#( ic. ) resume save file.

[wrinkledparchment]

the absence of everything (iii)

Summary: Based on 1x22 | 2x1 - After your trip to Vegas was rudely interrupted by a suspicious manila envelope being delivered to your hotel room, you and Spencer have to cut your vacation short to go back to Quantico. Although you and Spencer try to resume your professional relationship after sharing a bed, Spencer realizes just how much you mean to him, and can finally put a name on what he feels, once and for all.

Word Count: 6,030 words

Author’s Note: So... I’ve been gone for so long but this series is probably the main thing I still receive praise for in my notes. I’m currently focusing more on writing for HL but I’ve had this in my drafts forever and I decided to feed you guys!! I hope you like it... upon rereading it, some of my favorite fluffy lines I’ve ever written are in here. How did I manage that. 

Content Warnings: Your general criminal minds ish, death, stuff like that. Some fluff content for you guys!!

Series Taglist:  @liviasaugusta @l0ve-0f-my-life @imsuperawkward @nxstalgicnxbxdy @marciscaspar @april-14-blog @sweetreid @essenceproxima @sammypotato67 @idkanymore-05 @slep-slop @squirrellover1967 @irjuejjsaa @yomama-umbridge @holybatflapexpert @rosignoelle @ladyravenclaw @yours-truly-r @spenciepoo338 @masieofthevalley @throughparisallthroughrome  @afuckingshituniverse   @ladyravenclaw @irjuejjsaa @danandphilfan6​  @yasminwashere​  @mayempress  @kys-things

the abscence of everything: i | ii | . . . 

“It is me. I am his madness. For years he’s been looking for something to put his madness into. And he found me.” – John Fowles, The Collector

. . .

The coffee table in your Vegas hotel room had cluttered manila envelopes, the key and note given to Spencer, and a piece of missing evidence from your father’s murder scene. Rage bubbled in your stomach, so as Spencer called Gideon on the hotel room phone, quickly putting it on speaker, you paced around, unable to stop seeing your dad’s case files and his dead, mutilated body over and over again.

“Gideon, [Name] and I both got a package, I got a key and a note reading ‘She will die unless you save her, Doctor Reid. Call Gideon. He knows.’ She got two binded pieces of paper from a book her father was binding and repairing when he died.”

Gideon finally let out a sigh, “Yeah, I got a Nellie Fox baseball card from 1963 and a head in a box. Everyone on the team got something, but Elle was hit hard. She was framed for murder in Montego Bay, Hotch and Morgan went down to get her released and bring her back to Quantico.”

You walked closer to the phone and stopped chewing on your nails, rage bubbling inside your chest. “Gideon, whoever the hell this was had access to missing evidence from my father’s murder investigation. Meaning, this son of a bitch is the guy who robbed and killed my father. This is personal.”

“Don’t worry, [Name]. We’re going to find him. Get on the closest flight back here and Garcia will tell you where we are, we’re going to get this guy as soon as we can.” Right after he finished, Gideon hung up, leaving you and Spencer to race to get to the airport in time.

You left your rental car at the airport kiosk, signing it out and rushing after Spencer to get on the flight back home. It was all a blur, blended together to create your perfect disaster. You were stressed, overworked, and ill-prepared. This was the case you’d joined for—to find your father’s murderer and lock the bastard up.

You’d searched and searched and searched, and the criminal found you. Just as you’d eased out of work mode, just as something besides work and murder and blood filled your mind, he stole you away. Because of course he did. Because he was looking.

Spencer was a mess, but not for the same reason. You were obviously under duress, but you were so scattered that he felt like he couldn’t do anything. He did his best, carrying your bags for you, getting you iced chai while waiting for boarding. When you did get on the plane, he immediately lifted the armrest between you back, and pulling out Dante’ Inferno, handing his leather-bound copy over to you.

Your fingers ran over the spine of the book, feeling the indents where the title was, the smooth texture everywhere else. Fine craftsmanship, it must’ve been from a passionate, talented individual bookstore owner with a knowledge of binding. It reminded you of yourself, the care and attention devoted in the craft.

“You’ve got a fine copy here, Spence,” you smiled, as much as you could. “My dad would’ve loved it.”

