#❝ — say it right ! ❞┊alma

[rebouks]

She knew-.. Robin was sure of it.

Despite her warmth, he’d always been slightly unnerved by aunt Alma’s presence; there was something odd about her that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Some people were harder to read than others, like Alex, but it was still possible.

Alma’s mind was like an impenetrable vault in comparison. Any attempts to feel or hear anything she did were met with a metaphorical brick wall, leaving him reeling as though he’d collided with it head first-.. but not tonight. Tonight, Alma was like an open book, and Robin was convinced she was doing it on purpose.

She’d told him all about her struggles as a child; how she didn’t fit in, how people teased her for being too sensitive, how hard it was to figure out who she was amongst the clamour of everyone else’s inner most image of themselves-.. all the while allowing him unlimited access to those very memories, like a handpicked blooper reel, just for him. Of course, that wasn’t the case though.. was it?

Alma had stopped talking now, but Robin still wasn’t sure how to react. He sat in silence instead, staring at nothing in particular for far longer than what could be considered normal.

“Can you hear me?” he thought, deciding to try a little experiment.

Nothing. Okay, so she couldn’t read his mind-.. then what the heck was she getting at? How had she so succinctly summed up his entire existence in less than fifteen minutes?

“I would’ve liked somewhere as quiet as this when I was young, it’s a shame we didn’t have an attic…” Alma offered, clearly trying to relate to Robin’s situation in any way she could. He still wasn’t entirely sure why, but she clearly wanted to help, and Robin didn’t know anyone else who understood him as well as she did, so perhaps he ought to let her try. He finally abandoned his switch and cautiously joined her atop his favourite, motheaten couch.

“What’re you getting at?” he said bluntly, curiosity getting the better of his manners. Alma chuckled softly, “You’re just like your father.” “It’s genetics, apparently…” Robin let loose a brief grin, glad to be compared to Oscar.

“I don’t know how exactly, but you’re different, Robin-.. and I thought it high time you knew you weren’t alone, and that we can’t let these things get the best of us.” Alma smiled softly as she spoke, but Robin was still too wary to be completely transparent. “We?” he asked, dubiously. “We’re few and far between, but you’re certainly not the only one who’s a little.. special, shall we say? That’s better than different, maybe?” Alma suggested.

Robin hummed thoughtfully, shaking his head, “Special is just another word for different, or weird.” Alma scoffed playfully, “And what’s wrong with being weird? I’m weird-.. we’re all a bit weird!”

“How’re you weird?” Robin asked, squinting at Alma accusingly. “Well, I can sense things I certainly shouldn’t be able to.” Alma started, excited to be getting somewhere. “Emotions radiate from people like a space heater-.. they’re not always pleasant, of course, but I can soak them up if I want to.”

Robin blinked, “Only if you want to..?” “Uh-huh.” Alma nodded. “You can block it out?!” Robin spluttered, suddenly and completely forgetting to maintain his ignorance before swiftly correcting himself. “I mean-.. it sounds like you can pick and choose, right?”

Alma nodded once more, “It wasn’t easy, but I spent a lot of years practicing.” “Years?” Robin sounded crestfallen. “I didn’t have a mentor…” Alma winked.

Robin allowed himself to smirk, figuring he might as well drop at least part of the act at this point. He was still a little nervous about being approached about such things so brazenly, but at least he knew why Alma perturbed him so much now, she was blocking him out on purpose-.. and she couldn’t read his mind either, which was always a plus.

The last thing he wanted was for anyone to know that he possessed that particular ability. Who’d want to hang out with someone who could access their inner most thoughts, the one’s they’d never dream of saying out loud? He shuddered involuntarily, hoping he’d never meet anyone that could read his.

Clementine finally nudged Robin, dragging him back to the present with her ghostly touch. “She looked right at me just then-.. she smiled! Did you see?” Robin spun around, realising that Alma had almost begun her descent. He must’ve missed her goodbye. “Wait!”

Alma paused expectantly, causing Robin to second guess himself and retreat into silence. “I won’t be far, sweetheart-.. whenever you’re ready.” Robin shivered as Clementine poked him again, “She can definitely see me…” “Can you, uh-…”

“See the ghost poking you?” Alma giggled, sounding far younger than she was. The vault doors had snapped shut again by now, but Robin got the impression that aunt Alma was just as excited as he was to find someone else who was weird. “Can you hear her?”

“Maybe-.. though I’m quite sure she hasn’t said anything yet.” Alma peered at Clementine expectantly. “Hey!” Clementine exclaimed as Robin tried to shove her into action, his hand ending up halfway through her waist instead.

“What? It’s not like you can feel it.” Robin snorted. Alma laughed heartily, thoroughly amused. “Well, I heard that-.. you two are good friends, huh?”

Robin nodded slightly, releasing a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. “I thought I was the only one who could see her-.. that maybe I was going insane…” “Far from it, honey! You hit me up whenever you feel like it, okay?”

Previous // Next

[nattikay]

so I started playing the new Frontiers of Pandora game last night, and was pleasantly surprised that not only did the opening cutscene feature a few lines of spoken Na'vi dialogue, but said dialogue was actually pretty accurate!! Good job game!!

Here’s the lines transcribed as far as I can tell:

Aha'ri: Plltxe po nìtsleng! He speaks falsely/he lies! Player: Ma tsmuke, ftang! Sister, stop!

-

Aha'ri: Ma Nor? Ma Nor, tìtxen si. Awnga ngahu, tam. Nor? Nor, wake up. We [are] with you, it’s ok. Nor: Tsat oel uniltsola nìmun…tsatxon a fol awngat kämolunge. I dreamed about it again…that night they took us.

-

Aha'ri: Awnga kä ne kelku! We go home! Player: Za'u, ma Teylan. Oeng kivä ne kelku. Come, Teylan. We [may] go home.

[jrueships]

older white men who have to announce how much they prefer college sports over professional sports & obsess over it kinda creep me out idk

[jacarandaaaas]

I’m going to need people to STOP comparing the badly written king from wish to alma😭

[scftlightz]

open     to     : anyone   !!   mutuals + non mutuals muse   : alma caputo  .  bisexual  .  45 - 50  .  real estate agent  .  lind.a car.dellini *   pls    don't    like    my    starters.  *   no   taboo.

"  even  after  all  this  time,  my  heart  still  races  at  the  thought  of  you.  "

[itsahotminuteinbetween]

wait but imagine if dentist eclipse is just building random stuff in his room to combat the depression and boredom and is just constantly known in his apartment complex to be the loud neighbor who's drilling nietzsche knows what at some unholy hour of the morning

also fully supporting the idea of a grandma who is probably the only one who eclipse talks to in the apartment complex. she made him cookies one time even tho he can't eat (he just. left them in his pantry and forgot abt them) and her dog (it's a border collie because shut up I said so) is always racin around and getting into the dumps out back and so eclipse has to fish him out and hand him over

there's also a single mom with two girls a couple doors down the hall; the girls ran into him once while he was testing something out and now they just refer to him as the weird mad scientist who lives next door (this association makes them realize that mad scientists are less mad and more sad than fiction taught them lol). he'll give them his relatively harmless contraptions that didn't work the way he wanted them to for them to mess around with

[casirosa]

.

[chuluoyi]

fear

- gojo satoru x reader

his best friend’s defection is still a hard topic for him to swallow, and it leads into an unexpected argument that spurs you to leave, only to unlock a new fear in him when you get into an unfortunate accident afterwards.

genre/warnings: angst, gojo being mean, one scene with a worried nanami *wink*, injured reader, hurt/comfort, fluff in the end

notes: *sigh* my coping mechanism is still gojo’s past arc, which is why this piece takes place on that timeline. just a little context: reader is in the same class with nanami & haibara and was in the same mission that took haibara's life. this is probably the longest oneshot i've written so far sooo… enjoy! :)

general masterlist

A year and a half had passed since Suguru embarked on his path as a curse user. In that one year and a half, Satoru had finished his last year at Jujutsu High, and now was in the halls of his alma mater, speaking to the newly appointed headmaster who was none other than his teacher.

"You're applying to become a teacher?" Yaga asked again with a frown. He still couldn't wrap his head around it. Granted, he was his most troublesome pupil. "Why, Satoru?"

"If I said it's because I want to train young sorcerers to be strong, would you believe me?"

That was not a lie. It was actually 50% of his main reasons anyway. The other 50% was to repent what he missed with Suguru when he chose his dark path—his contempt with the current system of this jujutsu world.

"I would," Yaga responded gruffly. To him, Satoru was irritating, but he also knew that he was also extremely capable, and thus everything he did wasn't just out of nowhere. "But you still have to submit your applications. We can't make an exception even if you come from a prestigious clan."

"That's fine with me," he grinned. "Thanks, sensei."

On summer days, he'd get reminded of Suguru and silly things they had done together. Eating shaved ice, cycling together, driving either you, Shoko or Nanami mad. Satoru missed those days, it hadn't been the same ever since. Not knowing if his best friend was alright—if he was still alive at all—was exhausting.

Sometimes, he felt like he was the only one who was affected by his departure, the only one who stayed right where Suguru left him. Shoko didn't seem ruffled, if anything she just went to more bars and pachinko parlors as of late. Nanami was always a recluse, he never disclosed his feelings. You mourned him, but it was clear that most part of you would always be more focused on Haibara's death.

Satoru understood that he couldn't force anyone to feel what he felt, and he had no right to. But sometimes, he just wanted someone to connect with at his level. Someone to get him just like Suguru did.

And so when he got back to his condo that night—just right next to the one he rented for Megumi and Tsumiki, since he had moved out of his dorm—to find his girlfriend there with a big smile and a tray of cupcakes, unaware of everything and anything, he merely scoffed to himself.

"Satoru, you're back," you acknowledged, beaming like the sunshine you were. "I just baked these for the kids. Do you want some?"

Usually he'd smother you, throw some pickup lines here and there and say yes, but today, he just felt drained. "No." And with that, he stalked away to the bathroom, not glancing back at you.

It was wrong. But tonight he just wanted some peace and quiet, and so keeping his silence seemed to be the best choice as he didn't want to start a pointless argument with you. But you weren’t anything but observant, and definitely noticed that something was amiss with him.

"Are you... alright?" You approached him warily after he came out of the bathroom with wet hair. "Where were you today?"

"Just somewhere," he replied curtly. Afterwards he turned on the hairdryer, drowning the whole place with the noise even as you stood behind him with a visible question mark.

But you were still there after he dried his hair. "Is something bothering you?" you asked with a tilt of your head, concerned. By all means, you mean well. You just wanted to know if he could use your help at all.

When you pulled that expression, he couldn't help feeling annoyed, like he wanted you to take a hint, but you just didn't. "If you know, then just shut it."

It was probably the first time since the two of you got together that Satoru actually said something harsh. But you still tried to be reasonable though, bless you.

"Satoru, I don't know what got into your nerves like this, but I think sleeping through it might help. Have a rest."

"Why are you talking as if you know it?" he snapped, finally turning to you with his cold gaze. "You might not know anything, so don't be a know-it-all. Just mind your own business."

Now you were frustrated with his reply. "Once again, I don't know what happened to you. But if you're taking it out on me because I'm the closest you have—"

"Who said that?" Satoru didn't know where he got all this venom from. It was just at the forefront of his mind and he just got the urge to spew it. "You're considering yourself closest to me? Where did you get that big head from?"

You were aghast, and you blinked a few times to get your bearings. "Let me guess, it's about Geto-san, isn't it? Or the higher ups. Either of that must be what causing you to blindly place your anger on me."

"So what if it was? It isn't like you'll understand anyway."

"Satoru," you started, trying to even your breathing. "What happened to Geto-san isn't your fault. I've been telling you this. It can't be helped—"

"Can't be helped?" he jeered. "Do you know why it has come to this?" his tone took a dangerous edge as he stepped closer. He reached for you, grasping your wrist.

"Maybe because I was too blind back then. If it weren't for you—if only I didn't spend that much time on you, maybe he would still be here."

Did he just say that? Did he just imply that he had regretted the two of you getting together?

You felt your lower lip start to tremble and something seemed to obscure and blur your vision, making it hard to see him clearly. "You... don't mean that."

"Really?" the corner of his lips curled into a disparaging smile. "You never know. Before you know it, this can be over already. After all, I could have anyone out there that I want. Maybe someone less nosey than—”

That did it. You wrenched your arm out of his grip violently, as your first tear fell. His smirk vanished too, replaced with a total stillness to cover his sudden panic that was followed by a sudden sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach.

"You selfish, self-obsessed jerk," you hissed through watery eyes. He was taken aback, even amidst your anger and possible fear of him, your still managed to throw daggers at him. "Fine. You have it. I'll see myself out."

Satoru never wanted you to leave. Honestly, he would've made you stay. But he wasn't in the right state of mind and it was too late to take back what he said. He didn't want to mess this up even further.

You left the cupcakes, even throwing it away just to spite him. Driven by pain and humiliation, you choked back your sob and didn't spare a glance at him as you shut the door.

