you give your all with the drinks and dancing.

°- ran haitani

• constant need to be in the pool or anywhere that has water, especially on hot boiling days when a 5 minute walk would feel like 5 hours. in the day you'd usually go to an outside pool and enjoy yourselves and then at night you'd have to pamper him since he's still affected from the heat, he has no tolerance. you tend to go to public ones but only those that you know are clean and have decency of others, essentially public pools that kids don't go to.

°- mitsuya takashi

• summer is the perfect time for him to work on summer clothes and you always happen to be his muse meaning you're the one who he always dots down your measurements and your always the one that tries the clothes on and half the time you tend to keep the clothing. if you wear dresses then sun dresses are always something that he enjoys sowing for you, you spinning around as the dress flows and spins with you, he doesn't make those basic ones but rather he puts in a lot of detail just for you, making it adorable and flattering. but if you don't wear dresses or such clothing then he always considers what kind of material he uses, that way for the hot days your not melting and instead you feel more free and feel a breeze.

 ♡----

[storiesofsvu]

Decadent Desires Ch 19

Emily Prentiss x reader warnings: language, alcohol consumption, the usual denial of feelings. It's all coming together now! Only a couple of more chapters to go! I'm super curious to how y'all think things are gonna go down and exactly when the oh moment really will be/what's gonna make them both admit it to themselves.

3.8k

Emily was a little later than she thought she would be, barely making it before breakfast hours ended but the important thing was that she got the food and she made it to your place and wasn’t whisked away by any phone calls. Securing the bag and drink tray she made it through the halls of your building until she was outside your door, knocking on it the best she could with her elbow. It took a couple of minutes, she could hear some shuffling gong on inside, but you finally pulled the door open, your head titling at the sight of her.

“Hey.” She greeted with a warm smile.

“Hey…” you replied, a tiny laugh coming from your mouth, “what’re you doing here?”

“I promised I’d bring brunch.” She held up the bag, “well, lazy brunch.” She surveyed you for a minute, watching the gears turning behind your eyes and it was her turn to laugh. “Oh my god, you really are out of it. Jetlag gets you that bad? I thought you travelled for work?”

“Not often.” You admitted, feeling the heat creeping into your cheeks as you fully remembered the conversation in her office, “and it’s only ever like, a two hour time difference.” You stepped back, letting her into the house and raising your hands to take the tray and bag from her so she could get rid of her shoes and coat.

“You really forgot I was coming?” She asked, swiping the bag back from you and following you into the living room.

“Figured you were off on a case.” You shrugged, dropping back down onto the couch, fiddling with the remote to turn the volume down as you burrowed yourself under the blanket you’d been under before the bell rang. “I’m glad you weren’t though…. I’ve been doom scrolling through three different apps trying to decide what to get delivered for hours without a single thought in my head on what I could possibly want.”

“Well, enjoy some delicious grease then.” Emily suggested with a smile, pulling what she wanted from the bag before handing it over to you.

“Thank you. Seriously.” You eagerly searched through it, pulling out a McMuffin and a hashbrown, your stomach loudly growling. “Would’ve wasted away to nothing without it.”

Emily laughed softly, watching the intricate way you inspected the ingredients of the sandwich, adding both ketchup and hot sauce into it before slipping a hashbrown next to the egg and putting it all back together. You let out a very appreciative groan after your first bite and silently gave her a very thankful look that she didn’t need words to transcribe.  

“I’ve never tried that.”

“Oh my god it’s the best.” You mumbled over a bite of food, swallowing it down “especially when the hashbrown’s extra crispy like this.”

“Guess it’s a good thing I got extras.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a true angel?” You asked and she laughed.

“Not often.”

“Well you are.” You leant in, kissing her cheek gently, “thank you.”

“Of course.” She squeezed at your knee, “I bailed on an arranged date, I had to make it up to you.” She gestured toward the tv, “now, what’re we watching?”

“Real Housewives. LA I think?” You shifted over to your right, nestling into the corner of the couch, your legs extending onto the longer part of the sectional as you adjusted the blanket. “It’s my brain rot show, I can never keep the cities straight. Now c’mon.” You waved her over to you, “make yourself at home, get comfy and put your feet up.”

Emily laughed softly, easily sliding in beside you as you pulled down another blanket to make sure there was enough for both of you. The sectional was wide, the extended portion more than spacious enough for you to both use it without being right up against each other. Not that that mattered, once breakfast was eaten and you just had coffee to sip on (you didn’t miss that Emily skipped coffee at McDonald’s, opting for a local shop a couple of blocks from your place so she could get your preferred seasonal blend) you were nestled right into Emily’s side. Her arm instinctively looped over your shoulders, encouraging you to lean into her. If you squinted hard enough and it wasn’t for the blustery weather outside the windows, it was like you were back on vacation.

With the television playing on, it didn’t take very long before you were drifting off, Emily managing to snag your almost empty coffee cup before the remnants split all over your couch. She was more than happy to let you snooze against her, your heart beat calm, thudding against her own rib cage and eventually lulling her to sleep too. Either one or both of you would wake up occasionally throughout the afternoon, sometimes shifting because of a cramped shoulder or foot, others because your bladder was screaming or because you desperately needed some hydration. The channel got changed a couple of times, flicking between a few options so you weren’t totally sucked into one overdramatic mess of somewhat real reality tv. Otherwise the two of you returned to your little corner of the couch, burying deep into each other’s arms with happy sighs and content little smiles. There wasn’t much of a better way to spend a Sunday.

At one point you woke up with a small yawn, rolling in Emily’s lap toward the arm of the couch to go back to sleep when a piece of your hair suddenly yanked. You thought it must’ve just been caught under your shoulder or her arm, it had been lose earlier, but Emily made a small noise.

“Sorry…” She winced and when you rolled your head back to look up at her she had a sheepish grin on her face and the ends of half your hair in her hands. “I got fidgety, needed something to occupy my hands.”

You let out a small laugh, carefully shifting so you were sitting at a better angle for her to continue the braid, “I, uh.. kinda wanted to ask if you would do it anyways but I thought that might we weird or something.”

“Not weird at all.” She assured, “as long as you waking up to some weirdo braiding your hair wasn’t weird.”

“You’re not a weirdo. If I woke up to Tony doing it, I’d kick him out.” Your body relaxed into her legs, “and.. for the sake of you not doing it, undoing it and doing it over a million times, the pink basket under the table has fidget toys.”

“You have a collection?” She asked, genuinely curious.

“Heather started buying them for me because I kept fidgeting with and breaking her super fancy expensive pens.” You explained and she laughed, “and I’m not allowed to have clicky pens at important meetings anymore.”

“Such a strict boss.” She teased, her fingers softly tickling at the back of your neck, pulling a shiver from you before she dug around for an elastic to finish the first braid.

The afternoon continued much like the morning had, half watching shows, mild chit chat, cuddling and dozing as the skies turned grey and the rain started. The next time you woke up the sun was completely gone from the sky and the side Emily had been pressed into was cold. You were going to just wait a minute, let your brain realize what you were even watching when you heard the tell tale sounds of your pantry drawers being slid open and shut. With a yawn, you pushed up to sitting, looking into the kitchen over the back of the couch.

“Hungry?” You asked and Emily nearly jumped, letting out a small laugh as she stilled.

“Me? Your stomach was making volcano noises so loud I’m surprised you didn’t wake yourself up.”

“We can just order.” You offered and she waved you off.

“Nah. I think I’ve got everything I need I was just looking for your spices.”

“Small cupboard, top right by the stove.” You replied, watching for a minute as she pulled it open and plucked through them, picking out a couple.

Curiosity got the best of you and you stretched out your limbs, a few of them cracking, achy muscles finally feeling relief as you moved off the couch and padded into the kitchen. Your arm snagged around Emily’s waist and you pressed a soft kiss into her shoulder.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime, and hey, we were both hungry and you were asleep. I figured the best thing I could do was snoop.”

“You want wine?” You asked.

“Please.”

Moving seamless through the room around each other you pulled down a couple of glasses, grabbing a handful of ice from the freezer for her glass before you popped a bottle of white, filling one up and sliding it over to her. You opted for red yourself, sliding the white into the fridge and the malbec back into the wine rack before you hoisted yourself up onto the corner of the counter. A happy hum left your lips when you took your first sip of wine, your body relaxing as you watched Emily move through the kitchen.

Every so often she had to ask you where a specific pan or utensil was but otherwise she had everything covered. She would never say that she was a particular whiz in the kitchen, but she could get a pretty good handle down on things, alter recipes to simplify them to what was on hand and go from there. The television was still going in the background, giving some background noise to the experience when the two of you weren’t talking.

You watched with a small smile as Emily popped two butterflied chicken breasts, coated with shake and bake into the oven. She turned back to the island, where she had pulled out all her supplies so she wouldn’t forget anything, glancing through them until she found the jar of pasta sauce.

“You have garlic?” She asked, raising a brow toward you, breaking herself out of her zone. She caught you half staring at her, hiding behind the rim of your glass and instantly felt the heat creeping up the back of her neck.

“Yeah.” You smiled, “powder’s in the spice cupboard, fresh is on top of the microwave.”

She chose the fresh garlic, swiftly crushing it and doing her best at mincing it up before tossing into a pan with some onion and oil.

“You want a hand?” You asked and with an almost shy smile she shook her head.

“Nah. I’m cooking for you; you just sit there and look pretty.”

“The hardest job of them all.” You mocked, a small laugh escaping your lips and Emily felt the blush creeping into her cheeks again.

Twenty minutes later and she was plating up a semi makeshift chicken parm for the two of you, spices added into the jarred sauce, and working with whatever cheese was in your fridge, but it smelt and looked delicious. You refilled both of your wine glasses, settling at the island to eat, groaning over how tasty it was. You teased Emily for never having cooked for you before, saying she was locked in and trapped now. She laughed, a glittering in her eye as she glanced over to you, a warmth blooming through her chest at the way you were looking at her.

Since Emily had cooked you ushered her away when she tried to help with the dishes, filling up her wine glass once more and pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. With the kitchen clean, you flicked the overhead light off, scooping up your wine glass as you crossed back to the living room.

“Think you’ve got a movie in you?” You asked, noticing the way she was flicking through options on the screen.

“Yeah.” She looked up to you, shifting your preferred blanket out of your way so you could take your place beside her on the couch. “Figured I’ve got at least that much left before bed.”

“Did you want to stay?” You asked, tucking yourself under the blanket and nuzzling into her side.

Her scrolling through the app paused momentarily before it continued, “yeah. If that’s okay.”

“It’s perfect.”

**

Tony had been relentlessly bugging you for lunch, dinner, coffee, any kind of hangout since discovering you in Emily’s office. Knowing that he was likely going to press into things you didn’t really want to get into in public you’d finally said that as long as he brought takeout and a bottle of wine he could come over Thursday night. You’d picked through dinner at the kitchen island while you caught up, Tony surprisingly holding back while he listened about your vacation (that you held back plenty of details on) and he took some time to vent about the current NCIS/BAU case that was still open and struggling to move anywhere.

Eventually you dragged him and a fresh bottle of wine upstairs. All of the shopping trips over the past few months had your closets overflowing a bit too much for you liking and you wanted to get a head start on some spring cleaning. Your attention was mainly on pulling things out of your closet as Tony poked around your room as per usual.

“You know, if you know any FBI secrets, you should probably let me in on them.” He started, “I am an agent of the law after all.”

You nearly snorted, rolling your eyes and continued to ignore him.

“I mean, at the very least, should I think about switching departments? You think an SSA gets a better paycheque than us?  I could probably put in for a pretty smooth transfer after this case closes…”

“You’d never do that to Gibbs.” You interrupted, breaking off his train of rambling, “and Emily has family money, the job didn’t make her rich.”

Tony had been your friend for long enough that he didn’t need to be a profiler, hell he didn’t even need to be a special agent to pick up on the way your eyes lit up when you said Emily’s name. How you couldn’t seem to control your smile when you told him stories about the Maldives with a far off look in your eyes that you didn’t even register yourself. He wanted to know more, he wanted to know everything, but he knew you weren’t just going to share it all at the drop of a hat, when it came to things like this, and planting the seeds he wanted to, he had to tread carefully. Even if the seeds had already been growing for weeks already.

“So..” he leant back into an armchair, crossing his arms behind his head, “tell me more about Emily.”

You cast him a look over your shoulder as you tossed another dress into the donation pile, “I already told you; we enjoy our time together. I’ve expanded my repertoire of fancy restaurants in DC, could probably compile a list for you. You want it in order of cost, food quality or first date to proposal?”

“Please,” he teasingly scoffed, “the food is the last thing I’m interested to hear about from your dates.”

“You know I don’t kiss and tell Tony.” You threw a balled up shirt at his face, “especially considering she’s currently your co-commanding officer. I don’t need you looking at her and knowing what she’s into, gross.”

“As entertaining as that might be…” he straightened out the shirt, folding it before adding it to the donation pile, “I was more curious about the other side of things. I mean… this is the longest you’ve been with someone in a few years.”

He caught the way your hands faltered, the dress in your hands nearly slipping off the hanger before you caught yourself, straightening it to return into the closet.

“Trust me, it’s not like that.” Laughing, you turned back to him, hands crossed over your chest, “She paid nearly sixty thousand for that vacation and that’s if the all inclusive comment was true and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t. Then she tried to pay me on top of that for my time. I’m basically an over qualified sex worker.”

“As a member of law enforcement, I can confirm that you aren’t.” He replied, his hand reaching out as he started to fiddle with the jewelry stand on your dresser, “and if you were, the woman running an entire unit of the FBI wouldn’t be so happily enjoying it. It would be all secrets, dark hotel rooms and NDA’s.”

“Tony, lay off it.” You replied with a huff, turning back to your closet, “I already told you; I don’t have time to date.”

“You spent Sunday night with her,” he offered, “you’re hanging out with me right now. You even had enough time to swing by her office, which is in an entirely different district, in the middle of a work day, with lunch and you were there for at least an hour. Seems like you have plenty of time.”

“It’s not about physical time and you know it. It’s about, the emotional labour, having to be on all the time, getting through the awkward stages, fucking small talk.” Your fingers slid down a plum dress, pulling it out from the row of clothes and you felt your heart leap when you realized it was the dress you wore on your first real date with Emily, the one that was so rudely interrupted by her phone before you could even get a chance to kiss her. You groaned, letting the dress fall back into your closet to be kept, “dating fucking sucks.”

“We’re not talking about casual dating or swiping through apps and having to deal with a million first dates, we’re talking about Emily.”

“What about her Tony?”

“You wouldn’t have brought her lunch if you didn’t like her.”

“I wouldn’t have said yes to being her sugar baby if I didn’t like her. I stopped by because Heather basically ordered me to.”

“So you’re telling me things between the two of you are strictly contractual? Financial and sexual benefit only?”

“Yes!”