“Do you think you can still bind books well?” he asked, seemingly out of nowhere.

“I’ll never forget.”

He nodded, smiling something bittersweet, “We’ll find your dad’s old book. And you’re going to fix it.” You smiled again, a little more genuine, and flicked open Spencer’s copy of Dante’s Inferno.

“I’ve got supplies in a closet somewhere,” you recalled, voice soft and quiet in case it suddenly broke. You didn’t want to cry, and you shouldn’t, not here, but it was becoming harder to not be vulnerable with Spencer. “I dream about him every night.”

Reid nods, moving his hand to rest on your knee, moving his thumb gently, allowing you to continue. “I’ve been waiting for a lead, since before I was even in the FBI academy. I’ve been waiting for 8 years and now that I’ve finally got it… just when I was happy, too.” You pause for a minute, letting one tear roll down your face but holding the rest in. “I see his body everywhere I go, can’t stop remembering how the blood felt on my hands, how lifeless he looked. I miss him, even after all this time, and now that I’ve finally got a chance to figure out who did it, I don’t want to.”

Spencer pulled you closer, looking out the small window to see the bright blue sky and all the clouds. Your breathing was still erratic, your heart still broken. And he hated how in the moment you needed him most, he couldn’t figure out what to say. “I’m here,” he murmured, over and over again until he was sure you knew what he meant.

. . .

Even though Garcia’s explanation was rushed, you vaguely understood what was happening. She refused to look you in the eye, too, possibly because Gideon had told the team about what you’d found and how it was connected to you personally. It didn’t matter though, because you’d just pulled up to a possible unsub’s apartment.

The alleyway in which all the cars were parked was also crowded by other FBI members, all unguarded, meaning the unsub wasn’t there. The local police, and an extra car were also there, you assumed some sort of medical examiner, and there was probably a body.

You and Reid were authorized to enter after flashing your badges, and neither of you were asked to put on vests. Walking in, the both of you grabbed gloves, Spencer just holding them while you slid them on and followed him over to the crime scene.

It wasn’t overly graphic, compared to other things you’ve seen, but it was traditional to become emotionally numb in the job. No matter what, someone had died here, an ‘unrepentant bad man’ or not. The bed, and with it, the man named Frank Giles, was lying in the center of the room, a sword plunged into his chest and sticking upright.

Elle, Hotch, Morgan and Gideon all stood in the room, Hotch reading something written on the sword out loud to the rest of the team. “To learn of what should next be done, leave the blade til’ the hour be none.”

Spencer stepped closer, watching as Hotch asked Elle to step back. “The bed’s in the middle of the room,” Hotch began, Morgan interrupting for a second, “And maybe the light from here casts a shadow and points to something.”

Derek quickly began explaining his theory, “Well midnight is 00:00 hours in 24-hour time. Would that be none?” Hotch dismissed this quickly, stating that there would be no shadow at midnight, until Reid finally spoke up.

“3pm.” Everyone turned to him first, then you, then back to him. Obviously, Gideon did tell everyone that this was connected to your father’s death. And surprisingly, you looked very calm for someone about to embark on their quite literal personal case, the one you’d joined for. “Hey guys, Garcia told us where to find you.”

Hotch nodded at you, barely acknowledging how personal of a situation this was for you, but quickly dismissed it, listening to Spencer talk about medieval terms for hours of the day, then asking for lighting equipment so he could replicate the 3pm sun.

While people walked in and out with various standing lights, Gideon finally walked up to you. You turned to him, offering a quick nod and smile before quickly dropping it when he mentioned your dad. “You know you can’t let your past affect this case,” he states, and you nod. “It’s obviously personal, and I know this person is targeting you, but you can’t allow yourself to make mistakes because of your past with the unsub.”

Sighing, you agreed with Gideon, instead moving next to the shadow as Reid adjusted it, and you knocked on the wall until you heard a hollow sound, ripping away the wallpaper without need for Hotch’s command. Underneath all the wallpaper was a box, and you immediately grabbed it.

Reid stopped you, “Are we sure it’s safe?”

Hotch quickly dismissed him and allowed you to examine it. You played with the lock for only a few seconds before looking back up at Reid. “Give me the key.” Without hesitation, he handed it over and you shoved it in, and to nobody’s surprise, it fit perfectly. You lifted the lid, and familiar music had began to play, one that Reid had played for you during the classical music quiz.