Peace and quiet. There he had it, he thought as he clenched his fists, at the cost of everything else.

Leaving that condo, every step you took felt like needles piercing your shattered heart. You wiped your tears roughly. No, you refused to cry over such asshole. He made it clear, didn't he? Whatever it was that you two shared, it was at the cost of his best friend leaving him. So now the blame was on you.

If you were thinking clearly, you would've understood that his words were likely a result of his own pent-up pain and frustration that he had kept to himself for some while. But you had no patience for that or even pinpoint what you felt right now—anger, disappointment or dread, or perhaps all three. You just felt wrongly accused.

Your feet brought you back to your dorm in the school. Now it wasn't as bustling as it once were. After Satoru and Shoko's graduation, you didn't really get close to anyone. There was Ichiji, but he treated you more like a mentor rather than a classmate.

As you sank into the comforts of your bed, You replayed the events, trying to find where it went wrong—and found nothing. After all, you had already said all that could be said. It wasn't just him who lost Geto, but you, Shoko and Nanami did too, but it was more convenient for Satoru to blame everyone else rather than trying to understand that they too shared this pain.

Nevertheless, you were disappointed. You didn't expect half of what he spouted, and it got you doubting everything you had.

"You've royally fucked up."

Satoru exhaled, glaring at Shoko through the corner of his eyes. "Yeah, maybe."

The reverse cursed technique user threw him a blank stare, taking in everything from his disheveled hair to his wrinkled trousers. "Gojo, as much as I can’t care less about your sorry ass, I'm saying this not out of concern for you, but rather for Y/N. You are an asshole."

The puff of smoke she blew expanded to create a cloud-like shape. "Yaga-sensei was our teacher. His student is now a mass murderer and wanted dead. Can you even imagine how he feels? And I can't believe I'm saying this—but weren't there three of us?"

A week had gone by and instead of doing the right thing like trying to get into your good graces, Satoru was in Shoko's infirmary in the headquarters instead. He didn't exactly know what he was looking for by going here. Maybe some lingering taste of his happier student days, and Shoko was the only one remaining.

Three of us, huh... she was right. That was precisely why he came here after all.

"You're just sulking because it seems no one cares about your best friend being the best there is. But have you thought about how our juniors also lost Haibara? Right in front of their eyes? Haibara was our friend too."

He was wrong, of course he was. Satoru realized that now. But it felt wrong to ask for your forgiveness now, not to mention the disrupting thought he had—should he let you go for good altogether?

The phone suddenly rang with such fervor that made Shoko utter a swear word. She was on call duty for the rescue team today, and it was supposedly a peaceful day until Satoru decided to barge in to become her company. "Hello? Ichiji? What—speak clearly, I can't hear you."

She switched it to loudspeaker. "...iri-san! Ieiri-san—h-help—please—"

It was noisy, and blaring at the same time, and Ichiji was... Sobbing? Choking? His voice was terribly muffled and—

"L/N-san!" he cried, and Satoru remembered at that moment that you should be in a mission with Ichiji, he remembered you telling him before.

"Hic—s-she fell... hic—she fell! B-blood! She i-is bleeding so much! I-Ieiri-san—hic—s-send help! Please!"

"Hey, stay awake. Breathe. Just breathe."

Everything hurt. Most notably, your head. You could hardly think straight when all you felt was blinding pain and how your breaths came in short wheezes. 

Your vision was blurry. The numbness had started to set in and chills ran up and down your spine. You couldn't make out who in front of you was. Was it Ichiji, who went with you in this mission? The only thing that glared was blue.

"You can't sleep, you hear me?" the voice was commanding, willing you to do his bidding. It was familiar, but usually his tone of voice was much lighter, happier.

Satoru.

But why was he here? He wasn't in this mission. It was supposed to be a mission for you and Ichiji.

You remembered getting the cursed spirit after manifesting your domain expansion, until in its last ditch attempt, it went after Ichiji. You had no choice—even when your cursed energy had burned out, you still shoved him away at the cost of being flung from the top of a building.

Not again. Not after Haibara. You’d gladly pay the price if it meant you didn't have to see anyone die in front of you again.

"I..." You managed to croak out—breathing hurt, and you felt your hands being grasped tightly.

"Hey, just breathe. Y/N. Look at me.” Through your blurry haze, you focused on that cold blue, and you saw him. Satoru's sharp eyes, pursed lips and frown. He's really here.

Satoru always said that if there was a cursed spirit apocalypse, then Ichiji would be the first to die. You used to scold him for that, but now as you a laid here possibly dying in your own pool of blood, you found it to be true.

Yet at the same time you knew that with him here, Ichiji must be safe already, and it gave you reassurance so great even when you were on the verge of dying. "I... can't..."

"Yes, you can. Just look at me," he firmly rebuked, his voice came out in a hiss. For all the time you had been with him, you had never heard him so forceful. "If you close your eyes now, I won't forgive you. So please, just hang in there."

It was a struggle to take in any air and darkness encroached on your vision as your consciousness began slipping away.

And everything faded to nothingness.

Satoru honestly thought he had no fears. His worst fear had fully realized after all—Suguru going away into the darkness. What more could he possibly fear?

But when he heard Ichiji's distress call for rescue team, about how you fell from a rooftop of a building and unconscious, he realized that it was a fear he didn't know existed. His mind got disoriented and he teleported to the scene on impulse. He just had to see it for himself. With their petty argument still lacking closure, he felt even worse.

And the sight before him gave him so much fright he never thought was possible.

It was a mistake, he should have brought Shoko along.

You had laid there like a broken doll, your eyes dimmed, and not been able to breathe. He desperately tried to keep you awake, his presence beside you, yet it didn't seem to matter. He watched helplessly as you passed out in his arms.

Satoru felt nothing. The panic that had set in was suddenly gone as your limp body slumped against him, replaced by incessant ringing in his ears and tremor wracking his nervous system. It wasn't long until the rescue team came to retrieve you and even then he still felt numb. He rejected the idea that you might possibly die on him.

That went on until Shoko, who assisted in the emergency treatment, came out of the surgery, sweat on her forehead.

"It's even worse than the aftermath of the guardian deity mission last year," Shoko explained with a grim expression. "Her brain has sustained damage and it affects everything. It may take her quite a while before she can go back to the field."

When she said that, Satoru felt terror washed over him again. You almost died—was all he perceived.

The two of you had no contact for a week just because of his ego. He could still recall that day with vivid clarity, feeling a burning ache in his chest. If someone were to ask him what heartbreak was like, now he certainly would he able the to tell them the two instances in which he experienced them. What he felt now mirrored the same stinging sensation he had felt when Suguru left him.

He visited you when he was allowed to, and you were still unconscious, with many machines connected to your body. It was a sight he still couldn’t bring himself to get used to. He had seen you injured before, but never seen you in your own pool of blood, so this made him feel sick to his stomach.

"Stupid," he whispered, gently rubbing your forehead. His eyes remained fixated on you as you rested, his insides still churning with emotions. "You're not weak, and you're not hopeless." Once upon a time, Satoru might have thought of you as weak, but now he knew better.

"So why you always pick the worst decision?" The more he thought this could've been avoided, the more irked he was. The thought that he could have done something to prevent it intensified the sting of guilt, and he continued to punish himself with it.

And the more he dwelled on the idea that he had hurt you prior to this, the tighter his breath became.

But that was who you were. Self-sacrificing to a fault. And he loved you for that. There was no way of him letting you go now.

It astonished even himself—that he was capable of this love thing. At first it was an attraction, but now that you had been going on for more than a year, it felt like it was no longer a silly infatuation after all.

"Hurry and wake up, will you?" Satoru gently brushed your hair aside, his eyes fixed on you. He didn't know it even as his gut twisted, his frown deepened and his touch quivered, that he was worried sick. "I have a lot to make up for."

And he left you with a tender brush of his lips against your forehead.

Nanami Kento was the first person you saw when you awoke from coma.

You struggled to regain your senses, still feeling absolutely broken. The dull throb on the back of your head was still there, and as if you had found yourself trapped in a fog, you were only able to move sluggishly.

"You're awake?" his gruff voice greeted, laced with concern. In his hand were a bucket of fresh flowers and fruits basket, which he soon placed at the table next to your bed.

It was unexpected, because ever since the tragedy that costed Haibara's life, the two of you had been drifting apart.

You nodded, and let out a hum in response—all you could manage at the moment.

"Thank God." Nanami sounded relieved as he pinched the bridge between his eyes, and you were moved that he had shown this degree of concern.

Your remaining classmate, who suffered the burden of Haibara's life just like you. He was always quiet or brooding somewhere, hiding his own feelings.

You felt tears pricking the corner of your eyes. The fact that he visited you meant that he hadn't decided to cut you out of his life yet.

"Gojo-san is out today, but he'll be back by afternoon," he said, mistranslating your tears as some sort of a want to have your annoying—ex?—boyfriend at your side.

The two of you were still not on talking terms, weren’t you?

You so badly wanted to say thank you to him—and tell him that no, you weren't looking for Satoru—but it came out hoarse and barely above a whisper.

"Huh?" Nanami then realized what you were trying to say, and a faint smile graced his lips. "Just... get well soon, L/N. Have a good rest."

Just before you drifted back to sleep, you could hear him sigh and mutter, "Hello, Gojo-san? L/N has awakened. Just letting you know is all.”

You weren't sure how much time had passed when you woke up the second time, but the curtains were already drawn and only darkness came from the window. Your body felt lighter, but you still felt like a mess and and couldn't help but groan in discomfort.

Satoru was there, he perked up at the noise you made. And you realized that it was the first time in about a week that he faced you after that disasterous almost-breakup.

He walked up to you, his expression was more hopeful than you had ever seen him before, like a kid whose wish had been granted. He slowly shifted to sit beside you.

"Hey, welcome back." His voice was soft. It was a change of pace for him, as you were used to seeing him all loud and silly.

Now your voice no longer sounds like a lead. "Hey."

"How are you feeling?" he asked and you took a moment to look at him. He was smiling, but exhaustion reached his bright eyes, dimming them. "You know, with the whole you passing out and almost dying thing?"

His words were almost humorous as he spoke, like he didn't know what else to say except try to lighten the mood, but there was also a strain on his tone, like he was holding back.

"I'm quite fine now, I suppose..." You still felt the lingering pain and dizziness as you slowly sat up. Satoru reached out to steady you—and you realized how his fingers trembled when they made contact with your body—as his brows furrowed with worry when you winced.

"You don't look like it though." His voice dropped and the humor was gone, replaced by this haunted look. You blinked. It was probably the first time you had seem him this ruffled.

He immediately pulled you into a hug, cradling your head to his neck gently, as if to protect and shield you from the world altogether. Exhaling heavily, he leaned on you. "You scared me, you know that?"

You wondered out loud if you really had that hold over him. "Did I?"

"You can't do that to me, you hear?" Satoru stroked your hair, nuzzling his face on the crook of your neck. His voice quivered. “Don't ever do that again.”

He pulled you tighter against him, but still careful not to crush you.

You let out a snicker, letting go of everything you felt during this horrible week. "Heh, afraid to lose me, huh?"

"Shut up,” he grumbled. “What were you thinking anyway? How did you calculate that freefalling is better than letting that cursed spirit attack Ichiji?”

"He was defenseless. He could die, you know that."

"And you also can," he quipped, upset, pulling away enough to look you squarely in the eyes, his eyes devoid of any expression, yet filled with a raging wave that you could only interpret as undiluted concern.

The emphasis in his tone made you recoil and feel guilty. If you were in his shoes, you probably would've said the same thing and so you had nothing to say to that.

But the more pressing agenda in the list was the unspoken silent treatment the two of you saw fit to use against each other for the last few days. Satoru was the one who decided to address it first.

"About that night..." he faltered, looking away. "I didn't mean what I said. I'm sorry."

Satoru always had trouble processing emotions. This time too. He must've a hard time dealing with the anxiety caused by the possibility of him losing you for good, no matter how much he tried to be unaware of it.

"..." You wanted to respond, to make him understand your point, but somehow right now you were just too weary. And he sensed your reluctance. So you blurted the first thing that gnawed at your mind.

“You said you could have any other women out there—”

"No, really—" he started to panic, and it was blatantly too, which surprised you. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Us. I don't regret anything. I’m not breaking up with you. Being with you is the happiest I've been ever since Suguru left."

“That's...” you blinked, before letting out a small sigh. “Okay. Fine then. Let's just put it behind us for now.”

“I—” he almost wheezed, his bright blue eyes were overtaken with sheer urgency to explain how wrong everything had been that night. “You must know that I didn’t mean any of it. And that I hate hurting you the way I did. I won’t—”

"Satoru, I understand," you let out another sigh, fidgeting with your fingers. "Sometimes when I’m reminded of Haibara, I also get sad. I don't want to presume but I think I know how you feel. Just next time, maybe," you shifted your gaze on him, seeing how you had his attention fully. Gojo Satoru, the strongest now, was looking at you as if you had his fate in your hands. "Just tell me if you need space and I would have understood."