The way your heart was suddenly beating in your chest, the worry that was beginning to eat away at your insides was telling you that Tony was onto something. You’d been so surrounded by work it had been incredibly easy to shove your feelings down, only leaning into them when you were out with Emily, as if it was part of the show, part of the sugar baby package. It kind of was after all, the flirtation, the compliments, the making her feel wanted and appreciated, taken care of, it was part of what she was paying you for. You’d said it yourself; companionship was far more than just sex. Even if you had started to slip deeper into the role than you’d originally intended, developing real feelings, it wasn’t like Emily was on the same page, she was playing her part too. Tony was grasping at straws, no matter how hard he wanted to push his fairytale narrative, or how fast your pulse happened to be.

He seemed to be able to read your mind, see the hesitancy in your eyes as his nagging sank in.

“Hey,” he nudged at you with his foot, breaking you from your daydreams, “you can claim whatever you want, but you cannot deny there were more than just two wine glasses in your drying rack.”

“So?” Your brow furrowed, it didn’t matter if Emily had been over at your house, that was nothing new.

“There were also two coffee mugs, two full sets of dinner plates and utensils, which likely means homemade, not takeout. I mean, most situations like this everything happens at hotels, you guys stopped that months ago. That on its own is one thing, but your bathroom tells a different story?”

“Do tell Very Special Agent DiNozzo.”

“Second toothbrush, different set of shampoo and conditioner, perfume that is far too floral for you to ever wear, glasses cleaner on your nightstand and your vision is twenty-twenty. There’s a Yale hoodie on the back of your couch which is interesting considering you went to Georgetown and Prentiss has a Yale degree in her office. You keep two spare sets of keys on a hook in your kitchen and surprisingly, one of them is missing. I would say that’s the most suspicious part of it all, but don’t even get me started on these.” His hand lifted up the cardboard backing containing your starfish earrings and you felt your cheeks heat.

“Guess she saw them in the gift shop at some point and thought they were cute.”

“Bullshit.” He grinned, “when you found out NCIS meant time on the water, you were practically infatuated and wanted to know everything about it. I could’ve married you right then and there.”

“Yeah right.” You scoffed with a laugh.

“We had a movie marathon, I brought Splash and Mermaids, you reluctantly, and rather intoxicated, brought out Aquamarine. You love that movie more than anything and you never tell anyone about it unless you really trust them or care..”

“it’s not like it’s a take to the grave secret.”

“You were down in the Maldives, right on the ocean and got all gooey and starfish eyed, that dreamy smile on your face, swimming every day pretending you were a mermaid, that you were free and you told it all to Emily, didn’t you?”

“It might’ve come up.” You shrugged.

“And instead of her laughing it off or thinking it was childish or stupid she went out and found starfish earrings to buy for you and now you have a permanent and physical reminder of the trip and time spent together.” He placed the jewelry back down on the dresser, “I think the two of you might actually have something here and it would be a shame to waste it away because you refuse to talk about it.”

You cast him a look, one only a best friend of twenty years could fully understand without you saying anything and he shook his head with a laugh.

“I’m just saying, things seem a lot more comfortable and intimate than I would expect from a sugar baby relationship. Did she pay you for lunch?”

“Not with money.” The corner of your lips curved up and a smirk flashed across his face as he made a growling meow noise.

“What about Sunday?”

“I told her not to.”

“My point exactly.” He stepped toward you, softly cupping your face, “you’re happy right now. Happier and less stressed than I’ve seen you in years and I want to see you keep being this happy, don’t deny yourself that, okay?” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, finally dropping his hands, “let the girl who buys you starfish earrings and thinks they’re adorable be your girl.”

“Just help me get these bags out to the car, okay?”

_______________________

@mickey-gomez @momlifebehard @daddy-heather-dunbar @maybe-a-humanbean @rustyzebra @leftoverenvy @kades95 @dextur @supercriminalbean @emilyprentisssluvr @lex13cm @zizzlekwum @emobabeyy @riveramorylunar @scorpsik @onmykneesformarvel @inlovewithemilyprentiss @regalmilfs4me @ara-a-bird @inlovewithmiddleagewomen @kmc1989 @irishavengersassemble @hopedoesntknow @venromanova @waitaminuteashh @noahrex @imlike-so-gaydude @wittygutsy @cx-emerald-cx cx @momily @nilaues @borinxnovakxprentiss @Soverign @v3nusxsky @mccdreamys-writes @l4yne @obsessedwjill @asolitaryrose3 @lisqueen @mrs-prentiss @whitewinewithice @d33pd3sire-blog @daffodil-heart @maximoffcarter @i-lovefandom @chimnlex @moonlightjxuregui @chestnutninny @gamma-rae-bursts @just-moondust @idkifimasub @gaydragonwitch @dowsedwithbleach @divergentalwaysandforever-blog @m1lfsh4ke

[nrdmssgs]

Sleep, my brother

Masterlist

Nikto befriends reader at their darkest hour. Angst, hurt/comfort TW: mentions of depressive episodes (no descriptions), swearing AN: I had this idea for a while now and a friend of mine, to whom I wanted to dedicate this one-shot, made an incredibly beautiful, striking and sad songfic with Nikto. So it was my sign to finally get on with it. I won't tag a person, to whom I owe this, because this is quite personal, I'm not sure, they will be happy to see their name here. I love you, I wish it didnt hurt so bad.

Cold wind reaches the old table and steam over two cups of tea shutters and leans to the side. You don't react and keep tracing cracks on the oilcloth with your finger, not caring about grease and dust.

One should have start worrying, when a big figure covered with a strange concoction of gear appeared at the stair hall next to their flat. Or when that figure froze right in front of their flat and reached out for a doorbell. Nobody in their right mind would let him in.

But you did. At this point, you didn't care about an obviously military animal lurking around you. The last bits of self-preservation instincts died long ago, when you made the plan and rented this flat for the New Year's holidays. A man standing at your threshold with a few guns and knives, sleeping in carbines scattered around his gear, wouldn't change anything. Or maybe he could lend you a bullet in a spirit of festive celebrations.

You chuckled to your own thoughts automatically. You got no more smiles left, no more laughs, but this lifeless shadow of a sarcastic reaction was still there with you.

He said, it will take him only fifteen minutes, asked you to wait in the kitchen, wear your headphones, watch anything on your smartphone. As if you were that naive and didn't understand, what a guy with a sniper rifle can seek on a top floor of a nine-story block of flats.

This was a strange evening: once you started bringing your plan to life - everything went weird. First, your rented flat turned out decorated for the New Year celebration. The landlord must have thought, you were planning to celebrate. There was a tiny Christmas tree in the bedroom, a plastic faded garland and even a "Happy 1995!" poster right from the past. Then there was this guy... You knew, your home is turning into a crazy place, but never thought, killers, the guys from 90-s TV will come out this fast.

Even your childhood memories of endless bandit-series couldn't prepare you to this encounter. What one does, when a killer uses their room as a sniping position? Runs? Calls anyone? Writes a funny twitter thread?

You were out of ideas, but more importantly - you were out of fear or any emotions at all. So you found cups and teabags in a kitchen drawer and made some tea. There wasn't much thinking behind it - your plan was far too important to try to do the right thing with this guy.

Fifteen minutes turned into thirty, then into fourty-something. You sat with your back facing the kitchen door and watched distant windows turning blue each time one scene of the festive concert changed for another. Everybody was watching the bloody concert today. And in an hour or so your hometown will turn to you, light up a thousand suns of TVs, look at you with myriads of copies of the same face with the darkest holes instead of eyes. "This was a tough year..." will it chant deep in your brain. You won't even need to hear the damned voice to know, exactly, what he tells.

But that won't happen anymore, because this will be the last-

"We are out." A hoarse voice right behind you drags you back to reality. In this time, he spent in the next room, you forgot, that the man speaks so strange. One accent mixes with another, the constant 'we, us' as if there was an army behind him.

"Ok." You don't turn back, just drag an ashtray closer to you and pat your pockets absentmindedly.

Your lighter clicks a few times in an absolute silence. He did just tell you, he's heading out of your place, didn't he? After taking the first smoke drag, you turn back and meet his blizzard gray eyes.

"Waiting for someone?" He points at the second mug. You wish he didn't wear that stupid mask, so that you had a chance to read his face and understand whether he's just confused or grows irritated.

"It's for you. Must have run cold already. Forget it."

The man ignores your last words and squeezes between your chair and the kitchen counter. He unfastens the belts holding his mask and moves it to the side, revealing a black balaclava under it. He takes a mug and looks around while you try to contemplate, what is actually happening.

"We didn't do anything there. Shitty intel. The target didn't come."

"You won't..." You don't know how to ask this, and just tap your hip at the same place where he has a handgun carabiner.

"I am many things, but not a butcher." It's the first time, your guest refers to himself as "I", but you mark this fact just with a tired sigh.

"You're... Disappointed?" The man takes a sip from his mug and catches your palm before you take another drag of your cig.

At first his gaze is cold, irritated, disgusted even. He pulls your cigarette from your fingers, brings it closer to his face, inhales your smoke and returns you the stub.

At first his gaze is cold, irritated, disgusted even. He pulls your cigarette from your fingers, brings it closer to his face, inhales your smoke and returns you the stub. And then his eyes soften and grow worried. As if he realizes something.

"Nobody's coming to celebrate with you?"

"I'm fine with that. Nobody is a way better option than..." You motion towards the window, uncertain if he can even understand, what you meant to say.

For a few minutes, silence wraps your kitchen. Only distant echoes of fireworks and the monotonous humming of the elevator engine muffled by the flat walls accompanies you two. Then he speaks again.

"We are staying with you."

He's not even asking. And that was not a part of your plan.

"No need, I am not celebrating really-"

"What are you doing then?" He cuts you off, completely ignoring your attempts to be polite.

In a desperate attempt to get rid of him, you mumble something about being tired and just planning to go to bed, but it's as if he doesn't hear you. In a few gulps, he finishes his tea, takes his guns and knives off his belt and puts it all on the refrigerator.

"So that you don't worry. We won't do anything stupid," he comments, and you don't bother noting, that the guy is so massive - he can snap your neck with his bare hands, so 'anything stupid' can happen without guns even.

Lastly, he takes the rifle off his shoulder and sets it down in the far corner without looking. A plaintive twang of strings rings in the kitchen, and you instinctively turn towards the sound.

A cheap guitar with a crooked neck - he must have hit it with the butt of his gun, hides in the dark corner. You two don't ask each other, don't share a single word. He just takes it, you light another cigarette and wet your throat with a cold tea. He tries to tune it and start playing. Nothing special, random melodies.

Little by little, you realize, his weird mix of accents must have an origin somewhere around here. Even though, he doesn't sing - you recognize the melodies, he plays. These are the melodies from your childhood. You listen and forget about time. For a short moment, the world narrows to this little kitchen, and feels somehow cozy.

Somehow bearable.

But then he starts playing one particular song, that you vaguely remember, and when you recognize it - the sound cuts your found peace like a razor blade. The man must have noticed your darkened face, because he stops abruptly and looks at you.

"Bad memories?"

"No, I liked this one back when it came out. It's just the guy, who sings it - he went mad." You look past your guest's shoulder, outside, at blue lit windows. "They all are going mad lately."

The man looks in the same direction for a few seconds and then turns back to you.

"Talking to furniture? Listening to the voices in their heads?"

"Talking to butchers," you say that in the most plain voice you can muster, but the lump rolling up your throat is still apparent, "Listening to butchers. Becoming butchers."

You realize that this probably sounds pompous and expect your guest to laugh. But he remains serious. And then something unusual happens: for the first time this evening, he switches to another language: your language.

"Obizhayut tebya tut?"*

Yes. A lot. So fucking much, you don't have any strength left. It hurts so bad, you just wish this all to end. Any way possible. Just make it quick.

But that you can't tell anyone. Not even to some strange man, that a decent person should be afraid of. So you just wave your hand uncertainly and mumble.

"Da kto menya tut obidit..."*

Nobody in his place would hear how much pain hides behind this little lie. But this man hears.

He puts the guitar aside, stands up and touches your shoulder after leveling with your chair.

"You need to sleep. Let's go."

"I need to..." He squeezes your shoulder softly and you grow silent. The turbid, dark-red air outside the window gets colored by bright sheaves of sparks and the cannonade of New Year's fireworks reaches you. Its midnight. And despite everything, you're still here.

Maybe because this whole evening is so surreal, maybe because the last few years felt like a drenching nightmare, but it feels so easy to go sleep on a sofa in a rented flat on a New Years night with this strange man guarding you. He sits in the corner, making sure, you have enough room. His hand runs softly over your shoulder, pets your head, fingers draw little circles between your shoulder blades. You almost fall asleep when he speaks again.

"We liked that song."

"Me too. Liked many things until lately."

"You know what?" He looks down at you, and you notice, there is no coldness left in his eyes. His gaze is still intense, but the blizzard is not roaring there anymore. "Fuck that shithead. It's our song now. We own it. You and... me."

You feel sorry once again that you can't see his whole face, so his expression remains unreadable. But his voice sounds dead serious. So you nod in response.

That night you drift to sleep to the stranger humming a melody from your childhood. He was a threat, a guest, a strange encounter. He was many things, but wasn't a butcher. Because he made sure, the next morning came.

"Obizhayut tebya tut?" - Anyone brings you trouble here?

"Da kto menya tut obidit..." *Nobody would dare/be interested in that.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

HAL, HEAR ME OUT !!! ghost coming home to wis wife on Easter, he thought he wouldnt manage to come back home in time, but Price dismisses him earlier, so he decides to surprise her by making a egg hunt for her, something she always said she liked to do when she was little, I KNOW THIS IS A SPECIFIC REQUEST, FEEL FREE TO DENY DEARIE, i just really love easter loool (and simon too)

love ur works, hal ❤

A Good Man

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

Synopsis: If such a thing as a good man existed, Simon Riley knew he was not it.

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: Self-deprecating thoughts, allusions to Simon's past & trauma, delving into his psyche, angst, but a lot of fluff, Simon's POV

A/N: I knew I had to get this out before Easter actually came around so here it is early, Anon! This was an adorable request. Enjoy and have a happy holiday! <3

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

If such a thing as a good man existed, Simon Riley knew he was not it. 

Skin shredded; showing every tear and rip with a thinly veiled sense of pride along with a detailed description of every bullet wound and burn. Rope tears along the forearms and red stab marks over the visible spine of his back. Tattoos that depict skeletons and war. He couldn’t tell you every life he had ended, but he could name names until his tongue went black and fell off; though he spared you the details. 

Simon Riley was a devil incarnate. Dead-eyed and robust of body. Muscles wound with promised death and the trigger finger to prove it. His life was measured in an hourglass, the sand cascading down like the blood from his knife after a kill; it would stop flowing, one day – abrupt and final. Simon Riley was a demon, a monster. Simon Riley was a Ghost. 

A ghost with an impeccable memory and a deep love for the woman currently on the living room couch. 

The man blinks, slate eyes taking in the steady rise and fall of your chest with a slow melting of his shoulders. He had a doubt that you had planned to fall asleep with the Tv on – or the floor lamp, for that matter. 

Its golden light slipped over your form, and he traced the flow of it as the voice of the news anchor went in one ear and out the other. Gradually, a hand slipped to the balaclava over his head as your lips let loose a grumble, nose nuzzling the feather pillow. 