“Forellenquintett,” you and Reid murmured in unison, the rest of the team looking up at each other before shrugging it off. Reid reached inside to grab the note from the music box, reading it out loud to the rest of the team.

Never would it be night, but always clear day to any man’s sight.

Elle scoffed, walking off, “Well, that was worth it.”

Gideon ignored her, speaking right afterwards. “The lid. Little tab right under the lock.”

You quickly fiddled with it, revealing a CD and a lock of hair that nearly perfectly matched yours. You hummed under your breath in disapproval and disgust, Derek and Elle working together to put the lock of hair in an evidence back and grab the CD for review.

After heading back to the table room, you and Reid sat next to each other, which was your usual spot. For some reason the team seemed to eye the both of you, suspicious about what had happened in Vegas and why you two were still together when you should’ve left before that.

You carefully watched the TV after someone slid in the CD. A dimly lit desk with cluttered items all around it, and a very large throne behind it. A man wobbled into frame, clearly injured by something, which the team noted.

“I assure you, you’ll all understand in the end why it must be this way. You might even thank me. You know now you’re on a quest; a young girl’s life depends on the successful completion of it. As you can see, she’s quite beautiful . . . and in distress.”

You clenched your fists when you saw the girl come into frame, screaming at the camera, begging for something. You wondered if everyone on the team recognized just how much, even from the little they all saw, how she looked like you.

“Now please listen closely for there is one rule, and this rule must be followed. The one rule is only the members of your team may participate in the quest.” He began to list your names, and displayed pictures of each of you in the video, you and Reid in the same frame taken during one of the previous cases. “A quest must be completed in a proper way, or it isn’t a quest, is it? That’s it. One rule. Simple.

“Now, you will be receiving an item soon that will hold the final clue you’ll need to finish the quest. You will find you also need a book which has inspired many an adventure like mine. Believe me when I tell you, I truly hope to see you all soon. It will mean a successful end to this adventure for all of us, but especially [Name].”

With that, the clip was over and all that was left was static. Reid had tensed after he’d mentioned you by name, and it didn’t fly over the heads of any of your coworkers either. The unsub knows you so well, doesn’t he? Pictures of you and Reid together, knowledge of just how to tick you off, and additionally, he knows what happened to your father the last night he was alive and is plunging that knife of knowledge right into your heart and twisting it. Involving all your coworkers in it, making it clear that all of this, it’s all for you.

You were the subject of madness, the main target of all of this. You were the ‘protagonist’, he was the villain, and everyone else—the dead, your coworkers, the girl he’d kidnapped—were all side characters in the story. But Reid, standing right next to you in the picture while everyone else was photographed individually, that said something to you. He knew about whatever was happening between the two of you, so much so that it was terrifying because he probably knew better than either of you.

Suddenly, the team was active. “This guy’s got pictures of us?” Elle exclaims.

Reid fiddled with the pen in his hand, “What do we do now?”

Hotch eyed you, noting how tense you seemed when only just minutes ago, even with a dead body in front of you, you were eerily calm. “The lock of hair’s being analyzed for DNA. There might be something on file.” JJ walked out, vowing to figure out who the girl is. Hotch nodded, “Let’s get the clues up on the board. Maybe we can make some sense of something.”

Elle immediately objected, “Wait, we’re going to play this guy’s game?”

Reid sighed, glancing at you for a few moments, “Do we have a choice?”

Everybody stayed silent, Spencer’s words lingering in the air while Gideon and Hotch went to a different room. You began quietly pinning the clues in the evidence bags to the board, not saying a single word to anybody else in the room. Elle found the soft crumple of the evidence bags relaxing, eyes closing softly until Hotch interrupted her nap and sent Anderson to take her home.

Soon enough, yet another piece of evidence, a list of number sets in a strict pattern, though it may not seem like it without a keen eye. Just as Spencer opened his mouth, you beat him to the punch. “Sets of numbers, page number, line number, word number. It’s a cipher based on a book which he expects us to know.”