"Yeah, okay, sure," he responded immediately, relieved, before a lopsided grin appeared on his face, turning him back into your dork slash boyfriend. "So, am I forgiven now?"

"A thank you would be nice."

In the end, he chuckled, seemingly resigned. "You should sleep more."

He positioned himself into bed next to you, and you let him pull you into his chest again. You could feel how his taut back started to relax upon the contact. He pressed his lips on your forehead in a fleeting kiss.

"Promise me you won't pull that stunt again.”

You smirked. "I can't. What if Ichiji—"

"Then just let him die."

You swatted his arm playfully, pressing your head to his chest as he continued to run his fingers on your hair. He cushioned you carefully, and you felt the tension in him slowly melt away with each breath you took. In your mind, you figured he needed this closeness more than you did, if anything, for the sake of his sanity.

“I love you,” he whispered by your ear, kissing it lightly.

“Mmhm.”

As you felt Satoru's calming presence, it helped ease you into slumber. You soon found yourself in a deep sleep, comfortably held in his embrace.

Epilogue

Ichiji gulped as Satoru stared him down, sizing him up as if he was the most despicable creature on this planet.

Okay, he might be. He was a coward, all he could do was trembling in the face of evil. But he had come in peace, even bringing fruits as an offering! He felt bad too that he was the partial cause for you to be this injured.

He was used to Satoru terrorizing him—calling him names, slapping him, and whatnot—and he could take it. Just this time, he really looked like he could murder him on the spot if he wanted to. A small part of Ichiji mourned that you were his girlfriend, because that pretty much sealed his fate that Gojo Satoru could indeed murder him on the spot because he had a valid enough reason to.

"You are—"

"No! I'm sorry, Gojo-san! I'm sorry for my incompetence!"

"Hah?"

If he was mildly irked before, now Satoru was visibly irritated.

"You're not cut out to be a jujutsu sorcerer," he started. "You're useless. You just get in the way most of the time."

Ichiji kept his head down. No, no. He can't cry!

"Get your driving license or I'll slap the shit out of you."

"Oh?" and before he knew it, Satoru had stalked away, leaving him in the dust. How rude! But...

Get a driver license? Quit the jujutsu work?

Hey, that sounds like something I can do!

[ceilidho]

prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 1; ghoap x reader) masterlist

-

Johnny’s been bragging about a pretty bird lately.

Ghost listens because the periods between missions are long and colourless—he fills the time with paperwork, PT, exhausting his muscles in the gym, and dissociating in a booth at the only good pub on base when Johnny drags him along—and it’s better to tune out the thoughts in his head and replace them with something else. Besides, for as much as he gripes about poorly trained dogs barking too much, he enjoys the sound of Johnny’s voice. It quiets the faint ringing that follows him wherever he goes, an agitated humming that leaves him, on his best days, on the brink of rage.

“Tinnitus,” a doctor says when he brings it up during a routine check-up. Can you shut that fucking noise up?

“Best we can do is get you hearing aids.” Apologetic, sincere even. Stained, as always though, by a trembling, noxious unease. It emanates off the doctor in waves. 

Hard not to feel uneasy around a man in a mask, Ghost assumes. That’s all part of it though. He doesn’t cultivate comfort, doesn’t attempt to engender soft feelings or put the mind at ease. His body and persona are designed to put the body and mind on the knife’s edge of fear, and then tip it over. He leaves the sweet talking and charming to men like Johnny, who babbles red language in a tongue like larkspur. 

Ghost’s first language is oil slick. It stains and it covers and it darkens everything it touches. 

And now, Johnny’s talking about a bird.

A couple months after Las Almas, the first picture comes out. Not a folded up keepsake tucked away in the pocket of a bag or a wallet or the inside of his jacket, but right on Johnny’s lockscreen on his phone. He disapproves at first glance. Not of the girl, but at the thought of keeping something so valuable on display for anyone to see. It’s not how he functions. Everything sacred is burned, destroyed, or—if precious enough—buried so deep underground that salt miners might greet it on the way down.

“Pretty, eh?” Johnny goads, nudging Ghost with his shoulder. He’s all wide grin, eyes electric-blue like the flames of Kawah Ijen. 

She is pretty. Pretty as pie. Not a speck of grit or blood on her; if there’s any edge to her at all, it’s tempered by her smile in the photo on Johnny’s phone. A sugar sweet cunt, by the looks of it, sure it’d taste like candy if he got his mouth on it. He angles his eyes with Johnny’s lips and wonders how many times he’s eaten her out, if hers was the last cunt he ate. Likely. His boy’s the loyal kind, hard to shake off once he’s got his teeth in. Swapping spit or blood, he doesn’t leave once he’s got a taste. 

“Where’d you find her?” he asks instead of agreeing, and takes a swig from the bottle in front of him. The bar’s hardly filled out yet; the two of them come early because Ghost’s an old man—that’s what Johnny would say—and doesn’t like to be around people once the sun’s set. It’s a burnished gold now, sun hovering low in the sky when Ghost turns an eye to it. 

“Florist. Met her when I picked up flowers for mam’s birthday.”

Nearly a month then. “And I’m just hearin’ about this now?”

Not in this same pub three times a week since then. Not on the tarmac, suited up and sweating already beneath two layers of gear. Not in the shower beside Ghost’s, fingers reaching over the side for a bar of soap because Johnny can’t be arsed to get his own. Not with his head slumped to let Ghost shave the sides of his head nice and neat, thick fingers splayed over the delicate bone of his skull that Ghost knows would take nothing to break. 

It rankles him until he looks back down at the phone in his hands—the one he’d plucked from Johnny’s fingers even while he whined about Ghost always stealing his shit—and feels his heartbeat slow. It levels out like staring into the scope of a rifle, the molecules of his breath melding with the molecules of the air until even the sound of his heartbeat dulls to the insects around him. 

Johnny purses his lips. “…Wasn’t sure then. Am now.”

“Cunt’s a cunt. What’s there to be sure about?”

“No.” Johnny shakes his head vehemently. “She’s no’ like that. She’s special—I’m telling ye, Lt—” he stresses when Ghost snorts, the sound thick with scepticism, “—she’s a good egg. Smart one. Sweet as pie.”

Sweet as pie. Mutt half-shares his thoughts these days. They must have brought more home than just shellshock and keloids. 

Johnny squawks when Ghost unlocks his phone and thumbs through his photos, trying to wrench it out of Ghost’s hand to no avail. He’s easy to hold back. All he has to do is put down his beer for a second and get a handful of hair and jerk, and there it is. Peace and quiet. A wince bleeding into his peripheral vision while Johnny mumbles something under his breath about him being a mean bastard. 

He snorts again. Even from Johnny, he’s heard worse. 

There isn’t much left of him these days. A tired husk and a taste for Guinness. He bleeds and shaves and wipes it off, smells the viscera still staining his mask that he hardly ever washes, can’t bear to honestly. Waste of fucking time, as far as he’s concerned. Just going to get dirtied again, soaked in blood again within the week. Shaves his head too just to have less to deal with, less to distract him from the single-minded intensity he brings to the job. He’d dematerialize if he could, become a ghost in name and shape, if only the laws of physics allowed. 

Instead he’s saddled with a body that echoes back his age in creaking joints and low back pain. Scar tissue that aches when it gets cold. 

In the months he’s known Johnny, he’s never let himself think about the world outside their bubble. His rank demands a certain level of socialising, and while he doesn’t schmooze with the brass like other lieutenants might, Ghost hardly has the privilege of isolating himself all the time, but still he can count the people he considers close on one hand. 

Not family, but close. The thought of family is sheathed within him; he knows to leave the knife in lest he bleed. Still, Johnny’s fought his way onto the list and now he has to pay with his pound of flesh. 

There’s a switch that’s been off for years, closer to a couple decades, and it flips back on when he finds this man that trusts him without question, that follows his orders and looks up at him with these big, puppy blue eyes. It twists something in his chest. It turns him into a thing that says maybe it’s better to take than just covet. 

There are other photos of the girl in Johnny’s phone, some likely not meant for present company (Johnny flushes red when Ghost flips to a picture of his bird in a pretty little number, lace cupping her tits and ass, sitting on Johnny’s bed back home and looking back at him over her shoulder with a little grin). Still, it interests him to see this side of his boy; he’s maybe thought of it before in abstract terms. He knows that Johnny’s no stranger to a wandering eye, not with the way he’s built and his pretty boy face. He’s well acquainted with Johnny’s dick, hard not to be in such close quarters; it’s a nice, pretty thing, just like him, a good handful. Nothing like the ruddy battering ram in between Ghost’s legs. The one Johnny once got a glimpse of in the showers after a two week long stint in Kyrgyzstan and paled, mouth gaping open while he stared until he could finally laugh it off. 

Ghost remembers thinking detachedly about how lovely that little gaped open mouth would feel around his cock. 

Surprising that it took this long for him to cotton on to his own desires. 

“Bring ‘er around then. I’ll see for myself how sweet she is.”

Johnny scowls at the sudden uproar from a nearby table. “No’ a chance in hell. Dinnae trust any of these fuckers to behave around her.”

Ghost hums. He’s not wrong to be wary; under the table, Ghost runs a hand over his bulge and gives it a squeeze, lifting his thigh to readjust. She has a lovely mouth too. 

He’s been breathing fire and brimstone recently. Hungering to hear something break. It takes Johnny’s hand on his arm to hold him back, every cigarette puffed down to the filter. The pictures on Johnny’s phone make it seem easy though. 

Johnny’s been bragging about a pretty bird lately, preening at every opportunity to show her off. He doesn’t know that it takes approximately eight seconds for Ghost’s brain to file the girl in Johnny’s phone under mine, slotting her right under Johnny in that category and isn’t that just perfect because it also takes approximately eight seconds for Ghost to imagine what she might look like under Johnny. 

He hands Johnny back the phone, face down. “You get one week. Then I wanna meet your bird.”

[ladysophiebeckett]

i tried watching ug\ly be\tty okay, i tried. i made it through 5 episodes but it doesnt hit the same. im too set in my ways for it. 

[checkeredflagggs]

Love Me Tender

pairing: carlos sainz x longtime girlfriend!reader

summary: carlos loves his girlfriend so much — even more when she (a lifelong tifosi) sheds the iconic red for williams blue

a/n: ok but this picture of Carlos 😭😭😭

a/n2: I messed a little with the timeline of Lewis in 2024 I think

a/n3: all quotes are by Enzo Ferrari

Masterlist | Taglist

tifosi_girl

liked by carlossainz55, landonorris, charles_leclerc, and 2,173,183 others

tagged: carlossainz55

tifosi_girl: do you know many Ferraris? Luigi follows only the Ferraris

view all comments

user1: girl you know all the Ferraris!

↳tifosi_girl: I know ☺️☺️

↳user1: do you know how jealous I am?? liked by tifosi_girl, carlossainz55

carlossainz55: Vida mía… my life…

↳tifosi_girl: Guapo… handsome…

↳carlossainz55: Oh, sabes lo que me hace cuando hablas español...Oh, you know what it does to me when you speak spanish...

↳tifosi_girl: Por supuesto que sí. Of course I do.

↳carlossainz55: Vida mía, Mi alma My life, My soul

↳user2: uhhhh you guys know we’re still here right???

↳user3: yeah I think they forgot…

user4: I have a bold take to say

↳user5: do it. Speak your truth

↳user4: those 2 are the Ferrari Morticia and Gomez

↳user5: oh my god yes…

↳user6: that’s the truest thing I’ve heard today

landonorris: No, no, no, no, no. They race on the European circuit. I'm in the Piston Cup!

↳tifosi_girl: sorry I only follow the Ferraris

↳landonorris: yeah we know liked by carlossainz55, charles_leclerc

user7: Siri how do I get that jacket?

↳tifosi_girl: baggsie a Ferrari man who lets you steal from his closet!

↳user7: know any that are looking?

↳carlossainz55: no.

↳charles_leclerc: non

↳user7: damn

tifosi_girl (2022)

liked by carlossainz55, landonorris, charles_leclerc and 863,146 others

tagged: carlossainz55

yourusername: “I don’t sell cars; I sell dreams.” Baby you are my dream and to see you on that top step was memorizing. To celebrate — today’s treat was a red velvet lava cake with a cherry sauce!

view all comments

user8: that looks so delicious oh my gosh

user9: thank you queen for the recipe

carlossainz55: Vida mia, gracias por venir conmigo hoy. Esta victoria fue gracias a ti. My life, thank you for coming with me today. This victory was because of you.

↳tifosi_girl: Oh, mi guapo hombre — esta victoria fue toda gracias a ti y a tu arduo trabajo y talento. Yo no tuve nada que ver con eso. Oh my handsome man — this win was all because of you and your hardworking and talent. I had nothing to do with it.

↳carlossainz55: ¡No, no, no, eres obviamente mi amuleto de la suerte! No, no, no you are very obviously my lucky charm!