Simon often found himself watching you sleep when he was home; how your face would lose all tension in those brief intermissions between oblivion and awakeness. When his own nights were restless, it helped to know that at least someone was at ease, especially if it was you. The fabric slips from his tired visage, the mess of blonde locks atop his head sticking this way and that; layered with the gleam of grease. As the black face-paint stains his sockets and spreads with a swipe of a stiff palm, the ever-constant cloud over his head peels back but for a brief moment of peace. 

His bag was still in the foyer, holding three months of dirty clothes and gear hostage in its zipped space; stained, and bloodied. The man himself wasn’t much better. 

It had been a long few months. 

Hooking the balaclava onto the belt of his cargo pants, Simon bends down on an achy knee, a grunt in his throat sounding off like a boar. Scarred fingers go to brush your cheek, though no words exit his mouth, no whispers of adoration. Just a glimmer in his eyes, a release of that furrowed line in the center of his forehead that seemed permanent these days. 

Staring, the faint twitch of his lips is the only tell at all that he was content at all, feeling your skin as a feather would slide over water. He takes down a breath.

There were few instances that Simon fully remembers from his childhood – most displaced in the back of his mind with a barbed wire fence and a door with no keyhole – though there is one he refuses to lock away. His mother. He can’t help it, and before he can stop himself the words are spilling directly from his heart to his mouth. 

Hell, he really must be tired. 

“She’d of loved you, Sweetheart.” It’s like he’s startled by his own voice, head pulling back and walls going back up, but that delicate glimpse was enough. 

A gravel voice and manchester accent bleed together to form some piece of the puzzle that was his pure adoration for you; small cardboard cuts and divots that had been given over to create a picture. Simon Riley was a ghost, yes, the Ghost, but he was never that when he was home. 

He was just Simon to you.

Blue eyes study the small smile that blesses your face when the man runs his fingers into your hair and attentively separates knots; your body unconsciously molding to his touch. With a kiss on your forehead, Simon chooses to not wake you. It’s late, the man reasons, and he knows how hard it is for you to sleep when he’s gone. Almost as hard as it is for him when he can’t feel your weight on the opposite side of the thin mattress he’s cursed with in the barracks. 

Against his better judgment, he’d learned to love your contact; your presence next to him and the way you fit into his arms.

As gently as he’s able, the black ink of his tattooed arm slips under your shoulders, pushing between the cushion and your limp body to lie still. The other hooks around your knees, and with a pause to make sure you weren't going to wake up, Simon lifts you as easily as a piece of paper. Your weight lays comfortingly against his chest, shallow breath hitting his neck and he thinks for a moment just how it was possible to love something more than you can love anyone else that came before. 

“Simon…” Your voice brings goosebumps to his forearms, his fingers tightening over the shirt he now recognizes as his own clothing you. A smirk runs over his face. 

Lips caress his pulse, a nose taking in his scent of canvas and sweat; a tinge of barely restrained corruption, a soul more damaged than a window shattered into a million pieces.

How can you stand it? How could your body instinctively lay into him and give redemption willingly? 

Simon grips you ever closer, using his own body heat to lull you back to oblivion. He didn’t have an answer – probably never would – but that didn’t mean he wasn’t forever grateful. 

But he was a stiff man; a stoic one. 

He slips through the bedroom door, navigating in the dark as if his eyes had built-in night vision, and hums out, “it’s me. Go on – back to sleep now, Love.” 

Air communes with a soft grunt, and Simon watches from the side of his vision as your lids flicker open and closed. As desperate as the fight is, it’s over fairly quickly when he lowers you to the sheets, cupping your head and setting in on the pillow. 

Soft fingers wrap his lower arm, and with trapped breath, Simon watches your lips connect to the pale skin of his wrist before your form once more goes slack; ever the stubborn one to greet him even half-gone. Weak mumbles stuck forming ‘welcome home’ and ‘love you’ on a lead tongue garble to nothingness like a gargoyle’s stone speech. 

“Hmm.” The Lieutenant smirks as the area tingles, preening like a bird. There are many things to say to you, but he settles with a mumbled, “Don’t hog the sheets. Gotta go take care of the mess first, copy?” 

You don’t answer, of course. With a delicate pet on your head, Simon exits the room silently to take a shower and organize his gear; closing the door behind him only halfway so he can still keep an eye on you as he passes. Ever the neat partner, he wouldn’t go to sleep until all were in their proper places – clothes in the washer, knives and various licensed weapons in the nightstand, and paperwork in the office. 

There was a sanctity in this. A way to get rid of the lingering adrenaline of being on Base or in the field – deterioration of the mind but in such a way it would be described as a boil to a simmer. 

All of it is uneventful. 

He enters the kitchen with only a white towel around his waist sometime later, flicking on the lights and running his fingers through his damp hair before bee-lining to the fridge. If there needed to be a list made of the things he loved the most, it would be fairly short – only three. 

One, you, two, the adrenaline rush of a good deployment, and, finally, your food.  

Simon would listen to Johnny’s rambling for days if it ended with an excellent heaping plate of whatever you cooked for supper.

Opening the fridge, the man’s eyes widen, shimmering with azure glass.

“Fuckin’ hell, Sunshine,” he breathes to himself, hand reaching inside the box with fervor, “you’ve been busy, then, eh…? Bloody feast in ‘ere.” 

The Lieutenant drags out a heaping plate of steak and potatoes – a side of greens covered in plastic and a sticky note on top. 

‘Save for Simon.’ 

The food didn’t look older than a day or two…did you save him some of your meals every once and a while just in case he would show up?

He grunts, re-reading your chicken scratch with a swelling of his chest and a foreign heat on his cheeks. Simon moves to the oven, preheating it and placing a cooling rack on a metal pan over parchment paper. Damned if the man would mess up your masterpiece; he’d reheat it properly. 

With minimal noise, he waits for the meat to be done and settles on placing the potatoes in the microwave with the greens for time's sake. Standing in the kitchen, his eyes gradually fall closed, their weight heavy. But his ears perk at the faint pitter-patter of bare feet. 

The sneaking arms around his waist don’t startle him, and with a sigh on his lips, Simon feels you melt into the curve of his open skin. A head connecting with his spine. 

“Thought I brought you back to bed?” He whispers, flesh melding to you like hot iron, a scarred hand resting over the one that’s on his abdomen. 

Your nose nestles into the burns over his back, and even if you couldn’t see it – the sudden sweep of vulnerability is nearly heard. You lay a kiss and think no more of it, but Simon shivers with beautiful agony; eyes gazing off.

“...Erm,” you groan, fingers tracing the build of his ribs, “needed to hold you.” Your breath stills – half-asleep. “You’re…here?”  

Simon chuckles, hearing it echo off the walls.

“I’m ‘ere, Love. Few more bloody cuts,” he breathes, “but I’m here.” 

“Good. Missed you.” A second of kisses and distant blue eyes. Muffled yawns into his flesh. “Didn’t think you’d be back in time for Easter.” 

Simon twists, aware of the delicate fold of his towel, and lifts your fatigued form onto the counter, settling you down so you don’t fall sideways. He blinks down at you, cupping your cheek when your neck gets too heavy to hold up. Your lids rapidly move, your nose scrunched at the overhead light and the man knows you’re only awake because he’s home. 

He utters out to you, faces close, “The Old Man let me off early,” and lays a peck to your forehead, holding his lips there for a long second. Mutters into your skin, “prickly bastard’s been antsy – hasn’t had a good drink in weeks. Was about ready to strangle someone.”

She’s warm.

His body slots itself between your legs, one arm around your back and the other placed on the counter. Simon’s forehead falls to your shoulder, and with a groan of satisfaction, he feels your fingers go through his locks; itching at his scalp dreamily. 

“...Dunno whether to thank him or send ‘em to a therapist.” You whisper, kissing his neck, unable to keep your hands off each other for a mere second. 

“Better to place money on the both.” His grumbled words are barely heard. “I’ve got two weeks ‘fore they need me back.” 

A soft hum is all he gets before the timer goes off and he takes down a breath, forcing himself to peel back from you and grab his supper. 

By the time the both of you are in bed, he’d nearly forgotten about your comment, and as he stroked your hair and felt you bring him closer under the covers, he remembers. He’d asked Price to give him two weeks on account of the holiday you’d loved so much – Easter – and had used the Captain's deteriorating attitude as a pry. It had been easy enough, the two had known each other for a long time. They knew their breaking points. 

Sometimes living around a handful of other men formed unbreakable bonds of brotherhood, and while that was true for 141, it was also a pain in the ass. People long for home at the end of it – a soft touch and sweet kisses. There’s only so long you can go with yelling orders into the same faces and playing Poker in a shitty safehouse.

Simon never thought he’d be worthy of it, a home, but here he is regardless and here he would stay. And he knew Easter was your favorite time of the year, and he also knew that Easter was…tomorrow. His dead eyes widened. 

The plan formed quickly, his strategic mind helping as it always does, and as he snuck out of bed and laid his lips to yours in a tiny kiss, a shirt was tossed on along with boxers. You never heard the door to the garage door opening, just snuggled back up to the pillow and an old t-shirt he’d placed in his spot instead; inhaling his calming scent.

—

When the sun had risen an hour ago and Simon had finished with heavy fingers. Groaning, the back of a hand meets a forehead, trying to swipe away sleepiness as one would a fly. But he says nothing, feet hitting the floor as he enters the kitchen, an object held in his palm that was quickly stashed in the breadbox.

This was childish, he knew, not at all like the deadly Lieutenant of TF-141. Like Ghost. The boys would tease him relentlessly if they found out.

“Simon…?” Your voice draws him back, and with a look over his shoulders, he finds you wrapped in the comforter like a mouse. “What are you doing out here?” 

The lie comes easily.

“Fixin’ breakfast.” Your eyes flicker to the open breadbox, eyebrows furrowing. A smirk grows and you walk over with a laugh living in your expression. 

“I don’t even trust you to toast bread, Love, go sit down. You’ve been stuck on rations for too long.” Simon only steps back, gazing over your head and seeing your hand pause. “I’ll make us some…” 

He watches as he loves to do, memorizing the parting of your lips and the recognition lighting like a shy fire. The man smiles then, and it is a delicate thing; an expression not tainted with sarcasm or deception. 

Your hand delves into the box and pulls out a plastic egg softly as if it would snap in two. 

It’s cheap, made of thin plastic and fading in colors of the shade of pastel pink. Chipping. There’s nothing inside of it, just a bare piece of holiday joy that never meant too much to anyone beyond children. But with how you’re staring up at him, Simon thinks all the searching in the bins from the garage was worth it. 

“What’s this?” Your voice wraps him close, and your hand holds the object close. Simon shrugs, digging deep into your vision. 

“I’ve the faintest idea, Sunshine.” The giggle flies to his cold heart and he pulls you to his chest to still the raging of it. “My guess,” he raises a stiff brow, “intruder broke in, yeah?” 

“Did this intruder have ears and a pink nose?” You ask, noses brushing. “A hop in his step, maybe?” 

“Hell if I know,” Simon grunts, eyes flickering away before he can break before you. “Best get my gun just in case – you’ll ‘ave to find the rest ‘o the bastard things, though.”

You kiss him then, and he captures the back of your head, holding you to him as if you’d disappear if he let go. He doesn't know what you did to possess him so, to make his thoughts be only of you even when he’s halfway around the world. Were you an angel? A shred of light made physical? Perhaps an embodiment of all the good in the universe? 

Simon had no answer, as he usually did when it came to you, and you sighed into him, whispering redemption to his soul. 

You said you loved him, and he said it back with every ounce of him that was untouched by death. And then you pulled from him with a laugh that could throw away darkness and disappeared with promises of finding the remaining eggs. Like a loyal hound of hell, Simon followed, pulling on the comforter to slow you down so you don’t trip. He would always follow.

The vision of a good life starts with a view of the present. Who you choose to care about; how you make meaning of nothing but a shared morning and a memory of youth. Simon does not remember much of his childhood. Most of the memories are displaced in the back of his mind with a barbed wire fence and a door with no keyhole. Cast away. 

Coated in fear and lies.

Some days he asks how he can still call himself Simon Riley – it’s the name of a dead man, after all…and then he looks at your beaming face, and his question is answered as fast as it was thought up. 

You deserve Simon Riley, not Ghost. Not a devil incarnate or Dead-eyed. A demon, or a monster. If there was even a shred of purity left in him, that was what he knew beyond doubt. 

Simon Riley was selfish, he admitted, and he was loathed to leave you…so here he would stay. Hiding easter eggs and giving veiled hints when you were close to one near the planted flowers in the backyard. There was a simplicity that the man bathed in – the blatant enjoyment of a plain life. 

With a chuckle in the back of his throat, Simon pushes off the back porch and makes a comment about how you were closer to the dead bird you had buried in the garden bed than an egg. A flick of your middle finger leaves him smirking, and he splays a hand over your back, angling your body farther north. The kiss left on his stubbled cheek makes him warmer than he wants to admit; cold eyes soften.

If such a thing as a good man existed, Simon Riley knew he was not it…but he was trying to be damn near close. Until then, the ring he had bought would stay in his office.

TAGS:

@blueoorchid, @jxvipike, @revrse, @shuttlelauncher81, @bruhhvv, @kittiowolf210, @aerangi, @spikespiegell, @ghost-with-a-teacup, @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore, @uberraschungg, @shoe1412, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet @pukbadger, @omeganixtra, @gills-lounge, @voidinfernal, @sukunas-left-nut-sack, @untoldshortsofthefandoms, @batmanunicorns523, @icepancakes, @copiasratscheese, @besas-stuff, @marytvirgin, @misfne, @halfmoth-halfman, @lothiriel9, @anna-banana27, @jade-jax, @cl0wncxre, @john-pricee, @330bpm-whiplash, @lora21, @wolfyland07, @dilfsaremyfavourite, @levietc, @kk19pls, @semieitabby, @thriving-n-jiving, @cringe-kats, @n1choles, @gaychaosgremlin, @johnpricesprincess, @haleypearce

[dayabelle]

December

Pairings: Katsuki Bakugo x Fem Reader

This is part 1!, Part 2

---

December 1st

The city was blanketed in soft, silent snow, the kind that fell thick and steady, turning every surface into a winter wonderland. The streets were lined with holiday decorations—bright lights twinkling on every corner, and faint holiday music drifting through the air from nearby stores. The crisp, cold air stung his face as Izuku Midoriya walked briskly down the street, his breath visible in the frosty morning air. He had always loved this time of year, the world feeling a little more magical as winter took over.

As he reached the nondescript building tucked away in a quieter part of town, he paused for a moment to adjust the scarf around his neck. It was the first of December, a month that had become a tradition for him—coming to see Y/n, his long-time friend, to check in and make sure everything was going smoothly with her work.

Opening the door with a gentle creak, Izuku stepped inside, and the familiar warmth of the room hit him. The small workshop was filled with the scent of machine oil and metal, the hum of a workbench in constant motion. The dim lighting gave the room a cozy glow, though it was obvious that Y/n had been working late into the night. Snow clung to the windows, and the soft winter light filtered in, casting a chill around the room.