Derek stares back at you, Spencer’s mouth opening and closing like a fish. Sure, you were quicker sometimes than he was, but you seemed so rigid, it was odd to them. “Yeah but what book?”

“Well, this ‘quest’ is clearly meant to be personal to you, [Name],” Derek proposed, “Meaning this is a book he expects you to know.” Spencer sighed, walking over to grab the ripped pages the unsub had sent you and examines them, reading the words hoping he’d remember reading this book at some point but he doesn’t.

“Dante’s Inferno?” Reid questioned, even though he obviously knew it wasn’t.

“Both of us would recognize it. Whatever book my dad was fixing that night, it was that book. Specifically, a first edition. Let’s see… that was eight years ago. Do you think memory recall would work?”

Elle and Derek simply stood off to the side while you and Reid debated each other, glancing at each other occasionally. Yet, the body language was the same as it always was, and maybe what had changed was the way Elle and Derek read the situation.

“When you got there, the book was gone; how would you know which one he was supposed to be working on?” Spencer rebutted.

“I was closing, I must’ve—” you stammered, “I must’ve known what book he was working on, I have to!” Soon, you were pacing around the room, muttering things underneath your breath and attempting to retrace your steps from 8 years ago that also occurred across the country.

Derek set his hands on your shoulders, holding you in place and stopping your pacing. “Okay, [Name], calm down, we can always try memory recall, and if not, the clues should be in the evidence—this guy is meticulous, I’m sure he’s accounted for this.”

Suddenly, Gideon walked back into the room, looking at the four of you. Spencer was still staring at the evidence board, Hotch leaning back in his chair, and Derek and you standing in the middle of the room. “[Name], you don’t have to relive that memory if it’s not necessary. How would we proceed if we didn’t have all these clues? What’s the first thing we’d look at?”

“Victimology,” you swallowed, both thankful and displeased that Gideon was looking out for your wellbeing. Everybody was watching you so closely, especially because this was a personal case to you, as if they expected you to break down at any moment.

“And we have a victim, Rebecca Bryant. Hotch and I will follow the mailman lead. Derek, take JJ and find out everything you can about Rebecca. Reid, [Name], stay here and find the book. If anybody can do it, it’s you two.”

Everyone else left the room, Reid and you staying. Sure, Gideon didn’t want you to relive the worst moments of your entire life, but you were so close. So you shut the door to the roundtable room and turned back to Reid. “I want to do memory recall.”

. . .

The chair you were sitting on was soft and sturdy, so you let yourself lean back, and you closed your eyes. You breathed, waiting for Reid to begin. You tried to calm yourself, enough to the point where your anger flooded away and all you could do was think. See your memories in a clear light.

“I’m going to try and calm down first, can you guide me?”

Spencer nodded, breathing along with you. “What is your favorite memory?”

You focused in on the word, smiling; favorite. You could hear Spencer’s giddy laugh echoing in your ears, bright city lights clouding your vision. The hood of your black rental car from Vegas reflected them, the smaller model of the Eiffel tower standing tall, neon signs and main strip casino windows. The cool, night breeze in your hair. You could still feel Reid’s lingering presence in the passenger’s seat, the way he looked at you with those doe-y, hazel eyes. His pupils were inflated, shrinking again when he turned away to change the stereo.

You could feel the pain in your toe when you stubbed it on the hotel bedframe, you could feel the newly replaced bedsheets of the hotel against your legs, and you could see Spencer standing over you, smiling so widely when you laughed. The way his warm skin felt against yours, how gentle he was with his arms around you.

You imagined the pool water as he splashed it back at you, the water droplets against his skin and the way he slicked back his wet hair. His laugh and shy smile after you told him he still looked like a rat when he was wet. The understanding look when he listened to your struggles with the BAU, your life story, the interest in your past and your hobbies.

After all the memories you’d made yesterday had flashed through your head in a matter of seconds, you registered what it meant. When you thought of happy, you thought of him. Some of your favorite moments in life were with him, being around him, watching him. Him, him, him. This feeling—it was consuming you, and it felt so delightful. You wanted it to devour you, and you let it.

“Yesterday,” you whispered after a minute of reliving the best day of your life. You didn’t open your eyes, but you could hear Reid shift in his chair and you smiled, assuming he was blushing. Profiler or not, he knew what that meant.