↳charles_leclerc: Peu importe ce que vous êtes. Ce qui compte, c'est de savoir si je peux avoir un de ces gâteaux, s'il vous plaît? Whatever you are doesn’t matter. What matters is if I can have one of those cakes please?

↳tifosi_girl: I don’t think they’re part of your diet?

↳charles_leclerc: S'il vous plaît? 🥺🥺

↳tifosi_girl: 🙄🙄 sure

landonorris: sooooo….are those cakes up for grabs or??

↳tifosi_girl: only for those that drive red cars?

↳landonorris: really???

↳tifosi_girl: yes

↳maxverstappen1: hey

↳tifosi_girl: sure max — I’ll swing by and drop a couple off for you and checo

↳landonorris: SERIOUSLY???

tifosi_girl (2023)

liked by carlossainz55, landonorris, charles_leclerc, and 1,283,923 others

tagged: carlossainz55

tifosi_girl: “What’s behind you doesn’t matter.” Baby you had the entire grid behind you tonight and it was something out of this world to watch. Gutted to not be able to be there but Beary and I made do with strawberry waffles

view all comments

user10: Beary?? That’s so cute

user11: love how she uses Ferrari quotes in all her posts

↳user12: gotta love a loyal girl liked by carlossainz55, tifosi_girl

carlossainz55: Vida mia, al otro lado del mundo y tú sigues siendo mi amuleto de la suerte. My life, across the world and still my lucky charm.

↳tifosi_girl: Mi guapo hombre, sabes que esta victoria fue todo tuyo. Yo tuve poco que ver con eso. My handsome man, you know this win was all you. I had little to do with it.

↳carlossainz55: Mi vida. Mi amor. Mi alma. Esto fue todo para ti. My life. My love. My soul. This was all for you. liked by tifosi_girl

↳user13: wow. you managed to call us single in more than 2 languages…

user14: heading to the highway tonight…

↳user15: sleepover?

↳user16: sleepover! I’ll make her waffles because they look fantastic

landonorris: ok but can I get some of these?

↳tifosi_girl: Guidi un'auto rossa? Do you drive a red car?

↳landonorris: what???

↳tifosi_girl: 🙄🙄🙄

f1gossip

Be the first to like

f1gossip: in a stunning shock to the entire f1 world — 7 time World Champion Lewis Hamilton is to exit Mercedes at the end of the year and to drive for Ferrari!

What are your thoughts?

Be the first to comment

Private Messages, Carlos and y/n

tifosi_girl

liked by carlossainz55, charles_leclerc, oscarpiastri, and 1,627,283 others

tagged: carlossainz55

tifosi_girl: “I have no idols. I admire work, dedication, and competence.” Baby, no one can say you don’t give it your all (including your appendix!). Dinner tonight includes these delicious toasted tomatoes and peppers.

view all comments

user17: oh is that shade I see being thrown?

↳user18: I do believe it is

↳user20: I don’t exactly blame her

user21: ugh don’t remind me Carlos won’t be in red next year…

↳user22: the question is will she?

↳user23: that is the question isn’t it? Life-long tifosi vs the apparent love of her life…

oscarpiastri: do you share?

↳tifosi_girl: sure. Drop by our hotel and I’ll give you a plate

↳oscarpiastri: thanks!

↳carlossainz55: really vida mia? Him??

↳landonorris: WHAT?? You said only Ferrari drivers could get some!

↳tifosi_girl: landonorris I actually said people who drive red cars. That’s not you

↳landonorris: HE DRIVES AN ORANGE CAR TOO

↳tifosi_girl: congratulations on learning your colors Lando!

↳tifosi_girl: and carlossainz55 he’s a polite young man. Of course I’m going to give him some

user24: thank you queen 🙏 your recipes have saved me many a time

↳tifosi_girl: no problem! I’m glad they’re working out for you!

Private Messages, Carlos and y/n

f1gossip

liked by tifosi_girl, carlossainz55, landonorris, and 2,193,193 others

tagged: carlossainz55

f1gossip: to complete the thrilling saga of Carlos Sainz, it was just announced by Williams that he would be joining their team in a multi-year contract starting with the 2025 season, replacing Logan Sargeant.

What are your thoughts?

view all comments

user25: oh he’s gonna look good in blue!

↳user26: he looked better in red ngl

user27: not where I expected him to end up…

↳user28: well where else was he supposed to go??

↳user27: I don’t know but I didn’t expect Williams!

user29: what a extreme Silly Season this year

↳user30: and it’s not even over yet…

↳user31: don’t remind me — we still have like 6 open seats still…

user32: again I wonder what y/n is thinking… the iconic red to Williams blue??

↳tifosi_girl: the number 55 all the way!

↳user33: but red or blue?

↳tifosi_girl: 55!

tifosi_girl

liked by charles_leclerc, carlossainz55, landonorris, and 2,728,172 others

tagged: carlossainz55

tifosi_girl: Mi hombre guapo... Qué viaje tan salvaje ha sido estos últimos años; Victorias y derrotas, podios y abandonos. A pesar de todo, has sido el mejor socio que cualquiera podría haber pedido. Ahora que esta temporada ha terminado, ¡vamos a la próxima gran cosa! My handsome man…what a wild ride it’s been these past few years; wins and losses, podiums and dnfs. Through it all, you’ve been the best partner anyone could have asked for. Now that this season is over it’s on to the next big thing!

view all comments

user34: I’m so sad right now

↳user35: oh I know…I can’t believe this is over

carlossainz55: Mi amor, mi vida, tenerte a mi lado en este viaje ha sido una de las mejores cosas que me han pasado. Gracias por todo el apoyo que me han dado; No puedo esperar a lo que viene después. My love, my life, having you next to me through this journey has been one of the best things to ever happen to me. Thank you for all the support you’ve given me; I can’t wait for what comes next.

↳tifosi_girl: you’re gonna make me cry my love

↳user36: I don’t want love if it’s not like you guys liked by tifosi_girl, carlossainz55

charles_leclerc: it’s been a pleasure Carlos

↳carlossainz55: it really has but I will be a few doors away

↳charles_leclerc: indeed you will!

↳tifosi_girl: (and yes that does include my food) liked by charles_leclerc

landonorris: so since Carlos doesn’t drive a red car anymore…does that mean your restriction has been lifted??

↳tifosi_girl: much too soon

↳tifosi_girl: so….that's a big fat no

↳landonorris: oh COME ON

oscarpiastri: do you take requests?

↳tifosi_girl: potentially?

↳oscarpiastri: blueberry cheesecake?

↳tifosi_girl: sure

↳landonorris: SERIOUSLY???

tifosi_girl

liked by carlossainz55, alex_albon, and 2,812,239 others

tagged: carlossainz55

tifosi_girl: well blue might not be my color but you are my man so needs must I guess…(also these blueberry cupcakes are bangers). Here’s to an amazing season mi hombre guapo

comments have been restricted on this post

carlossainz55: vida mia…

↳carlossainz55: thank you so much for everything

↳carlossainz55: (especially adopting the blue)

↳tifosi_girl: only for you, my love

alex_albon: sooooo…

↳landonorris: if he gets something baked before i do, im gonna be sooooo mad

↳tifosi_girl: lol liked by carlossainz55, alex_albon

↳landonorris: 😠😠😠

Taglist

@anamiad00msday @suns3treading @daniskywalkersolo @awritingtree @justheretoreadthxxs @coral7161 @lost4lyrics @mastermindbaby @freyathehuntress @angelluv16 @nichmeddar @mxm47max @justaf1girl @a-beaverhausen @tallrock35 @elizamoe133 @imlonelydontsendhelp @jessica3478 @il0vereadingstuff @msimpala-67

[little-boyyyy-blog]

i forgot!

alessia russo x reader

when alessia meets the one just for her she makes sure she the right one before showing her off. even if there was really no doubt. well. besides your college. but you got her to forget about it for a while.

“are you a model?” you asked the blonde girl that you had been shameless watching move throughout the paris night club you were currently in. people were swarming the bars, leading to arms laying across a sticky counter with debit cards in hand and very close proximities.

a surpsied expression to your bold question came from the girl, her moving her ear away from your lips with a tint to her cheeks that wasn’t there before. you could swear.

“a footballer actually. are you?”

alessia was automatically attracted to you. her eyes genuinely scanned your body painfully slow as her eyes filled with a obsession

“basketballer actually. aren’t you competing?” alessia peaked up at the more familiar accent, she knew she had heard it before. leaning forward towards the american stranger, enjoying her memories of the united stated

“my nation didn’t qualify. but innit that funny, i went to school in america?”

“what a shame. i’d love to watch you play. shame it wasn’t at duke either, i would have seen you before that. i know that for sure.”

“and you lost me there. you were doing well too” you watched as disinterest comes across her face at the mention of your alma mater. not like it mattered to you, the footballer in front of you was all your mind was interested by.

“i never said i hated unc” you had to yell for her to hear, pulling her closer to you by her waist as another body tried to squeeze behind her.

“that’s because it’s the best in the country”

“in my country?”

“your country.” her smile came back, bringing a burn deeper in your stomach. the bartender swiftly dropped off both her drinks and yours. “vos cartes.” you don’t know what came over you; because it definitely wasn’t logic when your hand came on-top of alessia’s as she tried to start a tab. it was early in the night and you were still on a contact in the lowest paid league in america; but you had no problem treating the girl you were admiring for the night.

never had you thanked you agent more for sponsorships.

“mets toutes ses boissons avec les miennes ce soir. tout ce qu'elle obtient, je l'ai” the bartender nodded to your fluent french and turned away without hesitation; only taking your card.

“put all her drinks in with mine tonight. whatever she gets, i got”

“what did you just do? also i thought you were from america? you sound great. ”

“i gotta make my money somewhere, you went to america for experience no? just stay around for a while so i have something to look forward, remember to come say bye too.”

the sharpness to you, your undeniable looks, the free drinks.. how could she say no?

“i just might have to, and who do i come looking for?”

“you’ll find out if you come back. what’s you’re name?”

alessia’s eyes rolled at your secrecy, but bit her lip in enjoyment. she knew she’d be coming back, how couldn’t she. just look at you.

“alessia.”

“less these were out front?” leah announced as she entered alessia flat; confusion being noticed on the kent natives face until her eyes caught onto the pink peonies that we beautifully arranged for her.

leah carried them in carefully; not glancing to hard at them before handing them off. “theyre beautiful”

she would have kept an eye out front for them if she knew they were coming, but she never knew when you’d send them.

her cheeks when flushed and the pink in those flowers were so similar that you had secretly dedicated those flowers to her.

“oh my god, i didn’t hear a ring. thank you le.”

“who gave you those?” a question that gone unanswered.

alessia hadn’t spoken a word about you to her teammate. you were too good to be true in her mind; she didn’t want to ruin that before anything could actually happen.

quickly plucking the card off the floral pick and walked causally into the kitchen. “oh my those are beautiful less, who sent them?”

“someone from the states.” she slipped the card away into her back pocket before the overbearingness of the arsenal women’s team started.

“ohhhh”

“a college fling?”

“how many times have they’ve sent them?”

less pressed her lips together to hide the ever small smile from crossing her face. “once or twice.”

“oh my god!”

“a man sent those??”

“ay dios mío..”

the room continued with the chatter of who they may believe it to be. but surprisingly the room had two silent watchers. ones that alessia noticed instantly.

alessia felt as lotte watched her throw away the same peonies, now a week old. she felt emily watching as she cleaned the vase and put it in a cabinet. a cabinet with definitely more than one or two similar vases. emily would count on at least 7 or 8.

but of course they already knew that the american would have to be someone new to alessia.

they were alessia’s bestfriends at her time at unc; and they knew she spent her time there as a stepping stone to make it where she is now. meaning she was focused, studious, and committed to soccer while there. she wasn’t at unc to date, she was there to become better.

but alessia wasn’t stupid. her eyes meet with lotte’s and emily’s, giving them the look to please keep quiet for now. and that’s what they did. because they didn’t care that much.

well they did. but they knew if they pushed they’d never know. and trust. they wanted to know so badly that they were willing to wait.

alessia didn’t know why people cared so much if it didn’t involve them; but what she did was learn was that people will always want to know too much.

the spotlight makes you learn that damn last.

and as the flowers became a second thought to the arrival to the skipper, that gave alessia an escape from the attention to do something she couldn’t wait to do.

excusing herself to the bathroom from her guests once the timing felt right. her heart beating as she already pulled out her phone from her back pocket to text you a ‘thank you’ for the flowers as she walked through her flat.

pressing her back against her own bathroom door as she locked it. pulling out the card that was placed in the flowers from her back pocket so fast it may have ripped a corner. rubbing her thumb over the similar words as those that have brought her ease for the past 7 weeks.

i bought these flowers the same night i bought your ticket. you’ll be here in a week and these should last you til then. ill spend my days waiting for you until then. xo

you had finally made your way back with lunch for the two of you and less couldn’t hold back her excitement. she had jumped into your arms the second you had entered the apartment, giving you no time but to catch her. and that’s what you did. “finally”

holding her up against you with one arm as you held onto the food bag in your other, you walked the both of you into your apartment. letting the front door close and automatically lock as you walked you both into your kitchen. placing her and the food down on the counter before quickly placing a kiss to the british girls lips.