On the floor, with her back to the door, Y/n was sprawled out in her usual work attire—a dark, grease-stained jumpsuit that hugged her frame, a mix of tools scattered around her. Her hair was messily pulled up into a bun, strands falling loose around her face as she worked with intense focus. She didn’t notice Izuku’s arrival. She was too busy, crouched over a complicated piece of hero gear, her hands moving deftly as she adjusted a malfunctioning component, her brow furrowed in concentration.

The floor around her was littered with parts—screws, wires, small metallic components—and yet Y/n appeared completely at ease, like this was the most natural environment for her. Her face was smeared with grease, a little messy, but it only seemed to highlight her unwavering dedication to her work. Izuku couldn’t help but smile softly, a quiet admiration filling his chest. He had known Y/n for years, and even now, seeing her like this, so immersed in her craft, still left him in awe.

She was always like this. Completely consumed by her genius mind, her ability to solve problems before they even fully manifested. Her eyes sparkled with innovation, and her ability to fix even the most complicated issues with hero gear was nothing short of extraordinary. It had been years since he first met her, and he could still remember how impressed he had been by her ability to notice every little detail, every weakness in design. She had a mind for this that was incomparable.

Izuku stood quietly by the door, watching her work, before clearing his throat softly to get her attention. "Y/n?" he called gently, not wanting to startle her.

Her head shot up, eyes widening in surprise. She wiped her hands on a nearby rag, then reached up to pull a stray hair from her face. “Izuku?” she asked, blinking as if she hadn’t fully processed his presence just yet. “You’re early. It’s not even the 5th yet.”

Izuku grinned sheepishly, stepping closer. "I know, I couldn’t wait. Besides, you never stop working, so I figured I'd just pop by."

Y/n smirked, rolling her eyes, but her lips twitched into a small smile. “Always in a hurry. Come on, get in here before the cold air freezes you into a popsicle.”

Izuku chuckled and took a few steps further into the room, letting the door shut behind him. As he moved toward the counter, he couldn’t help but glance back at her—always so immersed in her passion, always so... Y/n.

“Busy as usual, huh?” he asked, his voice warm with familiarity.

“Same as always,” she replied, already turning back to her work, though her tone was light. “Can’t afford to waste time when there’s always something that needs fixing.”

The snow outside continued to fall gently, the sounds of the holidays filtering in through the workshop windows. And while the world outside was preparing for the season of joy, in her little corner of it, Y/n was already deep into the heart of her December routine—working tirelessly to make sure every piece of hero gear, every design, was as perfect as it could be.

And Izuku, as he always had, would be there by her side.

Y/n’s voice pulled him back into the moment as she looked up at him with a faintly curious expression. She wiped her hands on a rag again before pushing herself up from the floor, her movements fluid despite the grease and dirt she’d accumulated. "How’s Aizawa?" she asked, her tone casual but with a glimmer of genuine concern.

Izuku blinked, caught off guard by the question. He had been so focused on seeing Y/n again that he hadn’t thought to ask about her projects or her thoughts on his mentor. The last time he’d seen Aizawa, he had been dealing with the usual burdens of his job, but nothing particularly out of the ordinary. Still, he appreciated the way she always remembered the smaller details. Y/n had met Aizawa only a handful of times, but their brief interactions had left an impression. And the time she’d spent working on his prosthetic leg was something Izuku would never forget.

“Oh, he’s doing well,” Izuku replied, pushing the original question from his mind as he thought back to the last time he saw his teacher. “He’s been tough as always, but the new leg is working great. He’s been able to move much more fluidly in combat—he says it’s helped him more than he expected. And you really made it fit his needs perfectly.”

Y/n smiled faintly at his praise. “I’m glad it’s working out for him,” she said, her gaze softening. “Aizawa’s the kind of guy who doesn’t ask for help unless he really needs it, and when he did, it was important to get the design right. The prosthetic had to support his weight and still allow him the mobility he needs—especially with the way he fights. It’s a fine balance.”

Izuku nodded, recalling the first time he’d introduced Y/n to Aizawa. The two had been skeptical at first, Aizawa with his usual guarded demeanor and Y/n with her pragmatic, no-nonsense attitude. But Y/n had quickly understood the complexity of Aizawa’s needs. She’d spent hours analyzing his movements, taking meticulous measurements, and fine-tuning the leg to ensure it wasn’t just functional but tailored to his fighting style. It had been one of her more challenging projects, but seeing the result in action—watching Aizawa move with more ease—had been incredibly rewarding.

“You were the only one who could do it,” Izuku added with a smile, grateful for the way Y/n always approached challenges. “Aizawa doesn’t trust just anyone with something like that. But with you, he didn’t hesitate.”

Y/n shrugged, as if it were nothing special, but the slight blush creeping onto her cheeks betrayed her. “I just did what I could. You know how I am when it comes to gear—it’s about precision, making sure it works in the most demanding situations. I’m glad he liked it.”

Izuku felt a quiet sense of pride in her work, not just as a friend but as someone who had witnessed her skill firsthand for so many years. He leaned against the workbench, arms crossed, smiling at her. "He actually said it’s helped him get a few extra moves in when things get heated during missions. You’ve really made a difference, Y/n."

She chuckled softly, the sound genuine but tempered with modesty. "Well, I’m just happy he’s able to use it the way he needs to. Aizawa doesn’t ask for much, so if something I made helps him, that’s enough for me.”

There was a pause, and Izuku took a breath, noticing that Y/n’s eyes were still focused on the tools scattered around the room, though her thoughts seemed far away. He knew she didn’t always share her emotions openly, but moments like these—where her quiet satisfaction in her work showed through—were when Izuku felt the deepest appreciation for her.

He opened his mouth to speak again, but paused, unsure if he should push his initial question. The subject of her projects always brought Y/n out of her shell, and for a moment, he just wanted to let her have this space. He could always ask about her plans later. For now, it was enough to see her in her element, the snowy world outside a silent witness to their long-standing friendship.

Izuku’s smile faltered slightly as he leaned back against the workbench, his eyes drifting toward the snowy window. His mind wandered back to a conversation he’d had a few weeks ago, one that still felt a little uneasy to him. He had been talking to Bakugo about hero gear, as he often did. The topic had come up because Bakugo was complaining—again—about his mechanic, Hatsune, becoming more and more difficult to work with.

“She’s becoming way too crazy for me,” Bakugo had growled, arms crossed over his chest. “Can’t get anything right. I need someone who knows what they’re doing and doesn’t slow me down.”

Izuku had mentioned Y/n then—how she specialized in high-tech gear for top-tier heroes, how she had worked on everything from mobility suits to combat weapons. He’d never seen someone so passionate and skilled in her field. Her genius with design was unmatched, and he knew Bakugo needed someone like her.

"I can ask Y/n," Izuku had said, feeling a little apprehensive even then. "She works with some of the top heroes, and she's great with custom gear. I think she'd be perfect for you."

Bakugo’s eyes had narrowed, his face skeptical at first. But then he’d grunted, “Fine, do it. Get her to take a look at my gear. I need someone I can trust, not some idiot who can’t get it right.”

Izuku had left the conversation feeling a strange mix of guilt and responsibility, unsure how to approach Y/n with the idea. He’d been coming to her for years with requests—whether it was advice, help with his own gear, or the occasional favor—and each time, she’d told him that she didn’t mind. But this time, this felt different. Bakugo was... well, Bakugo. His strong personality, his need for control, and his lack of patience for anything that didn’t fit his vision made Izuku nervous.

He had always admired how Y/n managed her work with grace and precision, but introducing her to Bakugo seemed like a different kind of challenge. Would she even want to deal with him? Would Bakugo be able to respect her process, or would his brash attitude drive her away?

Izuku cleared his throat, drawing Y/n’s attention back to him. “Actually,” he began, his voice a little more hesitant than he intended, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

Y/n raised an eyebrow, noticing the shift in his demeanor. “What’s up?”

Izuku hesitated for a moment longer before pushing the thought forward. “So, I mentioned you to Bakugo a while ago… about your work with high-tech gear, and... well, he needs a new mechanic.”

Y/n’s eyes narrowed just slightly, catching the tension in his voice. “Bakugo Katsuki?” she asked, already piecing things together.

“Yeah...” Izuku rubbed the back of his neck, his nerves making him feel awkward despite his usual confidence. “He’s been having trouble with his current mechanic. Hatsune’s just... not cutting it for him anymore. So, he asked me to find someone better, and I thought of you.”

Y/n let out a long, thoughtful sigh, leaning back against the workbench with her arms crossed. “So, you want me to work with him?” Her tone wasn’t cold, but there was a certain wariness to it.

Izuku nodded slowly. “I know you don’t usually take on a lot of requests from other heroes, but Bakugo… he’s not like other people. He’s... intense. But he respects people who can get the job done. And you could really help him, Y/n."

Y/n paused, her eyes distant for a moment as she thought it over. She’d worked with plenty of demanding heroes in the past—each with their own quirks and preferences—but Bakugo was a different breed entirely. His overwhelming pride and stubbornness were legendary, and his ability to alienate those around him was almost as impressive as his power.

"I’m not sure..." she said quietly, chewing on the inside of her cheek. "I know you trust him, Izuku, but Bakugo’s not exactly known for being... easy to work with."

Izuku chuckled nervously, scratching his head. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it. He’s a bit of a handful, but he doesn’t mean anything by it. Once he knows someone can deliver, he’ll actually start listening. It’s just... the first impression can be a lot.”

Y/n glanced at him, a mixture of hesitation and curiosity in her eyes. “And you really think I’m the right fit for him?”

“I think you’re the only one who could keep up with him,” Izuku said, trying to sound convincing. “He needs someone who can handle his... unique personality and still give him the gear he needs. You’re the best at what you do, and I know he’s looking for someone who can be as precise as you are.”

There was a silence as Y/n thought it over, her gaze flickering between Izuku and the scattered tools in front of her. Finally, she sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “Alright, I’ll think about it. But if I do this, it’s going to be on my terms. No exceptions. I don’t want to hear complaints about my methods.”

Izuku smiled, relieved. “I wouldn’t expect anything less. Thanks, Y/n. I know Bakugo’s not the easiest guy to deal with, but... he really needs this.”

Y/n gave a small shrug, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “If it’ll help him, I’ll make it work. But if he starts pushing my buttons too much, I’m not afraid to put him in his place.”

Izuku chuckled, feeling a wave of gratitude wash over him. “I know you can handle it. I’ll tell him you’ll take him on, and then... I guess we’ll see how it goes.”

As he spoke, the snow continued to fall outside, blanketing the world in soft white silence. Izuku couldn’t help but feel a little lighter knowing that Y/n had agreed, even if it was with some reservations. Bakugo’s need for a new mechanic would finally be addressed, and, maybe, just maybe, this December would bring a new kind of challenge—not just for Bakugo, but for the complicated dynamic that was starting to form between Y/n and the explosive hero.

Izuku noticed the slight skepticism in Y/n’s expression as she thought about Bakugo. She’d never met him before, only hearing about him through Izuku’s long, often exaggerated stories about his explosive friend. Of course, she had seen Bakugo on TV plenty of times—his rise through the hero ranks, his explosive battles, his notorious temper—it had always seemed like a whirlwind to her. From her perspective, Bakugo’s entire existence sometimes seemed like a bit of a silly spectacle.

But then again, she knew how much Bakugo meant to Izuku. His loyalty to Bakugo was unwavering, and Y/n had always admired that. Despite how different they were, Izuku’s stories about Bakugo painted a picture of someone who was fiercely determined, though often misunderstood. Y/n didn’t mind hearing Izuku go on and on about him. It was a bit of a routine between them. She would continue working on whatever project she had at the time, her hands moving with practiced precision, while Izuku sat nearby, spilling out his thoughts on anything and everything.

Most of the time, their conversations flowed like this: Izuku would tell stories about his days at U.A., how Aizawa was doing with his prosthetic leg, how Eri was adjusting to life with the other students. But it was Bakugo who often dominated their talks.

Izuku would talk about their childhood—about how they had grown up together, how their rivalry had been something that shaped both of them. He would talk about how Bakugo had always been stubborn, but deep down, he had a heart that cared more than he let on. Y/n would only half-listen at times, her focus mostly on the tasks in front of her—whether it was tuning up some gear or designing a new piece for a client. The rhythm of the work was comforting. It allowed her mind to wander, to let Izuku’s words fill the space between each stroke of her tool.

But now, the conversation had shifted. Izuku, clearly sensing that Y/n was not quite sure about the whole Bakugo situation, had backed off for the moment. He didn’t want to push too hard, especially after seeing the thoughtful look in her eyes. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel pressured or uncomfortable with the idea of working with someone she had never met in person.

"Anyway," Izuku said, his voice a bit lighter now, "what’s new with your projects? Anything I can help with?"

Y/n blinked, the shift in focus pulling her back into the present. She looked at Izuku, her brow furrowing slightly, a small smile tugging at her lips. "You always want to help with something," she teased lightly, but there was no real malice behind it. She paused for a moment, thinking of the different projects on her plate. "I’ve been designing some new mobility gear for some of the higher-tier heroes. They’re looking for something lighter but still able to take a hit. It’s been a bit tricky, but I think I’ve got something coming along."

Izuku nodded enthusiastically, his interest piqued. "Sounds interesting! What kind of specs are you going for? Are they focusing on speed or protection, or both?"

Y/n leaned back, stretching slightly before sitting down on the stool nearby. "Both, actually. But the challenge is making it flexible enough for agility while still being tough enough to handle combat situations. I think I’ve figured out how to balance both with the right kind of material, but it’s still a work in progress."

Izuku’s eyes sparkled with admiration. "That’s exactly why you’re the best at what you do, Y/n. You think of every detail. Most people would just focus on one or the other, but you always find a way to make it work."

Y/n’s cheeks flushed a little at the compliment, though she quickly deflected it with a shrug. "It’s just about understanding the needs of the person using the gear. Everyone fights differently, and every hero has different requirements. It’s all about finding that balance."

Izuku chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, I’ve learned that the hard way with my own gear."

Y/n laughed softly. "I remember that. You always came to me with a million things wrong with your suits. You really do like to push things to the limit."

"Well, that’s what being a hero is about, right? Pushing your limits?" Izuku replied with his usual enthusiasm, though there was a hint of self-awareness in his tone.

Y/n smiled, shaking her head. "True, true. I just have to make sure you don’t push my limits too much. You’re lucky I like working on your gear."

"I know, I know," Izuku said with a grin. "I’m very lucky."

As their conversation continued, the earlier tension surrounding Bakugo seemed to dissipate, at least for the moment. Izuku let the topic drift for now, content to focus on the things that truly mattered in this moment—their shared love for hero gear, their long-standing friendship, and the mutual respect they had for each other's abilities.

The sounds of the holiday music outside continued to float in through the windows, mingling with the soft hum of the workbench, as the two of them settled into a comfortable silence, the kind that only came from years of understanding each other. The snow outside continued to fall, blanketing the world in soft, peaceful quiet, as the day drifted on.