He sighed, “Are you ready to go back?” You nodded. “It was eight years ago. How old were you?”

“I was sixteen, and about to graduate high school.” You still remember how frustrated and overwhelmed you were. The night before you discovered your dad, you had the closing shift along with a massive pile of homework and colleges to apply to. You sat behind the wooden counter, combing through your homework as fast as you could, eager for your father to come and take an overnight shift in working with the books.

“What time was it?”

“It was five minutes until the clock struck 11,” you said, which was the beginning of your father’s shift at the bookstore. You were packing up your homework and college applications back into your bookbag, noting on a stray piece of paper all the leftover homework and applications you had to pour over in the morning. You were so tired, but you wanted to thank your father for taking the shift tonight and letting you rest.

“My father is coming in,” you tell Spencer, reliving the last moment you saw him alive. The door rang, signaling his entrance. His hair and shoulders were wet from the rain outside, something you didn’t remember about the scene until now. He smiled, asking you how your day went.

“Okay, sweetpea,” he had begun, “are you ready to go home?” You nodded to him, but not before helping him with his bags. He looked at you, smiling while you followed him down to the book storage, an icy cold basement.

You watched, setting out his materials for him while he brought out the book, which was partially bound but tattered still, especially the cover, and you had to take a double take, pausing and hearing Reid’s voice. You weren’t listening, but rather going through the evidence in your head.

JJ’s butterfly, Reid’s key, and a lock of hair all on top of a piece of bloodied parchment. You could see the dainty, cursive letters, shocked as to how you’d not remember the cover when you worked at a bookstore. You gasped, nearly crying as you remembered the last thing you’d seen your father doing alive.

You tried to shake it all out of your head, the unsub wanted to get to you. This quest was curated for you and him, a chess game, and you needed to have a level head to win. Sitting straight up, your eyes shot open and you and Reid shared a glance, him smiling proudly. You handled yourself so well.

“The Collector, by John Fawkes,” you stated, rushing over to the board where all the evidence was pinned. You took off the butterfly, the lock of hair, the key and the bloodied paper and set them in front of Reid.

“These are all on the first edition front cover, a bloodied piece of paper as a background, the key, the lock of hair and the butterfly all on top. Not only do they have a personal significance to us, but to the book. I should’ve known sooner,” you berated yourself, explaining quickly before walking off, ready to call the nearest library for their first edition copy of The Collector.

. . .

Reid, Garcia, and you had all stood around, them solving the cipher and writing the message on the board. Elle had been sent home earlier, so you were a team member short, but you were closer than you’d ever been on solving your dad’s murder. So close you could almost imagine him, smiling down at you and telling you that you were doing a good job. That’s all the encouragement you needed.

Hotch had berated Anderson for only dropping Elle off rather than staying at her house, stating that the unsub had all of your personal information. You begged Hotch to let you go to her house and stay, but he said he had needed you too much because of your connection to the case.

Instead, you watched as Reid and Garcia went over the cipher with the librarian. You walked away from the team when Hotch called you. “Yes sir?”

“Elle was shot at her house, I’m at the hospital now, I need you and Reid to keep working on those clues. I’ll update you when she’s out of surgery.”

Your stomach twisted, wondering why in all hell the unsub took Elle. This was your quest, the team were all there to aid you. Why would he hurt Elle instead of you? Instead of your family or someone you were close to? You nearly cried out as you broke into tears—this team, the BAU, is your family. And you’ve brought all of them into danger just by being here.

When you walked back into the room, you’d discovered that Reid had called his mom to be flown into Quantico by the federal agents there, and that you’d be meeting his mom for the first time. She was involved in this case now too, and you wondered if you should stick around after this. If all of this, if Elle’s shooting was your fault.

. . .

You leaned against Reid’s desk as he fiddled with the evidence bag that the poem was in. “Your mom’s safe,” you said, “agents just picked her up and she’s flying over here now. Garcia told me.”

Reid didn’t even dare to meet your gaze, staring at the poem still. “I forgot she always used to read me this poem,” he started. “And I realized that nobody knows things like the fact that JJ collects butterflies except for me. People tell me their secrets all the time, and I think it’s because they know I don’t have anyone to betray them to… except for my mother. I tell her pretty much everything in my letters. Did you know that I write her everyday?”