“hi hun” you whispered against them as she snuck her hand up your shirt, leaving a comforting and warm hand on your side. in a way to remind you she was real. a reminder you were grateful for as you looked at her longer. “hi baby”

“i got us our last american meal for a bit”

“enjoy your messy burger because you obviously can’t live without one for two weeks.”

“that’s why i got it obviously..” you rolled your eyes back at her, “you know you talk a lot of shit for someone who likes being in america”

“that’s because you’re here.” alessia had sent butterflies to your stomach ever since the moment you had met her at club. and over the months you had gotten to learn her; you had learn that her comments like those. meant something. not only to you; but her too.

“is that why you had me push back your return flight?”

“are we not going to mention how you bought yourself a ticket to come back with me” a teasing smile on her lips.

“no we’re not”

your phone rang on the counter taking you both out of your moment together; her eyes moving subconsciously to see who it was. and when she read another woman’s name she automatically sat up straight and let her hand quickly fall off of your waist.

alessia couldn’t help herself. as much as she’d love to say she hadn’t been looking for a red flag in you. she knew she had to be right about you being too good to be true in her mind.

“hey what’s up?..”

and honestly; for a good second. she couldn’t believe her eyes when you picked up your phone so nonchalantly infront of her, answering the call from the girl with not a second thought to you.

“..damn. no i can’t watch tuck this weekend; im going out of town with less..”

but of course she was being dramatic.

of course you had been telling everyone about alessia.

you had been treating her like your girlfriend since the moment she had arrived and alessia loved it. but never admitted it.

a small smile cracking out from your lips and a sly wink was all alessia needed for her cheeks to become that signature pink and her forehead to come planting on the center of your chest.

and as you ended the call and pulled her head away from your chest. there was that light smile still on your lips “jealous over a dog”

all alessia wants to do is kiss that smile off your face too. “it was the girl; and so what about it?”

“you’re all i want less”

“no way. you’re not dating her less.” emily stood firm in alessia apartment. another wide smile coming across your face as you knew why. a laugh coming out after alessia looked at you crazy.

“what?” you stood in the center on alessia living room in a pair of her arsenal shorts and an college college hoodie.

“emily i’ve told her” you had met emily before due to emily’s time in the nwsl and you’re continuing friendship with her u-19 national teammate tess boade.

“told me what?”

“she’s a blue devil?”

“what?” lotte quickly pipped in as if you had killed someone.

“she went to duke? are you kidding less? how could you fall for the rival.”

“oh my god. i forgot.”

“are you actually doing this right now? baby i told you the night we met?”

“i forgot!” alessia exclaimed.

“what do you mean?! how could you forget?”

“she was buying our drinks and she was looking really nice, i guess it just flew right over my head that night!”

“god less you’re kidding.”

she wasn’t. and maybe the enemy wasn’t so bad after all.

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

64 / 4.1k / soap soulmate au, final part

...

"You doing okay?"

Hearing Graves’ voice knocks what little breath you had out of your lungs. It's been months, but that's him. Your old boss. You never thought you'd hear his voice again.

"I've been better," you say finally. "Been awhile."

"Yeah, it has," he says. "Wish you'd've called me to catch up sometime, rather than under the circumstances. You don't sound too banged up. They treat you alright?"

"I'm fine."

"I didn't ask how you feel. I asked if they roughed you up."

You feel your own temper shorten in response. "I need you to call KorTac off."

There's a pause. You can imagine his frowning face, the way he's thinking that one over. "I'll take that under advisement," he finally says, but you can tell he's not going to do what you ask of him. "Puttin' me in a predicament here, kid. You're giving those boys a hard time, and here I thought I was helping you out. Paying your bail, so to speak."

"It’s more complicated than that."

"Always is. Let’s just have you dropped off back on base with us. You can clean yourself up and we’ll talk."

He waits for your crisp yes, sir, but it never comes.

He speaks again. "You got somewhere else to be?"

"I can't go back."

"Can't or won't? You got something you ain't tellin me, soldier?"

"I said I can't go back. And I'm not your soldier anymore. You're not my boss. I don't work for you."

"You know Shadows don't leave one of our own behind. Not to rot in some CIA prison cell. So lose the attitude," he says, voice like iron. "This ain't a good time to play games, kid. You're comin' back with me because I spent a pretty penny on you. You owe me. You have your personal business, fine. Come on back to base and let's talk this out face to face before you go makin' any hasty decisions."

You're so frustrated it's hard to form words. You should be grateful. You know that. Graves doesn’t pretend to care about his men. He cares enough to lead from the front. But you met your soulmate, and you can’t act like it didn't change you. You need to make things right. You also can’t exactly tell Graves you kind of sold him out.

"Hey. Focus up." He doesn't raise his voice to a command. Still, the order is in his voice, and you have been long trained to follow your commander's orders. Then he sighs. "What happened to you, kid?"

"You betrayed the 141. You killed innocent people in Las Almas, looking for them."

You can almost hear his jaw working behind his clenched teeth, the muscles in his face tight. He does not allow this kind of disrespect. "You think I like what I had to do? General Shepherd's orders were clear. We followed them. 141 did not." He huffs out a sigh. "I didn't enjoy it. But that's the job. You of all people know that."

You swallow. "You told us they were our brothers. You killed innocent people, Commander. Johnny said he saw you do it--"

"Johnny?" Grave's voice rises. "You on a first name basis with Soap now?"

"We all know what happened in Las Almas," you retort. Your skin goes hot at the way he says Johnny's name. "I won't work for Shepherd anymore after that. I won't fucking do it."

"Don't pull that with me." The warning is written in his voice. This isn't like you. To the Shadows, you’re calm. Cold. You don't lose your temper. You don't talk back. Especially not to Graves. "You think you can walk away at the drop of a hat just because you don't agree with an order? It doesn't work like that. You follow an order, even if you don't like it, even if it pisses you off. You don't get to decide what you think is right or wrong to carry out. When I give you an order, you follow it. That's your job. Your loyalty is with me. Not with the 141."

"I did my job."

"Then act like it," he snaps. "Stop acting like I'm some evil bastard out here. I made the only choice I could. Task Force 141 was not supposed to be there. They knew my orders, and what did they do? They came after my men, went behind my back, screwed us over. We did what we had to. You wanna be pissed at someone? Be pissed at them."

You glare down at the ice, but say nothing.

"You know I'm right." He knows you. He's getting to you. "And you know what else I find interesting? You don't seem a bit surprised to hear me alive." His voice is too casual and sharp as a knife. "Didn't you get the memo? Did no one forward you my obituary, soldier?"

You stiffen. You're not supposed to know he's alive.

"You're an awful liar. Always have been." He pauses for a long moment. "It ain't easy, surviving against the 141 if they want you dead. You know how I managed it, soldier?"

Yes. "No,” you retort. “And stop calling me that. I'm not your soldier. I don't work for you anymore."

"The hell you aren't. Maybe you're not on the payroll anymore, and maybe you're no longer under my command, but once a Shadow, always a Shadow. That makes you my responsibility. And my goddamn headache." Something shuffles on the other end of the line. "You know exactly what I'm willing to do to keep one of my Shadows safe. But if you're so keen on turning yourself in, fine. I'll have you in front of Shepherd's desk first thing tomorrow. Is that what you want? You know Soap and Ghost put Shadows in the ground that night in Las Almas."

"Shadows tried to put Johnny and Ghost in the ground first."

"This isn't about who shot first. This is about you." His voice is dangerously low, but he keeps his temper in check. Then he huffs a laugh. "You keep callin’ him Johnny. Makes my brain itch." Johnny MacTavish. John MacTavish. Yeah, that's it. "I'll be damned," he mutters.

You touch your exposed soulmark compulsively as if to hide it. Most soldiers hide theirs, but yours has always been tough to cover up. He's seen it more than a few times.

"Got you right out from under my fuckin' nose."

Your stomach tightens. You feel too exposed, like suddenly he’s putting the story together--how 141 got in.

"Shoulda known. Shoulda known. You know the military has a registry for this shit. There are rules. What's wrong with you?"

"I made a mistake," you mutter.

That might be the funniest thing he ever heard. And he's heard some good jokes. "You don't make mistakes, kiddo. You never have. That's not how I trained you." He's right, and you know it. "But hey. Guess it's true what they say about it."

"What?"

"Soulbonds. Make you take your best-laid plans and raze ‘em. Full scorched earth.”

“This isn’t about that. I’m making this decision on my own.”

“You think?” He takes a puff on his cigarette. “I don’t. I don't blame you, either. You sure as hell fought it as best you could. Didn't give in to save your own life. If that's not the soulbond making your decision for you, soldier, I don't know what is."

You look up at the sky. For all the time you spent working with Graves, that past version of you might as well be dead. Maybe that’s the grave you’ve been digging. "I can't work for Shepherd anymore. I won't do it."

"You're a good soldier, 86. You were loyal. I still think you're loyal, even if I'm not who you're loyal to," he finally says. His voice is still calm. It doesn't make you feel any better. "You know if you choose to walk away from this, the next time we meet might well be as enemies."

"Then I guess we won't meet again, sir."

He says nothing. Then he lets out a long huff. You really are going to do him dirty. You can hear his scowl. "That's a damn shame, kid. But you have more of a spine than I gave you credit for," he says. There's a tone of reluctant respect to it. That's as close as you're going to get to a compliment from him now. "You're a loose end, then. You'd best stay well out of the way. Mine and Shepherd's. I hope you're not making the wrong choice, 86," he says quietly. "I really hope you're not."

"It’s out of your hands now. And pay KorTac," you add. "Pay my squad. They did their job."

That makes him scoff. "Now why would I do that? You might be a traitor, but you're still my investment. You were worth more on my payroll than theirs, and that’s a fact I intend to maintain."

"You owe me," you remind him.

"Don't push your luck," he warns. "You're an asset. You don’t get the privileges of rank anymore. But, well..." He sighs. You imagine him with his heels kicked back on his desk, cigarette in hand. "I’ll tell you what. I’m in a charitable mood. I'll pay them off. I'm a man of my word when the time comes to pay off my debts. Hell, I’ll even throw in a tip for a job well done." Despite the annoyance in his voice, you don't doubt he'll do just that. "But that doesn’t mean I trust you anymore. I trusted you once, and you went rogue. I let you go now, that means I expect you to keep my secrets. Don't you go singing if Shepherd puts you in a chair. You got that?"

You glance up out of the corner of your eye at Soap, whose hands are still clenched in tight fists at his sides. "If Shepherd puts me in a chair, he's the one who's gonna sing. Not me."

Graves chuckles. "You're a good soldier, 86, but you can't take on an old war dog like Shepherd. Leave that to someone more qualified."

"Like who? You?"

"As I said, you best steer clear. I don't want to hear your name again." His voice hardens, and you hear your old commander again. "Good luck, kid. You'll need it. And give Soap hell."

You toss the phone back to Horangi. He listens to what Graves has to say. Then, eyes meeting yours for a moment, he wordlessly moves out away from the river, leaving you weary with relief. It's over. Finally.

Soap watches him disappear into the trees. Then, he looks back at you, alone and shivering on the ice. You look half-dead, bleeding, and your lips are near blue. He wants to make his way to you, but the ice is scarcely holding you. It won't hold him, too.

"Oi," Soap calls. His voice is rough with anxiety. "Get over here. You're gonnae freeze to death even if you don't fall through."

You blink up at him. Standing in the rising sun the way he is now, he looks like someone’s guardian angel. Yours? You'd like very much to be wrapped in his wings.

You make your way over to the bank, but the rocky ledge up is slippery and icy. Behind you, between the ice where you're standing and the bank, there's a yawning gap. To your left, there's a bridge, but snow has already melted off the surface of the ice, and it looks thin. "There's no way up," you call. "But downriver..."

"No’ a chance in hell I’m going to let you try to cross that," Soap says as he approaches the edge. "You'll be swept away and drown, hen. You're not in any condition to swim, and even if you were, that river's too bloody fast to risk it."

"Then what do you suggest?"

His eyes sweep over the river once more. It's wide; too wide to attempt a jump across. The ice has fallen in, leaving it almost impossible to make it to the bank. It isn't safe. The longer you stand there, the more the ice cracks under you. He admires your guts for putting yourself on the line like that to get back to him, but damn you. His blood pressure has never been higher.

Soap throws off his pack and slings his gear onto the bank. "I'll pull you up."

"But..."

"But nothing." With the adrenaline still pumping through his system, Soap thinks nothing of the risk of the bank collapsing under you both with his added weight. The only thing on his mind is getting you back in one piece. "We both know damn well, if I was the one on the ice now, you'd already be down there trying to help me, so for once, just shut up and let me help you."

Can't argue with that.