Izuku leaned back slightly, watching as Y/n continued working, her hands moving with purpose, but her eyes still sharp as she worked through each task. After a moment of thought, he asked, “You ever think about moving to a bigger workshop? I mean, with the amount of high-ranking heroes you’ve worked for, you’ve got enough money to pretty much be considered rich. And you always get paid well for your work. I bet you could have a bigger, fancier place somewhere else. Maybe somewhere with better facilities.”

Y/n paused for a moment, her tools held still as she glanced up at him, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She didn’t immediately answer, instead looking out the window as the soft hum of the shop and the occasional sounds of children playing outside filled the space between them.

“I’ve thought about it,” she said finally, her voice calm. “But no, I don’t want to move.”

Izuku blinked in surprise, raising an eyebrow. “Really? I would’ve thought the idea of working in a bigger place would appeal to you. I mean, you’re practically a legend with how much work you get. You could have everything—state-of-the-art tools, a giant workshop with a team of people to assist you.”

She shook her head lightly, her expression thoughtful. “I like it here. This place, the people around me—it’s... peaceful. I get to watch the kids outside my window, running around in the snow with their toys. I see the plant beds outside, covered in snow, and the way the neighbors always drop by with little treats or just to say hello. They’re always kind to me, and that matters. It keeps me grounded. This place is... part of why I work well.”

Izuku’s gaze softened as he listened, understanding what she meant. Y/n had always been someone who didn’t need the glitz and glamour of fame or fortune. Her work spoke for itself, but she found satisfaction in the smaller things. She didn’t crave luxury or recognition—she simply wanted to create, to help, and to be a part of her community in a way that made her feel at home.

“Sometimes I think I could place myself anywhere, and it wouldn’t be the same,” she continued, her voice barely above a whisper now, as if sharing a quiet truth. “I need this environment, these people, these sounds. They help me stay focused. If I went to a fancier place, I’d lose that.”

Izuku couldn’t help but smile at her grounded perspective. He had always admired how self-aware Y/n was, how she never let external expectations sway her from her own path. She wasn’t driven by fame or money. She was driven by her own passion for her work, her connection to the world around her.

He thought back to when he was 19, when he first met Y/n. Back then, he had been struggling with his own sense of self, unsure about his future as a hero, unsure of his place in the world. Meeting Y/n had been a turning point for him. She had shown him that it was okay to be rooted, to take time and build something meaningful. He was grateful—grateful that he had met her when he did.

“I’m glad you don’t feel the need to change,” Izuku said softly, the sincerity in his words clear. “You’re happy here, and that’s what matters most. And besides, I don’t think you’d be you if you went somewhere else.”

Y/n’s eyes softened at his words, a small smile appearing on her lips as she met his gaze. “I guess that’s true. I like who I am here, surrounded by the things that make me happy. But enough about me. What about you? You’ve been traveling all over the place lately, huh? Any exciting stories from your hero work?”

Izuku chuckled, grateful for the change in topic. "Well, actually... there’s been a lot happening in the last couple of weeks. I’ve been working on a new suit, and—"

As he continued, Y/n listened with that same patient attention she always gave him, her focus divided between the work in front of her and the conversation they shared. The snowfall outside continued, gently covering the world in white, while inside, the warmth of their friendship filled the room.

Izuku smiled quietly to himself as he spoke, thinking back on everything that had brought them to this moment. He couldn’t have asked for a better friend, and he knew, deep down, that meeting Y/n had been one of the best things that had ever happened to him. And though their paths had been different, and their worlds often felt far apart, moments like this—when they could simply sit together, talking about life—reminded him of how much they both needed this. The peace, the balance, the understanding. It was the foundation of their friendship, and he would never take it for granted.

As the conversation between Izuku and Y/n continued, the atmosphere in the workshop remained warm and easy. They were deep into discussing the latest projects Y/n had been working on, the gentle hum of the machines in the background blending with the soft holiday music floating in from outside. The snow had continued falling in thick flurries, and the quiet of the outside world mirrored the calm between the two of them.

But just as the conversation reached a lull, Izuku’s phone buzzed on the workbench with an urgent ring, cutting through the peaceful atmosphere. He glanced down at the screen, his expression immediately shifting into one of concern. It was a call from the agency.

"Sorry, I need to take this," he said, standing up quickly, his usual calm demeanor slipping into one of focus as he answered the call. "Midoriya speaking."

Y/n watched him, her gaze flicking to his tense posture as he moved a little further away, listening intently to whatever was being said on the other end of the line. She could hear the snippets of conversation as Izuku responded, his voice low but urgent, his brow furrowing as he processed the information.

"Right, I’ll be there ASAP," he said, ending the call with a quick click of his tongue. He turned back to her, his expression more serious now.

"I’m really sorry, Y/n," he apologized, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair and quickly slipping it on. "Something’s come up, I have to go. A situation with one of the heroes—there’s a report of a villain attack. They need me to go on standby, so I’ll have to cut this visit short."

Y/n nodded, understanding without needing any further explanation. "Go ahead. Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine here."

Izuku hesitated for a moment, clearly not wanting to leave her alone in the workshop, but he knew there was no time to waste. "Thanks for understanding. I’ll make it up to you next time."

Y/n gave him a small, reassuring smile. "No problem, Izuku. I’m used to working alone anyway." She gestured to the room around her, already resettling herself by the workbench as if the absence of his company wouldn’t disrupt her rhythm.

Izuku smiled back, albeit with a tinge of guilt. "Take care, Y/n. I’ll be in touch later. Let me know if you need anything."

With one last glance in her direction, Izuku hurried out of the workshop, leaving Y/n alone amidst the clutter of tools, sketches, and unfinished projects. The door closed behind him with a soft click, and for a moment, the quiet of the workshop seemed to grow a little heavier. The sound of the snow outside was muffled by the thick windows, and the holiday music faintly filtered through the glass from the street below.

Y/n’s eyes briefly lingered on the door for a second longer, before she shook her head, returning her focus to the task at hand. It wasn’t the first time she’d been left to her work in silence, and it wouldn’t be the last. Still, as much as she valued her solitude, a part of her felt the absence of Izuku’s calming presence. She could feel the small void left behind, but it was a feeling she quickly dismissed as she got back to work.

With practiced hands, she began to sort through her designs, pulling out blueprints for the current project. The hum of the machines, the occasional scrape of metal against metal, and the soft, rhythmic clicks of her tools returned to fill the space, grounding her once again in the quiet of her work.

The day outside continued to darken, the snow falling heavier now, but inside the workshop, it felt timeless.

Y/n’s workshop was a perfect reflection of her: functional, organized, and filled with small details that gave it a unique, personal touch. The main area of the workshop had high ceilings and large windows that allowed plenty of natural light to flood the space during the day, illuminating the various workstations and scattered tools. Despite the organized chaos of the room—papers strewn about, designs pinned to the wall, and parts of unfinished hero gear—it all somehow felt purposeful, each piece contributing to the greater whole of her work.

The walls were lined with shelves that held materials of every kind—metal sheets, wires, and tech parts, all sorted and labeled meticulously. The large central workbench dominated the space, covered with blueprints, half-finished projects, and tools that were always within arm’s reach. Next to the workbench was a smaller table where she would assemble smaller components, usually scattered with tiny screws, wires, and the occasional tool she would use in intricate designs.

On the far wall, a section of the space was dedicated to machines and testing equipment—some for stress testing the gear she designed, others for fine-tuning prototypes. There was a section for 3D printers, a soldering station, and an area where she would run diagnostics on newly built gadgets. A few monitors were set up here as well, displaying various projects and progress on her latest designs.

Beyond the main room, there were three rooms that led off into the back.

The bathroom was tucked away on the far left. It was simple but well-kept, with just enough space for essentials and a tiny window that let in natural light, though it was mostly used as a quick retreat when Y/n needed a break from her work.

Next to it was the storage room for tools that didn’t fit in the main area. Large, sturdy cabinets were filled with drills, screwdrivers, hammers, and other equipment that she didn’t use as frequently. There were shelves above that held spare parts for gadgets and the odd prototype or two that she wasn’t yet ready to put in the main area.

The long-term project room was located at the back of the workshop, where Y/n would store the larger, more complex projects she wasn’t actively working on. Some of the space was taken up by prototype suits in various stages of completion—half-finished designs that required careful planning and long hours to perfect. The room was meticulously organized, as Y/n hated clutter, but it had a more clinical feel to it, compared to the organized chaos of the main area.

At the back of the room, a narrow staircase led upward, the steps creaking faintly beneath her feet. The upper floor was an area that offered more privacy and quiet, a stark contrast to the lively hum of the workshop below. The bedroom was at the top of the stairs, small but cozy, with a large bed by the window and shelves filled with books, sketchpads, and old journals. There was a sense of calm here that made it the perfect place for her to recharge after long hours of work. The walls were adorned with various technical blueprints and framed photos of heroes she admired, and on the nightstand next to the bed was a small plant that added a touch of life to the room.

Beside the bedroom, however, there was a second room that she had yet to figure out what to do with. It was a small, undecorated space—nothing more than bare walls, empty shelves, and the occasional discarded item. It had been empty for a while, and Y/n hadn’t found a purpose for it yet. Perhaps it would one day hold more work materials, or maybe it would become a small personal space for herself outside of her work. For now, though, it remained unused, just another blank canvas in the sea of activity that was her life.

The entire workshop felt like a sanctuary to her—each room designed with purpose, each space contributing to the calm efficiency of her work. It wasn’t just a place for tools and projects; it was her home, her heart, and a tangible reflection of her dedication to her craft. As the day outside grew darker and the snow continued to fall, Y/n returned to the main room, feeling at peace among the clutter, her hands instinctively reaching for the next task.

As the hours passed, the workshop became a warm sanctuary amidst the growing chill outside. The light inside was soft and comforting, the candles she had lit casting a gentle glow that danced against the cluttered walls. She had been so focused on her work that she didn’t even notice the change in the light, the sky slowly darkening outside as the night settled in. The workshop was still full of life—her tools, half-finished designs, and the various pieces of gear she had scattered across the workbench—but her attention was entirely absorbed by the task in front of her: creating a new piece of hero gear for Red Riot, Eijiro Kirishima.

She had been at it for hours, tweaking the design and fine-tuning every detail of the new suit, adjusting the fit, the layers, the protective tech, and the durability for his quirk. She had always admired Kirishima's unwavering sense of bravery and his dedication to his hero work. His gear had to be as strong and dependable as he was. She’d spent countless hours designing and perfecting the reinforced armor plates, the texture, and the mobility—making sure that the suit would enhance his natural durability while not impeding his explosive, close-quarters fighting style.

By the time she finished the last stitch, her hair had come undone from its messy bun and hung loosely around her face, which was smudged with grease from hours of constant work. Her clothes were wrinkled, sleeves rolled up, and her hands were covered in a mix of oil, ink, and the remnants of materials she had been handling. Though she was a mess in appearance, it suited her in a way. It was a reflection of the intensity and dedication she poured into every project, every piece of gear she created. She didn’t mind it. In fact, it was comforting. It meant she had been focused—fully immersed in the work she loved. She couldn't care less that her hair was a little wild and her face was smeared with the evidence of her labor.

The candles on her workbench flickered softly, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon filling the air. The small lights she’d strung across the ceiling cast a cozy glow that added to the ambiance, giving the room a festive, almost magical feel. Outside, the world had fully transitioned into evening. The streetlights gleamed brightly, each one wrapped with red and green fairy lights, lighting up the street like little stars. Her shop’s window was aglow, and the soft light spilled out onto the sidewalk, making the whole street feel like it was dressed for the season. Her little bell, which jingled every time someone entered her workshop, was adorned with a small red bow, adding a final touch of holiday cheer.

Through the window, she could see the street bustling with people, each bundled in thick scarves and coats as they roamed the festive streets. The crowd had grown in size over the past few hours, many of them exchanging treats, shopping at local vendors, or simply strolling with loved ones. A group of children had gathered near the center of the block, their laughter filling the air as they watched the massive Christmas tree being decorated with ornaments and twinkling lights. The whole scene had a sense of magic and togetherness that warmed her heart as she watched, her gaze softening as she let herself get lost in the festive atmosphere.

She couldn’t remember the last time she had paused long enough to enjoy something so simple—the sight of people gathered around, smiling and enjoying each other’s company. It reminded her of how important these moments of peace and joy were, even in a world so filled with chaos. Her eyes lingered on the scene, taking in the bright lights of the tree, the colorful displays in the windows of neighboring shops, and the way the snow shimmered in the distance as it continued to fall softly against the street.

Her thoughts drifted as she finished wrapping up Kirishima’s new gear, the final piece carefully placed in the box. She pulled out her phone, her fingers sliding over the screen to type out a message to him. The thought of his big, enthusiastic grin when he picked up the suit made her smile a little to herself.

“Hey Kirishima, your gear’s ready for pickup whenever you are. Just let me know when you’re free! —Y/n”

She typed out the message, but before hitting send, she paused. She had always felt a bit awkward when it came to communicating with her clients outside of work, though Kirishima was different. He was always kind and appreciative, and she had enjoyed working with him over the years. Still, she lingered over the message for a moment longer than necessary, contemplating whether to add a little something extra. Something more personal. Maybe a quick note about the weather, or the Christmas tree in the square?

She sighed softly, No. Just send it. She quickly hit “send,” feeling a rush of relief once it was done.

The quiet of the evening settled back into the workshop, and the faint sounds of the street outside returned to her ears. She turned back to the room, taking a final glance around at the organized chaos she had created. The clutter, the half-finished designs, the smell of wax and grease—it was all part of the environment that made her feel at home.

As she moved to put away the tools scattered across the bench, she caught one last glimpse of the scene outside—children running beneath the lights, families exchanging gifts, and the huge tree casting its glow over the neighborhood. For a moment, everything felt in place, and she allowed herself to relax into the peace of the moment, knowing she had done good work, and the holidays were here to remind her of life beyond the grind.

December was always a whirlwind for Y/n. It was the one month of the year when everything seemed to shift into high gear. The streets outside her shop would become busier, the sound of footsteps and excited chatter filling the air as the holiday season descended upon the city. But for Y/n, December was not just about the holidays—it was the month when the majority of heroes in Japan scrambled to fit themselves into her already-packed schedule.

The end of the year was always the busiest time for most pro heroes. They had to complete their last missions before taking time off for the holidays, and many of them needed adjustments, repairs, or entirely new gear for the new year. It was a crucial time when their equipment had to be fine-tuned or revamped, and no one was more in demand than Y/n. Her reputation had spread far and wide, and no one was better at designing high-tech, battle-ready gear than her.

Every year, it seemed, more heroes came to her, and every year, she had to scramble to keep up with the influx of requests. The inbox on her phone would fill up with urgent messages, often from heroes in desperate need of gear before a mission. Pro heroes like Red Riot, Ingenium, Froppy, and even Gran Torino had been known to slide into her DMs, trying to carve out a time to meet. Each request was important to her, and she made it her mission to fulfill them all—no matter how hectic her days became.