You smiled, leaning forward, “I did, Reid. And I know that you feel guilty about not seeing her two days ago. That you write all of those letters to make up for the fact that you think you don’t visit her enough.”

He looked up at you, a clear question in his eyes. How do you know?

“Reid, during my memory recall, when you asked what my favorite memory was… I’ve been alive for twenty-four years, and out of any memory—the ones with my best friend, the good days here, my childhood—I chose Las Vegas. Not because of the beautiful city lights, or the fancy car, but because you were there with me, just us.

“I told you about my father not because you don’t have anyone to betray me to, but because I want you to know. Because I trust you whole-heartedly, and if anybody in this world should know me best, it’s you.”

Spencer finally held his eye contact with you, swallowing hard. You let your words hang in the air before putting your hand on his shoulder and squeezing, allowing it to linger there for a few seconds before walking back to Garcia’s lair, wanting to soak up all the information she might have. 

You heard the signature ‘beep’ of Garcia hanging up on someone, and shut her door gently before striding over to her desk. “What’s going on so far?”

She didn’t lift up her eyes to look at you, typing furiously on her computer, “I’m searching for Rebecca Bryant’s biological family, turns out she was adopted by the Bryant family and her real last name is Garner.”

Penelope filled you in further on the details, actively working to unseal her adoption papers and find out what happened to the original family; after all, the victimology is the first thing you look at. 

Could you consider yourself a victim? He’d been taunting and tormenting you and your entire team, he was most likely the man who had killed your father, or at least knew what happened or was involved somehow. Your father had been murdered prior to Rebecca’s disappearance, and you considered why this man would have been involved with your father’s murder and Rebecca’s disappearance. 

Were you actually a target?

You went to sit back at your desk, looking at your old piece of parchment paper with your favorite canto of Dante’s Inferno written in cursive, the fifth, the canto of Francesca. The most famous line written in bold and in the original Italian, “Amor, ch’a nullo amato amar perdona,” or “Love, that excempts no beloved from loving in return.”

The bullpen was a shuffle of people, other agents you didn’t interact with that much, that didn’t come with you on cases, and tons of other people rushing around, going through files, making phone calls. Spencer strided over from the small kitchenette to sit at his desk, which was connected to yours, sitting across from you with a small wall of transparent glass in between. 

He smiled at you, a warm, small smile that frequently was exchanged between the two of you. Sometime in between your talk at his desk and the hour or so you went without seeing each other, there was a microscopic layer of tension between you, beginning right where your desks separated. 

The shuffling of the bullpen dulled the ache of the tension, and so did your eyes slowly closing to rest for just a few minutes as Reid spent his time half-dozing off while reading a printed out version of The Collector. Reid finally broke this silence when your head began to tilt to the side as you fell into a tiny cat nap. He called for you, with no response, so he got out of his chair and poked you in the forearm. 

You wiggled a bit in your sleep, shifting around trying to find some semblance of comfort in your uncomfortable office chair. He takes a moment to stare just for a bit at your face. Looking at your eyes gently closed, your face peaceful even in this painful position, his mind fogged with the soft midnight laughter you traded with each other in the Vegas hotel room. He imagined the weight of your head on his chest, your arm laid over his stomach, your face and warm breath against the crook of his neck. 

He realized quickly the words that came along with the happy memories made along with you. The constricting yet freeing feeling stuck in his throat and squeezed around his heart, the sort of euphoria you associate with the warm feeling of sun on your skin and driving a convertible along the coast. That beautiful, powerful, devouring feeling of knowing that someone has you. You’re theirs, completely and utterly. 

The feeling of pure joy when you stop daydreaming and start remembering memories instead. When the words to describe this feeling escape you because all you can think about is that one, special person who has altered the course of your life forever. When you can no longer write romance because none of the words you put onto a page can do this feeling--this love--justice. 

He was in love with you. He felt it in everywhere he looked, everything he did, and every moment he lived. 

Spencer took a quick look around the office, and gently prodded at your sleeping form again until you open your eyes just a little, squinting against the bright lights of the bullpen. He held out his hand, which you, in your sleepy, half-awake state, took with no hesitation as he guided you into the conference room and turned off most of the lights. 