He pulls out an ice hook--mountaineering equipment; he was prepared to climb this mission, luckily--and offers it to you.

You toss the grenade as far as you can in the opposite direction. Then you raise your hands to grasp the rope. He's holding the sharp end and giving you the handle. You try to keep hold, but as he lifts, your bloodied hands slip just as the grenade explodes nearby, too close, spiderwebbing the ice with a final crack.

You land hard, break through, and disappear under the freezing water.

Soap has never known panic faster than when he sees you go under.

He dives after you. He has to get you back to the surface before whatever air you had in your lungs gives out. Your survival is his survival.

He finds you in the rushing black abyss when your fingers hook around his sleeve. Wrapping his hands around your arms, Soap anchors you to his chest.

You come to in his arms. You're colder than you ever have been in your life. Your fingertips tingle in pain and numbness. He's carrying you ashore somehow--far downriver, thinner ice--and he ducks into an old cabin with you in his arms.

Soap kicks the door shut behind him and moves into the cabin to set you on the floor, propping your back against the wall. His hands work fast as he pulls out his knife to cut away your soaked thermal clothes and gear. You dip in and out of consciousness until he wads up a fistful of gauze and packs it into your side wound. The sudden pain chokes you. Then a wave of nausea washes over you. You’d like nothing more than to tell him where precisely he can shove that gauze, but you’re too lightheaded.

"You with me, hen?" His gruff voice wavers. "I need you to stay awake."

He gathers you up in his arms and lifts you into his lap. It's a tight fit, wedged underneath the frosty window and between a table and an upturned stool. You register the warmth of his skin on yours and dimly realize he's stripped both of you almost bare, huddling around you to prevent hypothermia.

You soak up Soap’s body heat instantly. He's a furnace, and he needs to be, given the state you're in. He tucks you as close as he can. You're both shivering, but he doesn't care. He can be cold as long as you're warm. His broad body shields you from the drafts leaking into the decrepit cabin.

"No, no, eyes open." He tilts your face up as your eyes flutter. "Don't go passin' out on me."

You gaze up at him in your stupor. Maybe it's the blood loss, but even through your own pain and frustration, he's the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen.

"You have really odd eyes," you mutter. "Like blueberry soft serve."

Oh, you're definitely delirious. Maybe concussed.

But he can't deny the look you're giving him right now makes his stomach flip. The sight of you in his lap, your frost-scorched fingers wrapped idly around his ID tag and staring up at him like he's just pulled the moon out of the sky for you... it's the first time he’s seen you with your guard down.

He swallows and keeps you pressed against his skin. There’s a lot of blood. He can’t tell what’s yours and what isn’t. "You're in no shape to flatter me."

You hum, your fingers dabbing idly at a smear of blood on his chest.

He doesn't move to stop you. Instead, his eyes flick down to your hand. Your fingers leave a trail of sparks over everywhere you touch.

With a soft sigh, Soap catches your wrist. "Quit it, hen."

"Quit what?"

"Teasin'. Makin' me wish you'd put those hands to other uses," he says, voice quiet and rough. It's just you and him in the little cabin. The world is far away. His thumb rubs against the inside of your wrist, trying to bring some warmth back into your skin. "You're in no shape to be feelin' me up, either."

Your head lolls against his shoulder. "Maybe it's the perfect time. Maybe we won't get another time."

Hearing you say that twists his insides into knots. He leans down to rest his forehead against yours. "Maybe you just need to shut up and let me take care of you. Don't talk like that." His voice leaves no room for argument. He tightens his grip on you, pressing you closer as if he can somehow press that into your skin by sheer will alone. "There'll be plenty of times for you to get your hands on me."

"Mm." You tuck into him tighter. You'd be mortified with yourself if you weren't half-dead from blood loss. "Sorry."

He exhales into your hair, pressing chaste kisses there.

You're practically in his lap, the two of you tangled into each other from head to foot in the space under the window. He's surrounded by the smell of you. It's a soothing presence in all that surrounds him.

He shouldn't want to touch you, shouldn't want to take advantage of your weakness--but the thought of having you so open and wanting, of you willingly in his arms, makes something in him ache. Makes the selfish parts of him scream.

"You're a pain in my arse," he says. He focuses on taking inventory of your wounds, brushing over your arms with his touch to assess the damage. "You gonnae bleed out on me?"

You shiver a little as he drags you closer by your bare thigh. "Wouldn't be the worst way to go."

"Oi," he snaps in warning. He slides his hand up your side, checking for bleeding. It’s just as much a caress over your bare skin. He has to ignore how his skin tingles every time the curve of your body slides against his in that tantalizing way. Something in his lower belly tightens. "You don't get to tap out after makin' me go through all this trouble for you. You're livin' through tonight or else."

"Or else what?"

"Or else." He moves his hand up to the base of your throat, his large, calloused fingers wrapping around your neck and tilting your chin up to look at him. He fixes his blue eyes on yours to take in the dazed expression on your face. "I'll drag your arse out of hell and tan it until you can't sit right."

You're too weary to laugh, but you rest your scuffed cheek on his thumb, and it pushes your lips into a smirk. "All for me?"

"Aye. Hell of a lot more trouble than your pretty face should be worth."

You pull free and rest your head on his shoulder again. "Where do you live?"

"Glasgow," he says. "Not sure I should be tellin' you that."

You trace his chest around the chain of his ID tag. So many muscles. "Probably not."

"And what about you? Do I get to know?"

"No. Maybe. If we get out of here."

"Yeah? Well, you're not goin' anywhere with this wound. Bleedin' out, nearly froze to death, and still mouthin' off. No idea how to shut up and be good." He looks down at the injury, assessing how bad it really is in the dim light of the cabin. "You lost a lot of blood. I bet you feel tired." He brushes your hair off your face. "Stay awake a bit longer. The boys'll be here soon."

"I shouldn't," you mutter.

Soap doesn't miss the slurring of your words. He knew the blood loss would affect you, but he was hoping for more time before he had to really worry. "Shouldn't stay? Too late to get away from me now," he says, trying to keep his tone casual. Your skin is too cold for comfort. The gauze in your wound soaking through with blood can't mean anything good. "I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you. Sure as hell not letting you out of my sight. You've got a lot to repay me for."

You try to keep your eyes open. Every blink is more sluggish than the last. "Like what?"

"Runnin' away and makin' me chase after you, for one. Puttin' yourself in the line of fire for me, second. Takin' a swim in a frozen river. Scared me to death." He presses his lips to the crown of your head, a gentle, chaste touch at odds with the possessive, dominating instinct he can feel creeping into his thoughts. You're vulnerable right now, something he should never want, but part of him wonders if he’d ever have caught up with you without this. "Aye, you owe me. First thing we do once you're patched up? We have a long talk. We have a whole hell of a lot we need to say to one another. And you'll answer every question I ask you."

"I dunno if you'll like the stuff I say," you mutter.

"Hardly matters. You’re plenty keen on spittin’ fire at me as it is. No reason you can’t keep tellin’ me everything I don’t want tae hear."

Another shiver wracks your body.

Soap rubs your arms. "You gotta give your word you stay awake for me, aye? Stay here."

His radio beeps nearby. You huff. "Fine."

"Fine." He leans over to grab his radio and tries to keep an arm around your shoulders to keep you warm as he does. He keeps you cradled against his chest as he responds to Price.

"Soap here."

You don't hear the conversation. Instead, you listen to Soap's voice vibrate through his chest. He speaks to Price in hushed tones, talking about your condition and the team's ETA.

Price has a laundry list of questions, but Soap manages to wrangle them into holding off until they have everyone back on base. No sense exhausting you on a mission that's already been a shitshow. Finally, they're done. Soap lets the radio go to focus entirely on you again. "Still with me?"

"How long do we have?"

"Shouldn't be too much longer," he says. He checks your side again. The coldness of the air has soaked into the wet gauze. You shiver again. It makes something in him ache. "ETA's about ten minutes out."

You pull his lips down to yours and kiss him.

He's surprised, but he doesn't pull back--not from you. He lets you kiss him. Your taste seeps into his brain and turns all rational thought to white noise. One hand cups your jaw with a surprising gentleness, and the other slides behind your waist to keep you against his body. He's gentle--you need to be handled with care right now.

He pulls back before he loses himself in the desire to deepen the kiss. His eyes search your face, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath hot against your lips.

"You're lucky you're injured," he murmurs. "Or you'd be in a very different kind of trouble right now."

You shiver, but not with the cold. Just that one kiss has you feeling much warmer. You touch your name where it's written on his arm. Then you curl your fingers around the back of his neck and pull yourself closer. "Hold onto that thought for later," you murmur. "Give me something to wait for."

Then you kiss him again.

...

← previous part / [part 13] / epilogue →

part 1 / more Soap / masterlist

thank you <3

[pandorafallz]

You know, I was searching the web for Na'vi hair styles for my Alma fic i have going for inspiration but than i found more than expectation so...

it seems right to fill the Frointers of Pandora tag with these beauties.

The author links are below to check out and such and please do if you haven't already; it's a must for BTS stuff of the game.

So'lek!! bc you don't see much with his chest gear on! Hot.

Eetu for you thirsty birds

Alma!!! my fav character. Again, you don't see skin around her neck bc she has that neck scalf Did you see the scar on her right cheek under her eye? Where did that come from?

Also, what colour would you call her eyes? I'd say brown but there's an odd contract to them. Were they going for a light brown?

Here's some Colonel Harding with all her scars. Kinda hot, even if she's a horrible person. This under-the-collar stuff is kinda useful for my fics tho 😉

Also, i really like her eyes! Such a dark blue which you don't see as often on poc characters. Maybe it's a recessive gene that's active in her character's Lore?

Honestly, i'm glad to see more of Nesim's neck bc it's hard when trying to do any art with her, finding the proportions of her neck with her Zeswa collared chest guard... painful.

Also... she's stunning! Minang too!

You know, I hate Nor's headpiece with a severe passion. I personally don't think it suits him; far too big. If it was smaller, it'd be fine but it covers up most of his head. Plus, he's not a clan leader so it's odd.

So i threw that in so you see what Nor looks like without that decor!

Link to Artist's Page/Blog; the artist did the hair styles for FoP

[pathologicalreid]

pyrophoric | s.r.

in which Spencer seeks the help of a chemist to help with his research into white phosphorous

margotober masterlist

who? spencer reid x chemist!reader category: fluff content warnings: chemical warfare, WWI, willie pete = white phosphorous, spencer and chemist!reader's first meeting, i love them so hard, in 10x16 "derek" the show tells you to use copper sulfate but that's literally wrong don't do that, flirtiiiingggg, spencer reid is sooooo sexy in a lab coat word count: 2.65k a/n: the idea for this fic was sitting in my brain and then it turned out the information in the show is literally wrong so i had to cancel spencer reid, but here we are now. i fixed it, don't worry. tumblr user sunshineduda if you're out there this is for you.

pyrophoric - liable to ignite spontaneously on exposure to air

The knock on the door made you jump. Your face warms as a result of your nerves, acting like you haven’t been expecting someone to show up at the side door. In fact, you were the one who instructed him to go to the side door, and he’s just following your orders.

Sliding off of your stool, you make your way to the side door, undoing the lock on the crash bar and opening it. He was wearing a pea coat over what looks like a suit, which is maybe a bit overdressed for your lab, but you weren’t going to say anything about it. “Uh,” you finally speak, “You can hang your things up over there,” you nod to the corner of the room.

Once he’s properly hung up his coat and messenger bag, he comes back to you, standing dutifully in front of you, “I’m Dr. Spencer Reid,” he introduces himself.

You nod once in response, “Right,” you introduce yourself in kind, “You can just call me Y/N, though.” You feel no need to use your honorific with other academics, it’s easier to just go by first names. Pointing to a new corner of the room, you lead him in that direction, “I made sure we had a lab coat available for you. I wasn’t sure if you had one of your own,” you explain to him grabbing your own white coat from the locker and pulling it on.

“Thank you,” he responds, taking the spare that you left out for him and tugging it over his sleeves. His hair seems shorter than it was in the pictures you’ve seen of him, which is mostly just what pops up with a quick Google search, but there was something about Dr. Reid that is very unlike any other academic you’ve met before.

You watch him pull the cuffs of the coat over his sleeves, pulling the lapels closer together in front of his chest. “How long has it been?” You ask, handing him a pair of goggles and making a note of his discomfort in the sterile polyester.

He looks at you, big brown eyes with his eyebrows raising up in curiosity, “Pardon?”

Gesturing to the lab coat, you shrug slightly, “How long has it been since you’ve been in a lab?”

“Nine years, three months, and five days,” he answers, barely giving it a second thought as he adjusts his collar.

He has an eidetic memory. That information also shows up when you look him up on the internet, “Right well, I’m sure it’ll be just like riding a bike.”

Spencer gestures for you to lead the way back to the lab, and you take him to your station. It wasn’t clean enough to eat off of, but it was certainly clean enough for the two of you to begin a research plan. “So,” he begins, looking around the lab like he’s casing the place, “You went to Princeton?”