It wasn’t just the high-ranking pros either. Sometimes young up-and-comers would reach out too, seeking advice or help with building their own custom gear. But the pros were always the priority. She’d never turn down a request, and while the workload could sometimes feel suffocating, she always found herself excited to tackle the challenge. Every new design pushed her to think harder, be more creative, and solve problems in ways no one else could. It was exhausting but exhilarating, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

It had been this way for years, ever since she started her career as a gear designer. In fact, December was the only time of year she ever visited Mustafu, and every time she did, the city seemed to draw her in a little more. While the snow-covered streets, the festive decorations, and the bustling crowds were all part of the charm, it was the heroes themselves that kept her tethered to this place. She’d built a life here—a life that was always filled with problem-solving, challenges, and the satisfaction of creating something that helped keep the people of Japan safe.

As she worked long hours during the month of December, the little details of the holiday season often became the background to her chaotic schedule. The occasional carol or the soft jingle of the bell on her door when a customer entered would remind her that, while she was surrounded by the rush of work, there was also something more joyful, more serene, happening just outside. It was a delicate balance between the frantic pace of creating new gear and the sense of calm that came with watching the world outside transform into something beautiful for the holidays.

She didn’t mind the busyness, though. In fact, she thrived in it. It felt good to be needed, to know that her work was essential to the safety and success of those fighting for the greater good. December, with all its chaos, was also the time when she felt most alive. But it also reminded her of how quickly time passed—the days became a blur of designs, measurements, and last-minute requests, and before she knew it, the year would end.

But for now, Y/n focused on the task at hand. As the snow continued to fall outside and the Christmas lights twinkled on the streets, she settled back into her routine, fully immersed in her work. She knew there were many more requests coming her way, and many more late nights ahead of her—but that was just part of her life during December, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

~~~

Bakugo sat in his dimly lit apartment, staring out the window at the snow falling outside. The muffled sounds of the city echoed faintly from below, but he wasn’t really paying attention. His mind was elsewhere, revolving around one thing—Y/n L/n.

His phone sat in his hand, and he clenched it tightly, barely containing his impatience. He had been thinking about this for weeks, wondering if it was even worth bothering her. He hadn’t seen her in person yet, but after hearing Midoriya talk about her for so long, there was no denying the intrigue. She was the best at what she did, and that’s exactly what he needed—the best. His old mechanic, Hatsune, had been getting more erratic with each passing year. And Bakugo didn’t have time for a screw-up; he needed his new gear for the upcoming missions and the adjustments to his current tech. No more messing around.

The phone in his hand buzzed, snapping him out of his thoughts. He looked at the screen—Midoriya—and pressed the green button without hesitation.

“What is it, Deku?” Bakugo growled, his voice as sharp as ever. He didn’t waste time on pleasantries.

“Hey, Bakugo,” Izuku replied on the other end of the line, his voice warm as always, even though he knew Bakugo’s impatience was palpable. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Y/n. I’ve set everything up for you—she’s agreed to meet with you. You just have to contact her to set a time.”

Bakugo grunted in response, rubbing his forehead in annoyance. “I don’t need you to babysit me, Midoriya. I can set the damn thing up myself.”

Izuku chuckled lightly, the sound more of a sigh than anything. “I know you can. I just thought it might be easier to get things started since you’ve been hesitant to reach out directly.”

“‘Hesitant’?” Bakugo snorted, his voice rising with the familiar frustration he felt whenever anyone pointed out his reluctance. “I’m not hesitant. I just—” he cut himself off, shaking his head in annoyance. It wasn’t like him to admit to being unsure about something, especially when it came to reaching out for help. He always took care of things on his own. He didn’t need anyone’s help, not even from someone as damn good as Y/n.

Midoriya could practically hear the internal struggle in Bakugo’s voice. He didn’t press it, though. He knew his friend wasn’t the type to admit when he was in over his head. Instead, he tried to steer the conversation back. “She’s amazing, Bakugo. Trust me, you’re in good hands. She works on gear for top pros all the time. You’ve heard me talk about her before, right?”

Bakugo grumbled under his breath, shifting uncomfortably. “Yeah, I’ve heard you go on and on about her. Genius this, genius that. She’s the best at fixing everything, blah blah blah.” He mimicked Izuku’s voice as he spoke, his tone dripping with sarcastic humor. “I don’t need to hear it again.”

“Yeah, but... you are going to meet her, right? I mean, you can’t exactly keep putting it off forever. You’ve been saying you need new gear for a while now, and she’s the one who can help. If you want a solid suit, you should meet with her soon.”

Bakugo paused, considering this. He knew it wasn’t just the suit that was holding him back. It was more than that. This wasn’t like his usual, straightforward upgrades. This was someone new. Someone who, despite being a genius in her field, wasn’t someone he had a history with, wasn’t someone who he could just bark orders at and get things done. Y/n was a different kind of person—one who demanded respect, not just because of her skills, but because of the way she carried herself.

“I know. I know,” Bakugo muttered finally, rubbing his neck with his free hand, his frustration turning inward. “I just... I don’t like asking for help, okay?"

Izuku’s voice softened. “I get it, Bakugo. But Y/n isn’t like Hatsune. She’s the kind of person who makes things happen. You won’t regret it. She works with some of the highest-ranked heroes, and she’s one of the best at what she does. You’ll be in good hands.”

Bakugo let out a frustrated sigh. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll call her... but you better not tell anyone I needed your help setting it up.”

“Of course,” Izuku agreed with a laugh. “I promise. It’s between us.”

“Good. Now, get outta here, nerd.” Bakugo hung up before Izuku could say another word, tossing the phone down onto the couch beside him. His brow furrowed as he leaned back in his chair, his thoughts swirling around the upcoming meeting.

He wasn’t sure what he expected from Y/n. All he knew was that she had the skills to make him unstoppable, and for someone like Bakugo, that was everything. But meeting her... well, that was something else. Would she be as cold as her reputation suggested, or would she just get down to business, no-nonsense like him? He didn’t know. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to let himself back out of it. Not when he needed her.

“I’m not asking for a favor,” he muttered to himself, his usual scowl twisting his features. “I’m just making a damn appointment.”

Bakugo scowled as he leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping impatiently on the armrest. He wasn’t a patient person. He didn’t have time for slow-moving relationships or delicate negotiations. And that’s exactly what this felt like. The last thing he wanted was to screw it up like he did with Hatsume. She had been good—okay good—at making his gear, but she was erratic, unpredictable, and the constant chaos she brought with her was something Bakugo just couldn’t deal with anymore. The final straw had been when she had tried to alter his gauntlets to make them "more experimental," without consulting him. It was a disaster. He had spent weeks fixing the mess she'd made, and it had thrown off his entire schedule.

No, Y/n was different. From what Izuku told him, she was highly sought after by pro heroes and specialized in creating high-tech, custom gear—precisely the kind of gear he needed. And from what Izuku had said, she was serious about her work, no-nonsense. She didn’t tolerate wasting time, and that was exactly the kind of person Bakugo respected. He didn’t want a frilly, touchy-feely process with her. He didn’t want to make small talk or find some "special bond" like Izuku seemed to have with her. He didn’t need a friend—he needed a professional. He wanted the best, and that was Y/n.

But that’s what made it so hard. He didn’t know how to do this. He couldn’t approach her like he did with the others—bark out his request and get on with it. She wasn’t someone who’d respond well to his usual “tough guy” routine. She wasn’t Hatsume. From what he knew, she was calm, calculated, and all business. If he wanted to get her to take him seriously and make him the gear he needed, he would have to not screw it up. He’d have to be careful... and that thought made his stomach twist.

The thing that made it harder was that Y/n was also Izuku’s friend, and Bakugo couldn’t help but feel a little... weird about that. Midoriya was the one person who seemed to get along with everyone. The guy had this natural ability to make connections, to nurture relationships, something Bakugo never had the patience for. He didn’t know how to "bond" with people. To him, the whole process was a waste of time. But with Y/n? That was different. He couldn’t afford to just barge in, demanding what he needed and then walking away. That kind of attitude might’ve worked with other people, but it wouldn’t work with her. He had to tread carefully.

And that pissed him off.

“So what?” Bakugo muttered under his breath, fidgeting with the hem of his jacket. “I’m supposed to... be nice? Talk to her about her stupid gear until we’re best buddies? I don’t have time for that crap.”

But deep down, he knew that if he didn’t play this right, he wouldn’t get anywhere. If he came at her like he did with Hatsume, all brash and rude, there was a chance she’d just turn him away. And then he’d be stuck, trying to fix things on his own—just like before.

Taking a deep breath, Bakugo reached for his phone, staring at the screen for a long moment before dialing Y/n’s number. His fingers hovered over the screen, his thoughts racing. He hated this. He hated that he had to make another appointment, another meeting, another careful exchange of words just to make sure he didn’t sound like a total jackass.

He could feel his pulse quicken as the phone rang. “Get it together, you idiot,” he muttered, gritting his teeth.

The phone continued to ring. He wasn’t sure what he was even going to say when she picked up. Something simple, probably. Something like, Hey, I need you to fix my gear. But even that felt too much like the usual Bakugo approach—too direct, too harsh. He wasn’t sure how to make the request sound more... respectful. More professional. If he was going to do this right, he couldn’t go in all guns blazing.

“C’mon, pick up...” Bakugo’s frustration mounted as the ringing continued. His mind kept circling back to the same question: What the hell am I supposed to say to her?

Finally, the phone clicked.

"Hello, this is Y/n."

Her voice was calm, collected. The kind of voice Bakugo hadn’t expected to hear. No snarky attitude, no annoyance—it was just business.

"Yeah," Bakugo started, trying to keep his voice steady, but his natural abrasiveness still slipped through. "I’m Bakugo Katsuki. Midoriya told you I’d be calling. I need my gear fixed... and I want it done right."

He could hear the pause on the other end of the line. Y/n didn’t immediately respond, which only made Bakugo’s nerves flare up. Was she annoyed? Was she going to turn him down?

"Alright," she said finally, her tone even, measured. "What’s the issue?"

It was simple, no-nonsense. And that was exactly what Bakugo needed. He took a breath and launched into the details of his gear—what needed tweaking, what had malfunctioned, and what he needed for the upcoming season. His words came more easily now that the initial awkwardness had passed. As he spoke, he realized he was relieved. Y/n wasn’t the type to deal with his temper. She was someone who got straight to the point, which meant he didn’t have to pretend to be anything else. He could just be himself—short, blunt, and direct.

And that, strangely enough, was exactly what he needed.

The phone call hung in the air between them, a slight tension threading through the silence as Bakugo gathered his thoughts. Y/n’s voice on the other end of the line was calm and professional, and it gave Bakugo an odd sense of reassurance. For once, he didn’t have to worry about unnecessary pleasantries. This wasn’t some small-time mechanic; this was Y/n L/n, one of the best in the business, and he didn’t have time for any mess-ups.

“Alright,” Y/n said, her voice smooth but firm. “What seems to be the problem?”

Bakugo exhaled sharply, not hesitating. "I need my gear adjusted. The gauntlets are fine, but they're starting to wear down. The propulsion system’s malfunctioning, too. Can't get the proper boost anymore."

Her response was instant. "That sounds like a problem with the wiring. Could be the energy core too. Anything else?"

Bakugo ground his teeth, trying to keep his irritation in check. She wasn’t sounding like she was judging him—just asking the right questions. It was professional, straightforward, and it caught him off guard. He expected more... resistance or maybe even a little sarcasm. But instead, it felt like a business transaction, and for once, he appreciated it.

"The gauntlet's shield mode is also starting to glitch. It's not holding up under pressure. I’ve had some issues with that before, but now it’s worse," he added, his tone more clipped now as he went down the list. "And I need something a bit more... advanced for my upcoming missions. I’m thinking something to enhance the explosion output."

"Got it," she replied, her voice never wavering, no hint of surprise at his demands. "I'll need to take a look at the damage in person. Could you bring everything by the shop tomorrow around noon?"

Bakugo paused at the mention of "shop." He had heard a lot about her workshop from Izuku, but now that he was here—actually talking to her—he didn’t know what to expect. Would it be some quiet little place, cluttered with tools and parts? Or would it be more... organized than he imagined?

He cleared his throat, forcing himself to stay focused. “Yeah, I can do that. I’ll bring the gauntlets. I want everything checked—don’t leave anything out.”

“Understood,” she said without hesitation. “I’ll have time to go over it then. Anything else you want me to know about your gear before I start?"

Bakugo thought for a second. She wasn’t rushing him. She wasn’t acting like he was wasting her time, and that alone made him feel slightly less on edge.

"Uh, I guess..." he trailed off for a moment, frowning. "It’s gotta be stronger. Faster. I don’t need a ton of useless gimmicks or flashy upgrades. Just solid performance. Something to handle my attacks without failing halfway through."

Y/n’s voice came through again, steady and sure. "I understand. I’ll make sure everything is tailored to your fighting style. No frills, just raw power."

For the first time during their conversation, Bakugo allowed himself to feel a bit of relief. That was exactly what he wanted. He wasn’t here for anything fancy—just the best of the best, no fluff. The thought of someone understanding that so quickly was almost comforting, which irritated him slightly. He wasn’t used to this calm, methodical approach. But it was working.

"Alright," Bakugo grunted, getting back to business. "I’ll see you tomorrow at noon, then. Don’t waste my time."

"Won’t be a problem," she replied smoothly. "See you then, Bakugo."

And with that, the line went quiet as Bakugo hung up. His fingers were still tight around the phone, but this time, it wasn’t out of frustration—it was because he had, against all his instincts, actually felt like he could trust her. And maybe that was the hardest part of all.

For someone like Bakugo, trust wasn’t easily earned. But from the way she handled their conversation—calm, to the point, no unnecessary chatter—Y/n was the kind of person who got things done. That was what he needed.

He just hoped that tomorrow would go smoothly.

Bakugo stood in his apartment, staring down at his phone for a few long moments after hanging up. He had thought briefly about texting Midoriya, asking if he could offer any advice on how to not screw up his first in-person meeting with Y/n. But he quickly dismissed the idea. He wouldn’t give Deku the satisfaction of being right about their whole “bonding” nonsense. He didn’t need anyone telling him how to handle this. He’d figure it out on his own—like he always did.

With a frustrated grunt, Bakugo shoved his phone into his jacket pocket and stormed out of his apartment, slamming the door behind him. The cold air hit him immediately as he stepped out onto the snowy street. It was still early evening, and the last traces of daylight were fading from the sky, leaving only the soft glow of streetlights and the distant sparkle of holiday decorations.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and set off in the direction of her workshop. He didn’t want to walk in or do anything crazy, just wanted to scope the place out. Get a feel for it before he actually showed up tomorrow.

The streets were busy with people, most of them huddled together as they went about their evening shopping or gathering in groups, preparing for the upcoming holidays. The air smelled of fresh snow, candy, and food from the nearby vendors. People were exchanging holiday treats, laughing as they shared stories with one another. It was almost peaceful, and Bakugo hated how easy it was to feel... out of place.

But he didn’t care about that. He had a job to do. A mission to accomplish. And Y/n’s workshop was part of that. He needed to know what kind of person he was dealing with.

As he turned down the street, he spotted it. A small shop, tucked between two larger buildings, with a humble wooden sign hanging above the door that read Y/n L/n Hero Gear Design. The exterior was simple but inviting. Green leaves of mistletoe were carefully draped across the windows, and a few strands of fairy lights wrapped around the lamppost outside. A small red bow adorned the bell that hung above the door—probably the same bell he’d hear when he walked in tomorrow.

Bakugo lingered on the corner, his eyes scanning the scene. The shop was warm and cozy looking, its window fogged with the heat of the inside and glowing softly from the lights within. He could see the faint outline of a workbench through the window—tools scattered across it, some parts in mid-construction, half-finished prototypes lying around. The soft glow of candles illuminated the interior, giving it a comfortable, lived-in feel.

His eyes narrowed as he examined the details. The window was too fogged up to make out much more, but the simplicity of the shop was striking. It wasn’t some flashy place with expensive decorations or excessive tech gadgets. It looked like a place that was used for one thing: work. This was where people came to get serious gear designed, not to be coddled or pampered.

That, in itself, made Bakugo feel a bit more at ease. He didn’t need some fancy shop with a bunch of unnecessary perks. This was more like it—straightforward, no frills. He could respect that.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his hands clenched tightly in his pockets. He had no intention of walking in tonight. No need for that. He wasn’t here to make an impression or start small talk. He just needed to get a better look at the place.

He stood there for a while, watching through the window, noting the way the candles flickered in the dimming light and the faint hum of holiday music that seemed to float out into the street. The place felt... warm. Cozy. It felt like a space where someone worked tirelessly, and that was the vibe he needed.

After a few more minutes, Bakugo pulled his gaze away and turned around, heading back down the street. He didn’t need to see anything else. He had his answer. The next step was tomorrow—show up, drop off the gear, get it fixed. No need to complicate it.

But as he walked, his mind started to churn again. What was she like, really? Was she as no-nonsense as she sounded? Would she put up with his direct approach or shut him down the moment he said something too blunt? He didn’t have the answers yet, but by tomorrow, he’d find out.

For now, though, he was content with knowing exactly where he needed to be. The rest could wait.