Nodding apprehensively, you wipe your sweaty palms on the fabric of your jeans, “Oh, yeah. For my doctorate at least.”

Spencer takes a seat on the lab stool across from you, nervously adjusting a few of the things in front of him, “Right, Johns Hopkins for your bachelor’s and master’s.”

It seems that someone else has been doing opposition research—Spencer Reid had googled you. “Well,” you tell him, turning on your computer, “It’s no CalTech.”

“Princeton has a great chemistry program,” Spencer points out, protecting your alma mater despite his lack of connection to the school.

Your face warms again, “Oh, I know. It’s just,” you look over at the genius in the room, a shy smile reaching your face. “I’m used to the dick-measuring contests, so I thought you might have a similar preconception.”

Spencer frowns at you, “You thought I’d want to have a dick-measuring contest with you?”

At this point, your face might as well be on fire, “When you put it together and say it like that it sounds awful.” You want to bang your head against the table. Even better, you want to go over to the rinse station and just let the shower head wash away your humiliation. “Can we just talk about chemistry? I’m good with chemistry,” you ramble, focusing your attention on your computer monitor.

“I was joking,” Spencer clarifies.

You swallow thickly, “I know.” There was no explanation in the world that you could give to yourself that would resolve this, so you elect to move past it.

Spencer hums next to you, placing his hands neatly in his lap while he waits for something to do, “So, the interaction that chemicals used in warfare has on modern medicine?”

Your head snaps over to him, your eyes looking at him widely, “You read my dissertation?”

He chuckles at your shock, the sound easing some of your nerves, “I’ve read it a few times now. How did you think I found you?”

Scoffing in response to his question, you shake your head, typing in your username and password, “I just thought you went skimming through the white pages until you saw my name and thought ‘She’s probably available on a Saturday morning.’” Once you’re in the system, you turn back to face him, a slightly less timid smile now on your face. “So, what’s your interest in chemical warfare anyway?”

“I just… I’d like to try something new, and I was looking through one of the recent government reports, and your dissertation was cited at the end, so I decided to reach out to you,” he explains himself to you.

You nod in understanding, “You work for the FBI?”

Spencer’s head bobs, “Yes, but my work for the FBI and my interest in chemical warfare are not intertwined in the slightest.”

You raise your eyebrows in suspicion, “Did your boss tell you to say that to me? Was there an NDA I was supposed to sign?”

He laughs again and this time it makes your heart soar, “No, I just wanted to make sure you knew.”

“Couldn’t you get in any other lab and just do the work yourself?” You inquire, getting up from your stool and starting to get things out of the cupboards, stirring rods, beakers, and anything else you thought you might need.

Considering it for a moment, Spencer walks up behind you, grabbing a flask from a shelf that you were trying to reach and setting it down for you, “You already have the majority of the research done, and besides, most of my chemistry application is in analytical chemistry, yours is in biochemistry.”

Thanking him, you set everything down in your workspace, careful not to drop anything on the floor as you did so. “So, you’re just curious and you decided to reach out to me to do some experiments over the weekend?”

“I wanted to have your expert opinion,” Spencer tells you, watching as you make your way to the storage area, you type in your PIN and open the closet, setting everything you need on a tray before bringing it all back out to Spencer.

You smile when his eyes go wide at the sight in front of him, the rush of being in a lab hitting him for the first time in almost ten years. “So, Dr. Reid, tell me what you know about white phosphorous.”

He leans back in his stool as if he’s been waiting for you to ask this question, “White phosphorous is an inflammatory allotrope of phosphorous, it’s commonly referred to as the ‘devil’s element’ because it glows green in the dark and is pyrophoric—it’s liable to ignite unexpectedly when exposed to air.”

“I know what pyrophoric means,” you tell him, trying to hide your recognition of just how smart he is.

Spencer holds his hands up in surrender, “Militaries frequently use it to illuminate battlefields, cause smokescreens, and act as an incendiary. Once it ignites, it’s very difficult to extinguish, and it sticks to surfaces like skin and clothing,” he continues, glancing over to the small amount of white phosphorous that you’ve allotted for your experiments today. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think Spencer was nervous around the phosphorous.

You nod at him in confirmation, “We store it underwater because it’s barely soluble, and the smoke from burning phosphorous can cause damage to the eyes and respiratory tract because of the acids and phosphine.” Your tone is deathly serious, which seems apt for the situation you’re in, “White phosphorous can penetrate through bone.”

“Did you have a liability waiver that I’m supposed to sign?” Spencer asks, taking his eyes off the chemical and looking over at you again.

Smiling, you let out a breathy laugh, “Did you just make a joke, Dr. Reid?”

Obviously proud of himself, he beams over at you, “Spencer,” he insists, “And yes, I did.”

Your head bobs at his insistence, “Right, Spencer. So, we’ll take what we already know about Willie Pete and use that prior knowledge to give us a few things to test. Obviously, I don’t want to blow up my workplace, so that limits our ability to have a controlled experiment. Once we have your options, we’ll put some protective gear and get the white phosphorous out.”

“Is that why you did your dissertation on mustard gas?” Spencer asks you, starting to look through the chemicals in front of you, “Because white phosphorous is so unstable.”

Humming, you get your notepad out and flip to a fresh page, “Partially. It was that and the fact that I was obsessed with World War One when I was a child, so mustard gas made the most sense to me.”

“A chemist with an affinity for The Great War,” Spencer muses, glancing over at you as he portions copper sulfate into a beaker.

Hiding your smile as you portion out silver nitrate into a graduated cylinder, Spencer adds water to his beaker, dissolving the copper sulfate, “If I hadn’t gone into chemistry, it would’ve been history.”

“You still could,” he says, using one of the stir sticks to get the rest of the compound to dissolve.

Laughing, you shrug in response, “Not everyone’s meant to get multiple PhDs, but sometimes I think about taking history classes here. I can take them for free because I work for the university.”

Once your test subjects were ready, the two of you put on protective gear, protecting yourselves from the deadly chemicals, “Next time someone tells me my job is dangerous, I’m going to tell them about you.” He sets his watch on a stool, not wanting to let it get damaged while you experiment.

You swore Spencer was nervous, holding his breath as you portioned out the white phosphorous in your controlled area, “So now we light it,” you tell him, and a rush of air later, the allotrope ignites on the fake human skin.

Carrying on the experiment, the two of you sat there for hours trying to set fires that wouldn’t lead to serious bodily harm. The best you find is Spencer’s copper sulfate solution, which reacted with the white phosphorous in a way that made it easier to see, which could help with the debridement of burns. “Why did you agree to help me with this?” He asks nervously, watching you scrawl notes on your legal pad.

You hum, “It’s related to my research, and I’m not in the middle of any other campaigns right now. Why did you send me a letter in the mail asking for help?”

“I don’t like email,” he responds as if it should’ve been obvious—and maybe it should’ve. “Only one more,” he tells you, “Test number nine, silver nitrate, point-two Molar aqueous solution,” he recites for your records.

Most of the experiment had been going so poorly that you half expected it to go up in flames. You took the stirring rod from the graduated cylinder and placed the clean end in your mouth before going to apply the solution.

“What are you doing? Don’t put that in your mouth,” Spencer scolds, taking the stick from your mouth.

You frown at him, righting your hand before anything has the chance to spill, “The chemicals are on the other side.”

He looks at you incredulously, “My point still stands.”

Pausing for a moment, a sly smile grows on your face, “Do I make you nervous?”

“Yes,” he admits, “Anyone who puts silver nitrate near their mouth rightfully makes me nervous.”

Rolling your eyes, you watch him put the stirring stick in its proper home before you apply the solution, your eyes going wide as you watch the reaction. Neutralizing the burn, “Oh my god, Spencer!” You exclaim, turning to look at him, you don’t even think before tossing your arms around him.

For just a moment, he hugs you back before looking at the result of the experiment. “So, silver nitrate is the best treatment we’ve found for white phosphorous burns, but if someone doesn’t have silver nitrate, then copper sulfate would also work.”

You nod in agreement, writing something similar on your notepad, “Yes, but the use of copper sulfate can also cause intravascular hemolysis and renal failure, so silver nitrate is the best conclusion that we’ve drawn.”

“You do realize that the people I’m sharing this with have never and likely will never encounter white phosphorous in their lives, so they don’t really care about the nuance,” he explains to you.

Rolling your eyes, you sit back in your stool, “Well I care about the nuance. What if this was something I wanted to publish someday?”

Spencer smiles at you, there’s something in his eyes that you can’t quite name, “You want to publish an article with me?”

Before you get a chance to answer, a spark goes off from one of your bigger failures of the day, causing you to jump from your stool, leaving you falling to the floor and your seat clattering on the linoleum.

“Are you alright?” Spencer asks, clambering from his stool to offer you a hand, which you accept gratefully.

Nodding, you stand in front of him, “Yeah, just my bruised ego.” Not to mention the bruise on my tailbone, you think to yourself. Looking over at the time, you sigh, “I should start getting everything back in order for Monday.”

Once the last of your mess has been properly cleaned up, you watch Spencer shed his lab coat. You were almost disappointed—it was a good look on him.

“Thank you again for helping to clean up,” you tell him, hanging your jacket in your designated locker. “You really didn’t have to.”

He shrugs nonchalantly, “It was my pleasure, and besides, it’s a small thank you for giving up your Saturday just to quell my curiosity. It was nice to work with an expert in the field.”

Laughing nervously, you pull a cardigan on over your arms, “Right, shame I didn’t get to ask about the vapor-liquid equilibria of alternative fuels,” you jest.

“You read my dissertation?” Spencer’s question is an echo of the same one you asked him that morning.

Your face warms as you nod slowly, “The chemistry one was digestible. I tried my hand at another one, the non-obvious relationship factors using cluster weighted modeling and geographic regression,” you rattle off the title of his engineering dissertation. “I couldn’t quite get through it, and I didn’t bother with the mathematics one.”

Spencer falters for a moment, studying your expression with something that resembles wonder, “I mean, I could explain them to you sometime. You’re brilliant, I’m sure you’d get it if you had someone to walk you through it.”

“Oh,” you breathe, “I’d like that.”

The smile on his face is worth all of the nerves you’ve ever felt, “Do you drink coffee?”

A small giggle escapes your lips as you hold the door open for him, “Habitually.”

[loveindefinitely]

༊*·˚ NEW JOBS AND DEATH THREATS — cod x reader

CRAVE YOU — call of duty x reader CHAPTER ONE

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + alejandro vargas + rodolfo 'rudy' parra + könig + keegan p. russ

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, prison au, serial killer au, reverse harem, therapist/patient, medical inaccuracies, graphic violence, depictions of murder, everyone's unhinged, poly tf141, minor ships, threesomes, foursomes, gangbangs, this is not medical advice!!

series masterlist. read on ao3.

Life was hard. That was a fact.

Bills and groceries didn’t pay for themselves. That was also a fact.

Adding these two factors together, the final product will be a high-risk job in one of the highest-risk places on Earth. That’s… not a fact.

And yet, here you are, standing at the visitor entrance of Las Almas Prison, sporting a disgruntled grimace and a new pair of black slacks that you’d splurged on. They, at least, made your ass look good, although that was truly the least of your worries.

No. Your current list of worries looked something like this;

Getting Murdered

Getting Attacked

Vomiting Within The First Five Minutes Of Your New Job?

…Yeah. Something like that.

The early morning sun is blinding where it sits, just off to the side of the giant concrete building that was the main offices and Visitor Centre. The fact that you were standing in front of what was only a small part of the overall prison grounds was… alarming.

You were well aware that this was the largest prison in your country, housing the most lethal and awful of criminals. Some you’d seen either on the news, or heard of in passing conversations.

This was the real deal. And, somehow, you’d managed to find yourself being hired to work here. You. Work with serial killers. The worst of the worst.

With the stress on your bank account, and the endless struggle that was trying to find a stable career in the current job market, you simply had no other choice but to accept the offer. It paid extremely well, had great benefits, and your safety was… fairly considered.

The amount of NDAs, liability clauses and agreements, however?

Not the best at calming your nerves, to say the least.

The biting chill of the winter wind has you wrapping your arms around yourself, leather bag slung over your shoulder as you finally step through the automatic sliding door.

You’re not surprised to find that the chill only deepens inside the concrete walls of the building, with no heaters or air conditioning from what you can see. There is, however, bright white overhead lights that do nothing except aid the throbbing in the side of your head – probably due to the restless sleep you’d had the night before, anticipation and anxiety warring inside of your thoughts.

There’s an office in front of you as you step in, with only a few decades-old couches to your right, in front of a dingy TV that’s turned off. Saving their budget for more important things, you suppose.

The walls are a pale, grimy yellow, with sparse photos hung about, framing newspaper articles that are surely from the last century, and black and white pictures of the prison’s opening.

It’s an unsettling place, that much you’ve already gathered.

You haven’t even actually been inside the prison, you remind yourself, your stomach churning where it now lays at your feet.

Without a second thought, you continue with hurried steps to the front desk, where scratched plastic encases the sole woman inside, sitting behind a monitor. There’s a circle of holes that allow for sound to pass through, but other than that, there’s no way of entering from this room. With a quick study of your surroundings, you see a steel door to the left of where the desk sits, with a small square window covered in iron bars.

…Jesus christ.

“Can I help you?” The woman drawls, sliding her glasses further up her nose. Her voice is nasally, and the words come out in a slow drawl as she looks you up and down, unimpressed.

You give her your best smile, although even you can tell that it’s an uneasy one. “Yes! This is my first day, I think I’m supposed to be meeting Kate Laswell?” You ask, nerves betraying your voice with unsteady breaths.

The woman snaps her gum.

You stand there.

She blows it again.

You continue to stand there.

Her gaze is bored and completely void of any thought, before she nods slowly. “Laswell… I’ll call her.”

Really, you couldn’t be more shocked if you tried. What the fuck was happening? How could one lack so much… professionalism?

“Hi, Kate. Yes, it’s Jenny. I have a new hire who apparently wants to see you…” Her voice remains that unbearably slow, sloth-like delivery, before her eyes unhurriedly meet yours again. “What’s your name…?”

You give it to her, tone only the slightest bit impatient as you roll back on the heels of your feet. You can only hope that your black boots are appropriate; you’d figured that they were safe, closed-toe and still somewhat professional.

Time would tell. Jenny was giving you the impression that they were more than acceptable, because at least they got you to do your job in a timely manner.

Jenny says a few more words to who can only pray is Laswell on the other end of the phone, before she places it back in its holder. 

“Laswell will be here any…” She pops her gum once more, and maybe, just maybe, you can understand the urge to murder. “Moment.”

You give her a tight, painful smile. “Thank you, Jenny.”

She doesn’t respond, and you decide to just stand back and wait. You certainly weren’t complaining – any more conversation with her would’ve ended with a severe lack of hair on your head.

A minute passes, before a buzz in the pocket of your slacks has your throat tightening. 

Pulling out your phone, your next exhale comes out shaky as you read the text.

Charlie: get milk otw home used it all

No ‘good luck’. No… ounce of care for you, or the absolute stress that comes with a new job, let alone one like this.

When you’d told him about the offer, all he’d said was, “It might make you worth something for a change.” Didn’t even question, not for a minute, the risks that came with a job like this. He simply couldn’t give less of a fuck.

“Doctor?” The sound of a door opening, and the kind, almost motherly tone of the voice has you shoving your phone into your pocket once more as you turn to the source of the sound.

It’s a woman, her hair pulled back into a slick bun, one hand holding what seems to be a clipboard. Her other hand rests in the pocket of a white coat, not unlike one a scientist would be fashioning in a lab. Her smile is warm, the corner of her eyes crinkling as you direct a smile of your own her way.

“Kate Laswell?” You ask, extending your hand for her to shake. Taking her hand out of her pocket, she accepts it gracefully, nodding her head.

“The one and only,” she says, before gesturing to the steel door she’d entered through. “Now, today we’ll get you set up with a keycard, general rules, and I’ll have you meet two of your patients.”

You nod, following her as she swipes a card in a black reader, before the red light buzzes green, and she pulls the door open. Right behind her, you take an unstable deep breath as you take in the greyed, jagged walls, a complete contrast to the painted ones of the entrance room.

“We really are so glad to welcome you to our team,” she continues, her black work shoes clicking against the smooth concrete flooring. She doesn’t turn to you as she speaks, but her voice carries around the echoey hallway. “You’ll make a great addition. A necessary one, also. We’ve needed an innovative, young therapist for a while. Most of our… previous hires have held out-dated beliefs, and a lack of humanity for their clientele.”

That makes your brows furrow in confusion. “That’s… odd,” you murmur, before pausing your steps as Laswell stops, swiping her keycard, before entering another room.

As you step into the newly revealed space, your eyes go wide as you take it in. 

It’s a wide, large space, with several floors. Metal staircases sit at either end of the vast space, allowing access to every floor. Guards sit at every level, some walking around the space where you and Laswell stand.

It’s a lot, all at once. You’d never even stepped foot into a prison – not before now.

“Most inmates are at the mess for breakfast,” Laswell supplies, turning to you with a neutral expression. She gestures for you to follow her back out of the space, and you do with hurried steps. “The ones you’ll be dealing with, however… they usually eat by themselves.”

You don’t decide to push that statement, not now, as you continue to follow her down the hallway.

“You won’t be seeing much of the prison,” she admits. “There’s heavily guarded spaces on the top floor for your sessions, both for your protection and for the safety of our staff and other low-risk inmates.”

You nod, humming a sound of affirmation as the two of you start heading up the cleaner steps at the end of the hallway. The staff staircase, you suppose.

“Today, you’ll be meeting two of our more… understanding ambers.”

You raise a brow. “Ambers? What does that mean?”

She turns her head over her shoulder, just enough to shoot you a knowing look. “Ambers are our highest-risk inmates. We house ten of them, and you’ll be dealing with eight as per your contract.”

Your stomach falls. You’d known, of course, that the risks were high when applying for this role. But… this was more than you’d imagined, in a way. Ambers. Huh.

Silence falls over the two of you as you make your way up the never-ending steps, no windows in sight. It’s unnerving, in a creepy, strange way. When you finally reach the top, you try and hide how out of breath you are from that small exertion.

Fucking christ.

Laswell, for her part, looks completely fine in an effortless way. You can’t eve find it in yourself to be envious. The feeling’s closer to admiration.

“Here’s the files on them both. You’ll be seeing Kyle Garrick first,” she hands you the clipboard she’d been carrying, and you accept it with only a slight tremble. She doesn’t comment on it, and you find yourself warming up to her already. “They’ll be restrained, and there is heavy security, so you needn’t worry about that side of things.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” you say earnestly, flipping through the files without reading much of anything, not yet. 

She waves you off with a soft chuckle. “None of that. Kate’s more than fine,” she insists, and you give her a bright smile in return. Maybe this job wouldn’t be so bad – a boss like this was much better than a creepy middle-aged man any day of the week.

You don’t realise you’ve made it to a small room until she stops walking, scanning her keycard and pushing the door open, gesturing you in. “While you have your first two sessions, I’ll sort your keycard and the rest of the processes out. I wish you luck.”

With that, the door shuts behind you, and you’re alone in a small room.

It matches the rest of the hallways you’ve seen – grey concrete walls, grey concrete floors. The only furniture, however, is one metal table drilled into the floor in the centre, one chair on either side. 

…It’s depressing. Not at all like you’d prefer, not for a fucking therapy session, but then again, you hadn’t met your clients yet.

Ambers. High-risk.

With a deep breath, you take a seat at the chair closest to you, finally reading through the top file on the clipboard.

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick. 

You skim over the height, weight, sex – immediately reading the comments made and his sentence.

Mass murderer. Motivated attacks.

Your eyes go wide, almost comically so, as you bite at your lip, folding one leg over the other as you continue to read. 

Of course, you’d prepared, been made aware that you’d be dealing with murderers. But having it in black and white, right in front of you, is a whole other thing entirely. 

Apparently, they were motivated attacks. Targets being large CEOs, specifically those with reported claims of misuse of power, and those against green laws. Anti-environment types.

The motive is… you’re aware killing is bad. You hadn’t spent years studying for a degree in Psychology to think otherwise. But it wasn’t as simple as some made it out to be. You’d done papers suggesting that certain motives implied healthier patterns, healthier outlets.

If you had to choose between him killing pregnant women, and CEOs with broken moral compasses?

It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out your answer.

You’re about to flip the page when there’s a knock on the door on the other side of the room, before it opens.

There’s two guards that walk in, before a man in an olive green jumpsuit follows, hands cuffed tightly together in front of him, head down. Another guard from behind shoves him in, too rough for your liking. You sit up straighter, eyes assessing as you take in the man in the jumpsuit.

He’s forced into the chair opposite you, before one of the guards grabs his cuffed wrists and chains them to a rig in the middle of the table. You’re grateful for the precautions, but there’s a part of you that feels guilty watching the manhandling of the seemingly calm man.

“Half an hour,” the most brutish guard of them all grits out, beer belly spilling out over his belted jeans. He jostles the chain attaching his wrists to the table unnecessarily, and your eyes narrow.

He goes to leave, along with another guard, but one stands to stay in position inside, beside the door.

Your brows furrow, and you speak up before you can stop yourself. “Sorry, sir, but my sessions will need confidentiality, as for the best results. I’m sure that I’ll be safe with his restraints.”

The guard stares you down, seemingly mulling your words over, before shrugging and leaving the room, door shutting behind him.

…Huh. Alright.

You find your posture relaxing, just slightly, which is odd, considering you’re now only a metre or two away from a convicted murderer.

His gaze is trained to the table, left foot tapping incessantly against the concrete floor.

“It’s nice to meet you, Gaz,” you say with a soft tone and a gentle smile. You figure that his nickname is the best bet, not wanting to stir up any possible traumas with his given name during your first session with the man. “I’ll be your new psychiatric evaluator.”

His eyes flick up, meeting yours, and he nods slowly, as if awaiting a punchline. 

“Is it okay for me to call you Gaz?” You ask, tilting your head to the side and flipping to an empty page to take notes on. You’d need to grab a notebook from home, you decide.

He relaxes, only the smallest of movements, and he nods. “Gaz, yeah.”

Your smile widens at the small victory. Any step towards progress was a huge one, in your eyes. You’d be facing a lot of them in the coming days.

“Do you have any advice for this place?” You push, trying to form a bond of trust with the dark-haired man. “I’m gonna be honest, you’re my first patient, and I’ve only met Laswell and… Jenny?”

His mouth quirks at that, a dimple showing to the left of his mouth as he looks back up at you. “Jenny’s a character, ain’t she?”

You laugh, a genuine one, and nod. “She certainly is. You’ve met her?”

He shrugs, shoulders relaxing slightly. “Few times, yeah. She drives me up the fuckin’ wall.” His accent is only minimally apparent, but his voice is of a somewhat humorous tone.

Small victories.

“Well,” he exhales, settling into his chair a bit as he seems to ponder. “Do ya know who else you’re assigned to?”

You’d been sure to thoroughly go over your contract, and you were allowed to disclose your other patients between your others. They’d find out within the day, anyways, so there was no point in being discreet.

“It’s only you and a… John Price? Today. I’m sure I’ll find out the other six over the next few days,” you say, appreciating that he’s starting conversations. It’s more than you’d allowed yourself to hope for.

Gaz’s eyes light up, and even if you hadn’t been incessant in watching him, it’d be an obvious shift in emotions. “Price?”

You nod, quickly making a note on your clipboard, before folding your hands in your lap as you gesture for him to continue with a quick inclination of your head.

“He’s the best. Man’s a legend,” he enthuses. “Love ‘im.”

There’s… a hidden truth to that statement, that you make a mental note to unpack during a later session. Your smile is a natural one as you say, “He’s an amber, correct? Laswell told me I’d been assigned eight out of ten ambers… you’re one of them, right?”

Gaz seems to fold into himself, and you kick yourself for going back to square one. He answers, however.

“...Yeah. Only Ghost ‘nd Valeria are aggressive, though. We’re just… misunderstood,” he murmurs, and in the back of your brain, you find yourself believing his words.

“Thank you,” you smile, and he responds with a sharp one of his own. Maybe you’d covered more ground than you’d expected. “I think it’d been mentioned that I was only assigned men, due to the nature of the job, or something like that.”

Seeming to mull over your words, he starts to slowly nod. “Sounds ‘bout right. As long as you don’t get Graves, you’ll be alright. The others are… fuckin’ weird, but they’re good men. Mostly.”

That’s a lot of information at once, and quite frankly, it takes a moment for you to process. 

“‘Good men’. What do you think it takes to be a good man?” You ask, curiosity laced into your tone. Getting to ask such questions of a convicted murderer, it’s a thrilling, exhilarating task.

His eyes don’t shift as he replies. “Good men do the acts others are too scared to do. They see the evil in the world, and rid of it with their own bare hands. You can be an ethical murderer, Doc.”

Those words, they’re – they’re authentic, and conviction aches in their structure. 

You swallow around a dry mouth.

“You think you’re a good man?” You ask.

His smile would be seen as warm to any who weren’t aware of his acts, but to you – it’s chilling. Haunting in a way you’ve never experienced.

It remains as he answers.

“I think that I’m a man who people wish they had the bravery to be.”

a/n. okay so im really nervous about posting this, cause ITS EIGHT FUKCING LOVE INTERESTS and also im a humanities girl not a science one!! sociology all the way not psych!! so forgive me for all the inaccuracies and legality issues please. im just a girl. hopefully u guys will like this one? i mean, obsessed serial killers cod is smth i need so here we are. all comments and feedback mean so muchhh ty ily mwah mwah mwah

taglist comment/msg to be added. [nothing to see here.]