~~~

The sound of the bell above her door echoed faintly through the quiet workshop, cutting through the ambient hum of the small candles that flickered on her workbench. Y/n's heart skipped for a moment as she quickly grabbed the towel tighter around her body, eyes darting towards the entrance. She had been so focused on finishing up her work on Red Riot’s gear that she had completely forgotten to lock the door.

With a quick glance to her window, she saw the faint snowfall continuing, blanketing the streets outside. The soft crunch of boots against the snow echoed through the building as the door creaked open, and Y/n tensed, ready to bolt upstairs to her bedroom. She didn’t need any unannounced visitors walking in while she was half-dressed.

But then she heard a familiar voice, followed by a giggle.

“Y/n! You’re in a towel again!” Eri’s voice rang through the space as the younger girl stepped inside, brushing snow off her shoulders as she entered. She was laughing softly, her breath misting in the cold air.

Y/n exhaled in relief and let out a frustrated sigh, letting her shoulders sag. “Eri! What did I tell you about knocking first?” she said, rolling her eyes as she walked toward the stairs.

Eri giggled and skipped over to the workbench, her boots leaving small, wet marks on the polished wood floor. “I knocked! But the door was open already!” she said with a smile that was both playful and mischievous. Her snow-dusted scarf hung loosely around her neck, her cheeks rosy from the cold, and her wide, curious eyes were filled with that familiar energy that made Y/n smile despite herself.

“Give me a second to change, okay?” Y/n grumbled, wrapping the towel tighter around her as she quickly ascended the stairs. She didn’t wait for a response as she disappeared into her room, quickly tossing on some old clothes that were comfortable enough to wear around the workshop but not too formal.

A few minutes later, Y/n emerged from upstairs, now in a white/tan tanktop and loose grey sweatpants that sat low on her waist. Her hair was still wet, tied back loosely in a messy ponytail, strands falling around her face as she made her way back down the stairs. Eri was still at the workbench, leaning over the table as she poked curiously at some of the small, scattered pieces of Red Riot’s gear.

"Is this Red Riot’s?" Eri asked, picking up a half-finished piece of the gauntlet and turning it over in her hands, examining it with interest. Y/n nodded as she approached, rubbing the back of her neck as she crossed the floor.

“Yeah, it is. He wanted a few adjustments, so I’ve been working on it all day. Almost done now,” Y/n replied, wiping her hands on the sides of her swestpants before coming over to help her put the piece down gently. "Careful with that, Eri. It’s delicate."

Eri grinned sheepishly and placed the part back on the workbench with a soft thud. "Sorry, I was just curious! It looks really cool though! I wanna be as good at making things as you someday," she said, her eyes full of admiration.

Y/n chuckled softly, leaning back against the counter as she watched Eri. “You’ll get there. I’m sure you’ll be better than me one day. But you’ve got to be patient. Don’t rush it,” Y/n advised. There was an edge to her voice, not harsh but firm. She had seen so many aspiring mechanics rush into things without thinking carefully first. Eri was smart, though—she had the talent, just needed some guidance.

Eri huffed and crossed her arms, pouting. “I’m 15 now! I’ve been begging Aizawa forever to let me come here by myself! He’s so protective, it’s dumb.” She dropped her gaze and kicked a small tool off the table with her foot. “But I’m older now, so he finally let me!”

Y/n raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms as she leaned against the workbench. “Aizawa finally gave in, huh? About time.” She smirked at the thought of Aizawa’s typical overprotective nature. He had always been like that with Eri. She knew he cared, but Y/n also knew Eri was capable of more than Aizawa often gave her credit for.

“He’s so annoying sometimes,” Eri groaned, shaking her head. “Like, I’m not a baby. I can come here without him hovering. I know how to handle myself.”

“Of course you do,” Y/n said with a smile, ruffling Eri’s hair as she leaned over the workbench. “But I bet he just worries, that’s all.”

Eri rolled her eyes dramatically, then returned to inspecting the various tools scattered around the workshop. “Still, it’s lame. But at least I finally get to see what you do up close. It’s awesome,” she said with another smile.

Y/n chuckled softly, enjoying the ease of their conversation. Despite the busy atmosphere of the workshop, Eri’s presence was a welcome distraction. Y/n wasn’t used to many people coming by—except for clients, of course—but Eri always brought a certain lightness with her. Maybe it was the way she always saw the world with wonder or how she found joy in the little things. It reminded Y/n that it wasn’t just the work that mattered, but the people you shared it with.

“Alright, alright,” Y/n said, pushing off from the counter and standing up straighter. “But I better not catch you touching any more parts without asking.” She smiled at Eri’s guilty expression, watching the younger girl nod dramatically.

“I promise! I’ll just watch you finish your work,” Eri said, holding her hands up in mock surrender. “I’m just happy you’re letting me hang out here.”

Y/n smiled fondly, walking over to the workbench where the nearly finished gauntlet sat. "Well, I guess you’ve earned it. Just don’t go telling Aizawa I’m spoiling you, alright?" she said with a wink.

Eri giggled in response, her voice soft and content. “I won’t, I promise. Thanks, Y/n."

With that, the two fell into an easy silence, with only the sound of Y/n's tools clinking and the faint hum of candles filling the space between them. The snow continued to fall gently outside, its quiet beauty slipping unnoticed through the windows as the night deepened.

Y/n carefully affixed the last piece of Red Riot’s gear, attaching a sleek, polished plate to the side before finishing it off with a small red star right on top. It was a small touch, but it made the entire thing feel like a gift, something that would bring warmth to the hero, especially with the holidays just around the corner. The star shimmered against the light of the candles on her workbench, a tiny beacon of celebration amidst the mechanics and technical parts.

Eri had been watching her work the entire time, her eyes wide with fascination, her hands absentmindedly fidgeting with one of the tools on the table. She had always been captivated by Y/n’s skill, the way she seemed to move through the process with such ease and precision, as if she knew exactly what each part needed without hesitation.

“Everything you do is so cool, Y/n,” Eri finally said, breaking the quiet hum of the workshop. Y/n smiled at the younger girl’s admiration, knowing it came from a place of genuine curiosity and respect. Eri wasn’t quite a little kid anymore, though. She was 15 now—growing up and gaining more independence, even if it meant finding ways to get past the overprotective Aizawa.

Eri hesitated for a moment, her eyes darting around the room before landing back on Y/n. “Hey, could you maybe ask Shota if I could sleep over? He’s always said no! I’m 15 now, and plus, you're responsible. Just maybe if I could prove to him I could do it, maybe he’d let me sleep over with my friends for once. Please, Y/n?”

Y/n glanced at her, a soft laugh escaping her lips at the sheer pleading in Eri’s voice. She already knew how Aizawa could be. The man was about as stubborn as they came, especially when it came to Eri. But there was no denying how much the young girl had grown, and how much she wanted to experience things beyond the restrictions he constantly put on her.

Y/n sighed, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. She didn't want to get involved in something like this—it wasn't her business, after all. But she also knew the ways to approach Aizawa, the right words to say that might make him reconsider his rigid stance.

“Alright, alright. Fine,” Y/n said, her voice soft but firm. “But don’t get your hopes up too high. Aizawa’s not exactly the kind of guy to bend easily.”

Eri’s eyes lit up at the promise, and Y/n could practically see the excitement bubbling up inside her. She bounced on the balls of her feet. “Really? Oh my gosh, you’re the best, Y/n! I swear, I’ll make it worth your while!”

Y/n chuckled, shaking her head. “Go next door and get us some treats while I call him. A simple text won’t do the trick, and you know it. I’ll talk to him, but you’ve gotta be patient.”

Eri didn’t even need a second to think about it before she darted out the door, her footsteps light and quick as she rushed down the street. Y/n watched her go, a soft smile lingering on her lips. It was nice to see Eri so happy, so full of life. Even though she still had a lot to learn, it was clear that she had a good head on her shoulders, and a strong sense of determination.

Once Eri was out of earshot, Y/n turned back to her workbench and pulled out her phone from her pocket. She scrolled through her contacts until she found Shota’s name and tapped it.

Her thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before she typed out a simple, but direct message:

“Hey Shota, I know you’re probably going to say no, but Eri’s been asking about a sleepover with her friends. She’s 15 now, and I think she’s old enough to handle it. You should really let her have some freedom. Just think about it, okay?”

After a brief moment of thought, she hit send. She wasn’t sure what kind of response she’d get, but she had a good feeling that Aizawa would at least give it some thought. He had a soft spot for Eri, even if he didn’t like to show it.

Y/n set her phone down and leaned back, her fingers brushing the edge of the workbench. The peaceful ambiance of the workshop seemed to wrap around her, the soft light of the candles flickering as she gazed out the window, watching the snow fall gently outside.

She had never been one to get involved in personal matters like this, but when it came to Eri, it was hard not to want to help. Y/n understood the importance of finding balance in life, of having fun and making memories. And if Eri could prove to Aizawa that she was responsible, well, maybe this time he’d allow it.

Y/n only hoped that, for once, Eri could have the simple pleasures of a normal teenager, even if just for a night.

Y/n’s thumb hovered over the screen for a moment, but then she quickly put the phone down and decided it was better to call him directly. She pressed the dial button and waited, tapping her fingers lightly against the workbench as she listened to the dial tone. She knew Aizawa well enough to know that he wouldn’t be thrilled with the interruption, especially considering how exhausted he always seemed, but she hoped he would listen.

After a few rings, he picked up, his voice groggy and a bit strained. "What is it?"

Y/n immediately felt a pang of guilt, knowing he was probably busy grading papers or dealing with his never-ending pile of work. "Hey, I’m sorry to bother you. I know you’re probably up to your neck in work, but there’s something Eri’s been asking about."

He sighed on the other end, and she could almost hear the fatigue in his breath. "What is it?"

Y/n took a deep breath before speaking, choosing her words carefully. "So, Eri’s here with me right now. And she’s asking if she can sleep over. She’s 15, and I’ll be watching her the whole time. I know you’re very strict about this, but she’s a good kid, Aizawa. She really is. And eventually, she’s going to want to push those boundaries, and it might be worse if you don’t give her a little bit of trust. I know I did when I was 15."

She paused for a moment, allowing her words to settle in, but not letting the silence drag on for too long. "She was so excited when I said I’d ask you. What do you say? Just this once? I’ll keep an eye on her."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Y/n could practically hear Aizawa thinking it over. He was the type of man who didn’t make decisions lightly, especially when it came to Eri. He was fiercely protective, and even though Y/n had no doubt he trusted her, she also knew he didn’t easily give in to requests like this.

After a long moment, he finally spoke, his voice still a bit worn, but with an underlying warmth that only Y/n would pick up on. "You’re right," he muttered. "She’s 15 now. And you’re not wrong. But don’t let her get any ideas. If this is going to work, you have to make sure she stays responsible, and nothing goes wrong."

Y/n smiled, feeling a wave of relief wash over her. "I’ve got it covered. Thanks, Aizawa. I promise, I’ll keep her out of trouble."

"Fine. Just don’t make me regret it," Aizawa replied, his voice softening just a little.

"I won’t," Y/n assured him, already hearing the faint click of him hanging up.

She held the phone in her hand for a moment longer, just letting the quiet settle around her. She exhaled deeply, glancing at the workbench where Red Riot’s gear sat neatly finished. After a brief moment of reflection, Y/n stood up, stretching her arms above her head. That was one problem solved—now, she could relax a bit, knowing Eri would get to enjoy a sleepover for once.

As she heard the door creak open, she turned to see Eri standing in the doorway with a bag of treats in her hands, her face lighting up when she saw Y/n.

"Guess what?" Eri grinned, holding up the bag. "I got us everything we need! And, you’ll never believe it… he actually said yes, he said i could sleep over here tommorow night!"

Y/n couldn't help but laugh, nodding toward the bag of sweets in Eri’s hand. "I know. I just got off the phone with him."

Eri squealed in excitement, rushing over to sit next to Y/n. "I can’t believe it! I’m gonna text my friends right now! This is the best day ever! If my sleepover with you goes well tomorrow, then he has to let me eventually sleep over with my friends."

Y/n smiled, watching Eri's face light up. She had made a promise, and now it was time to let Eri enjoy a bit of freedom, something that she hadn’t gotten to experience much of. The small, quiet moments of joy were what made all the hard work worth it.

The soft flicker of candlelight illuminated the cozy corners of the shop, casting long shadows as the night wore on. Eri was still buzzing with excitement, chatting non-stop about her plans for tomorrow, her sleepover, and the treats they’d just eaten together. But Y/n could see the exhaustion creeping into her eyes as the clock ticked closer to 9 p.m. She was used to these late-night chats, but she also knew it was getting dangerously close to the time Aizawa had set for Eri to be home.

Y/n stretched her arms out, the weight of the long day finally catching up to her. She knew how protective Aizawa was—he’d probably be pacing at home by now, waiting for Eri to get back before the clock struck a certain hour. No matter how much Eri was pushing for a little more freedom, Y/n knew Aizawa had a point about keeping her safe and sticking to boundaries.

"Alright, kiddo," Y/n said softly, pulling herself out of her chair and stretching once more. "It’s getting late. You know how Aizawa is about the time, and I think we should get you home before he starts worrying."

Eri pouted, clearly not ready to leave just yet. "But I wanna stay longer! We were just talking about everything!"

"I know," Y/n chuckled, giving her a gentle smile, "but tomorrow’s your big day. You’ve got your sleepover to look forward to, and I’m sure Shota wouldn’t be happy if you were out too late tonight."

Eri huffed, but there was no real anger in it. She was already pulling on her boots, grabbing her coat with a sigh. "Yeah, I guess you’re right. He’d probably give me the lecture of the century."

Y/n laughed softly, nodding. "You know him well. But he’s just looking out for you."

The two of them walked toward the door, Eri still bouncing on her feet with excitement about the sleepover the next day. The snow outside had slowed to a gentle fall, the cold crisp in the air as they stepped out of the warmth of the shop. Eri dusted the snow off her shoulders before giving Y/n one last, hopeful glance.

"Thanks for everything tonight, Y/n. You’re the best," Eri said, her smile as bright as ever despite the cold.

Y/n smiled warmly, feeling the soft sting of emotion as she glanced at the girl she’d helped raise. "You’re welcome, Eri. I’m happy you had fun."

"See you tomorrow!" Eri waved as she walked down the street, the sound of her boots crunching in the snow the last thing Y/n heard before she stepped back inside.

She closed the door quietly behind her and locked it, glancing at the time once more. It was getting late, and with Eri now safely on her way home, Y/n could finally take a breath. She glanced at the workbench, the faint outline of Red Riot’s gear still resting there, finished and ready. Tomorrow would be another busy day.

But for tonight, all she wanted was to relax and unwind. She pulled off her shoes and settled on the couch, the quiet of the night wrapping around her as she thought back to everything that had happened. Eri’s smile, Aizawa’s reluctant approval, and the snow-covered streets all combined in a warm, peaceful atmosphere.

Tomorrow was going to be a good day.

After closing up for the night, Y/n moves through her apartment, turning off the workshop lights and heading upstairs to her bedroom. The house feels quieter now, with the snow falling gently outside and the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath her feet. She changes into comfortable pajamas, the warm fabrics a welcome end to a long day of work. Her thoughts drift back to the conversation with Eri—how happy the girl was about the sleepover, and how much she'd grown since she first came into Y/n’s life.

Y/n pulls back the covers on her bed and settles in, grabbing her phone to check for any messages before turning in. She notices a few texts from Izuku, but they’re all just casual updates, like how Aizawa is holding up or how his students are doing. She smiles, knowing how easy it is for him to worry about his friends and teammates.

As Y/n relaxes into her bed, her phone rings once again. It's Izuku’s name lighting up the screen, and she answers it without hesitation, still feeling the afterglow of a quiet evening.

"Hey, Izuku," Y/n says, settling deeper into the covers. "What’s up?"

Izuku's voice is slightly muffled, as if he’s pacing around or maybe trying to gather his thoughts. "Hey, Y/n! I just wanted to give you a quick heads-up about tomorrow. So, Bakugo and Kirishima are planning to stop by together. They’re best friends, after all, and… well, I guess it makes sense for them to come as a pair. So, it’ll be the two of them—hope that’s okay with you!"

Y/n pauses for a moment, trying to picture the scene. Bakugo, unpredictable and intense, alongside Kirishima, the more easy-going and friendly of the two. She could already sense the clash of personalities that might occur, but she had agreed to help Bakugo, and she wouldn’t back out now.

"I mean, I figured it would be one or the other," Y/n says, her voice teasing but calm. "But two? That’ll be interesting."

Izuku laughs nervously on the other end of the line. "Yeah, it’s probably going to be a bit chaotic. Bakugo can be… well, Bakugo, but Kirishima’s pretty good at keeping things balanced. I hope you don’t mind. They’re both really excited about the gear! Well Kirishima is, i dont know about Bakugo"

Y/n smirks to herself, leaning back on the pillow. "I’m sure they are. As long as I get my work done, I’ll be fine. I just don’t want to get caught in the middle of a shouting match."

Izuku chuckles, though there’s a nervous undertone. "Oh, trust me, I don’t think that’ll happen. Kirishima’s really good at keeping Bakugo in check. And if anything gets too out of hand, I’ll make sure I step in."

Y/n’s smile widens as she imagines the dynamic between the two. She could already picture Kirishima’s upbeat energy and Bakugo’s explosive attitude. It would definitely be an interesting interaction. "Alright then, it’s a date. I’ll see them tomorrow. I’m sure we’ll make it work."

"Thanks, Y/n! I really appreciate you taking this on," Izuku says, relief washing over his voice. "I’m sure they’ll be in good hands. I’ll see you tomorrow, then!"

After hanging up, Y/n lays back in bed, thoughts swirling around the upcoming encounter. Bakugo and Kirishima together in her workshop—now that was going to be something. She quickly glances over through her window, admiring the outside.

With a soft sigh, Y/n snuggles deeper into the blankets. Tomorrow was going to be a big day. She only hoped she could keep her cool when Bakugo showed up, especially with Kirishima there to keep things balanced.

---

[willowser]

bakugou hesitates beneath the dim light of the station lamp.

you notice it at the last moment, half-turned from him already. red riot is waiting at the end of the sidewalk, far back behind him, a fuzzy, red little blip in the distance; before, he at least tried to act like he was interested in something on his phone, though now that he is safely out of reach of his partner's searing glare, his attention is all yours.

it feels like permission, for something. whatever it is has your heart growing in your chest, beating almost painfully.

in one quick flash of movement, bakugou pushes a rough hand up his face, dragging his mask along with his fingers until it's free. there, it dangles a bit limply as he stares down at it, picking at a loose string. he's fussed his hair up a little, but you don't think he knows and it's too cute to call attention to.

by now, he should be half-way back to kirishima, back to patrol. back to the city.

"think y'can manage not to die if i catch up with shitty hair?"

you had hummed coyly, silly and light beneath his severe stare. the darkness of his mask bleeds into his eyes, making them seem deeper, sharper; it's hard not to squirm at the other end of it.

"we'll see, i guess," you grinned. "listen for me to scream real loud, okay?"

bakugou had huffed, material of his gloves scratching against itself as his fists balled. "don't say shit like that."

now he's pulling them off, his gloves. staring down at his own hands, skin a bit pale in the winter evening. you watch him flex his fingers, warming the life back into them, before he's glancing up at you from beneath his long lashes.

"got this," he murmurs, without explanation, "shit on my face."

and — he does; eyes still shadows, outlined in his tacky, grease paint. a ghost of his breath floats by every time he huffs, but there's a sheen to the paint, high on the points of his cheeks, where it's smeared, like he's sweating in this kind of weather.

again, you see the ant in distance move, and you think he may be closer.

finally, you ask, "what are you doing?" because — he should be gone by now.

the rare moments you earn with him are often stolen away by dynamight; this should be no different. instead, he is here, having quietly accompanied you to the train too late at night, borrowing time neither of you can afford to pay back.

not that you would. not when he's shuffling in his heavy boots, gloves crumpled in one tight, icy fist. bakugou raises to his full height — a sudden reminder, of his greatness; his slouch is terrible — and you feel the night closing in on you both. shrouding you in something unfamiliar.

he doesn't say anything, just fixes you with a determined stare that makes you feel seen; maybe too seen. before your heart can land another beat, he's there, too close in front of you, melting what ice has gathered over your own fingers.

you gasp quietly, visible in the winter. there's something a bit frightening about him like this, dressed in his warring gear, painted like a warrior, but heat floods your face and builds on the back of your neck, excited by the hazard of him.

he's so beautiful, unappreciated. you look into the soft plain of his face and melt a little further, lean in as if to press your cheek to his.

bakugou lets out another huff; a mirror of your own breath. he murmurs, "fuck it," before closing the space between you, finally.

his lips are a little dry, but so are yours, by the chill, and the first kiss is quick and firm and chaste. he doesn't move away from you when it's over, though, just crowds you with a furrowed brow, nudging it gently against yours in an affectionate little headbutt.

it makes you laugh and that pulls him in again, rough fingers sliding along the curve of your jaw, keeping you together as his lips part with your own, deep and slow, savored. you've day-dreamed this moment with him one-thousand times since entering into his weird, intimate little space, but he's easier to fall into than you could have ever imagined.

bakugou breathes against you, open and panting, and you know he needs to go — but he doesn't fight when you rest a hand on his chest; his fingers tangle in your hair and his lips become kiss-bitten, red and wet as he parts to you for the last time tonight, tongue brushing your own before he's pulling away with a rushed, "fuck,"

you blink up at him, smile growing as red riot hoots and hollers down the street. bakugou's face is as red as his partner's costume, not dimmed in the slightest as he breathes in the night air, turns his face up to the chill.

"i—" he hesitates again before taking a step away, yanking his mask back on. "call me when—y'get home."

you laugh, and the sound stops him for another split second, though his eyes are bright and alive as he gazes at you, this time. "okay," you agree, cheeks aching from your smile. "okay, i will, i promise."

it releases him; he doesn't waste another moment before turning on his heel, tugging his gloves on as he saunters back down the sidewalk — to a jumping kirishima. bakugou shoves him once, voice low and angry and unmistakable, even from the distance.

you both savor the moment one last time, with one more look, before it slips away.

[vxmpyree]

HELLO first if all I LOVE UR WRITING ... UR NIKTO FICS MAKE ME WANNA SCREAM INTO A PILLOW (/very pos)

ive never requested anything ever so im shy n gonna use anon teehee. ANYWAYS ik you said you write for pretty much anyone but i'm still gonna ask: do you write for keegan? if you do..... could i ask for a sick fic?🙏🙏 or any type of fluff rlly. with a male reader :3 (theres barely any for him 💔) THANK YOU FOR UR SERVICE IN THIS FANDOM BTW RAHHHH🫡🫡🫡💖💖‼️‼️‼️‼️

ofc!! i dont know much about cod ghosts so sorry for any errors. thisll be my first plot fic :)) ♡ not beta read,,

[im the devil - clams casino] [0.7k wc]

when keegan returns from deployment, he finds you ill, and not just with a bit of a sniffle and cough. no, he can hear how your lungs shudder with every breath and feel how your skin is hot to the touch.

being his husband isn’t an easy job. he’s always out for one reason or another. you’ll be at home watching a film together, only for his boss to call and say that they need his help. he’s too much of a workaholic and empath to say no, i’m busy. keegan is always worrying about you, always thinking about the slight pout of your lips when he comes out of his bedroom in uniform again. 

so, seeing you like this doesn’t do any good for his anxiety. 

“you’re burning up,” he mutters, pulling a thermometer out of your mouth. 

the curtains are drawn, letting in only traces of sunlight tinted by the lavender linen. more light would only give you a headache. 

he pulls off his gloves before reaching out to touch you, not wanting to touch you with the same cloth that clutches his rifle. his rough palms move to cup your cheeks, swollen from fever and sweat. you can hardly even keep your eyes open.

“did you eat today?”

he grumbles as you shake your head. you must’ve been too sick to get out of bed, only able to helplessly roll over and try to sleep through hunger pangs. at times like this, he wishes he hadn’t chosen an occupation of aiming sniper rifles and long months of waiting in bushes or on tall buildings. then, he’d be able to take care of you. 

“do you want to eat? we’ve got… hm… soup and crackers. or bread,” he presses.

you shake your head again. you don’t want to eat!

keegan sinks into the edge of the bed and furrows his brow, considering you. he has the air conditioner unit on for your feverish top half, and keeps the sheets over your shivering legs. he’s taken your temperature and wiped you down. he gave you some tylenol, which should’ve gone with a cold glass of water, but you gulped it down before he came back with something to drink.

something is missing. there’s more that he could do for you, but he just can’t put his finger on it. 

when he lifts his head to check on you, keegan finds that you’re already staring at him. he has to stifle a smile. you are what makes him feel at home-- your accepting stares, and the slight curl of your lips. it would’ve been impossible not to wish for something more when you’re so welcoming, so warm. 

you motion with one hand for him to come closer. for a moment, he wants to say no, that his face is still covered in grease and he’s clad in heavy armor. but what’s the use in saying no to a face like yours? before he can even start stripping himself of his gear first, he’s already slipping into the sheets.

there’s the low hum of the air conditioner unit and the occasional car rolling down your quiet street. everything seems so small when he’s here with you, tucked away from the world. all he can think of is the smell of your shampoo and the slow rise and fall of your chest.

"...did you just miss me?” he whispers.

you only smile and watch him silently, looking at the bump in his nose and cheeks starting to droop with age. he’s getting older and so are you. it feels like you two only just settled down. the years have slipped through his fingers like sand. maybe it’s time for him to retire. then, he could spend all the time with you in the world.

keegan leans closer to you, and wonders if he smells like gunpowder and sweat. but he waves his worries away in favor of gathering you in his arms. his palm rubs slow circles into your back, wrinkling your old t-shirt. 

you cough into his chest and furrow your fingers into the back of his heavy jacket. your hands claw helplessly like it’ll ameliorate the itch at the back of your throat or your heavy cough. if he could, he’d do away with this sick spell. he can do things most men can’t, from scaling towering buildings to gutting men, but he can’t fix his poor husband’s fever and runny nose.

he pats your back until you settle down, becoming jelly in his arms. 

will he be sick tomorrow? definitely, but he wouldn’t mind spending a day hidden away with his husband, even if the two of you can only lie in bed and kiss each other’s warm faces.

[seat-safety-switch]

Have you been up to the ski hill this season? That's the sort of question that folks from places named things like Aspen, Whistler, and Shittleburg ask each other. Although I have lived my entire life in the snowier regions of North America, I have barely ever gone skiing. Why? The chair lift isn't fast enough.

Skiing is fun, nobody can debate this. You strap planks of waxed and potentially greased composite to your feet, then you let gravity do all the work. Thing is, at the bottom, you still need a way to get back up the hill to do it again. Some absolute genius invented the chair lift. It's sort of like a big belt drive with seats on it, and you hop your ass on one of those seats and it pulls you to the top. Great stuff all around, except for one thing. The rate of ascent is agonizing.

Sure, there's probably good reasons for this state of affairs. People get spooked by riding in open-air vehicles (a bench) with no protection whatsoever at high speeds. The wind will chap their lips, and the sound of the motor screaming away without a reduction gear makes it difficult to discuss the condition of the powder. It's just not that relaxing for the average human being. That's okay; they can take the slow one. I want the fast chair lift. I got places to be, and those places are the top of the mountain.

In fact, if you crank this puppy up, why am I only riding it up? Let's go down, too. These skis are too damn slow. And if everyone is so upset all the time about getting wind blowing in their face, then put a windshield on each bench. Maybe along with a four-speed manual transmission, so they can get the best ratio for the corners. Put some paddlewheel tires on it, and a 1.6L, cross-flow, high compression inline four engine that can rev to 10,000 rpm. Get rid of the belt entirely. I know it sounds like I've just described a dune buggy, which is weird, I agree. Coincidentally, this ski resort is also full of excellent, challenging areas in which to drift a dune buggy around. So let's have some dune buggy races here, if you're going to be so insistent on calling it that.

See? I'm having fun already. Thanks for the investment in this fantastic infrastructure, rich weirdos.