He showed you to the couch, sitting on the far end, leaving you room to lay down and take the rest of it while the two of you rested and waited for Spencer’s mother to arrive. The crown of your head was just barely touching the side of his thigh, and eventually, moving and wiggling around in your sleep made you lay your head straight in his lap. 

He felt the sudden movement and then the weight, and stared down at your side profile, admiring the way the dim lights highlighted your face perfectly. He brushed hair out of your face and tucked it behind your ear, and he swear he saw a ghost of a smile on your face. He fell asleep, fingers still intertwined and resting in your hair. 

Spencer dreamt of city lights and midnight laughter and Vegas hotel rooms. He dreamt of walking up behind you while you made pancakes in the morning and piling kisses all along the side of your neck and face, arms wrapped around your waist and the way your body would be decorated in stripes by the morning sun. 

He was woken up by the distribution of weight changing, your head shifting to stare up at him, hair surrounding your face in a pile on his lap. The sleepy smile that graces your face twists his stomach into knots and melts his heart. 

You seem to not mind the fact that your head had wound up in his lap, and instead, you muttered a small, sleepy, single word. “Coffee?”

He almost laughed, just stunned by how natural the domesticity and comfortability between you two felt. Like the wall that had built between you--separating your pinkies from intertwining, separating your fates from inexplicably linking--had suddenly vanished. There was a mutual understanding there--you make me feel safe, you make me happy, you are mine.

He slid out from underneath your head, turning around just before he reached the exit to look at you, splayed across the couch comfortably, the dim 5:00 am moonlight gleaming through the windows, and your eyes, shining even brighter back at him with a giant smile on your face. 

In the small kitchenette, he tidies himself up as much as possible, fussing with his hair while coffee brewed, and just as he finished pouring the both of you a cup, a group of FBI agents gathered around the entrance with a blonde, tall and pale woman that was Spencer’s mother. 

“That’s why you’re so skinny, you know,” Spencer’s mother, Diana Reid stated only a few seconds after walking into the bullpen. Spencer turned his head, setting down the pot of coffee. His mother’s eyes were sunken just a bit, dark circles underneath, worry lines accenting her face. “Too much coffee.”

Her frame was cramped up, shoulders tightened and her body looking even more frail by the minute. Her short pixie cut looked untamed, and Spencer wondered how stressed she had been. He knows that she hates planes, and the government, and basically anything else where somebody might be watching her. 

Schizophrenia tends to do that to a person. Even the smartest people get unlucky, get ill in a time where there isn’t much help or refuse it themselves. Spencer lives every day wondering about his mother’s happiness and well-being, but knows she is taken care of in her facility. He writes her everyday, and thinks about his childhood memories, about his father and mother and how he wanted a relationship that was nearly the opposite of that. 

They loved each other at one point. Enough to have him and raise him together for a few years, and all he can think about is how much he would love and cherish his wife, his children with her, and how no matter what got in the way, he couldn’t see himself ever letting go.

All these thoughts, worry for his mother, himself, his future, his children float through his head and pass by in a few seconds. The next few seconds consist of you, whether his mother would approve of you and just how much she might adore you for seeing you make her son so happy.

Finally coming back to reality, he nodded at the FBI agents who had brought her here. “Thanks a lot guys, I’ve got her.” Walking forward, he looks at the horrified look on his mother’s face, eyebrows raised and hand coming to cover her mouth, glancing around the FBI bullpen, clearly unnerved by where she was.

Once the FBI agents have disappeared around the corner of the hallway into the bullpen and Spencer takes a few more steps towards her, she lets her hand drop from her face. “You know I’m terrified of flying,” she states, shaking her head for emphasis. 

Spencer gives a small, fake smile. “I know mom, I’m sorry.”

Spencer glances over his mom’s shoulder, seeing you come out of the roundtable room and begin walking over to where he and his mom were standing. Still obviously upset, his mom continues, “Well then why did you have those fascists arrest me?”

He can hear your footsteps echoing throughout the mostly quiet bullpen, and he tries to calm his mom down before you arrive here, to introduce yourself. 

[cheatdeathsarchive]

@tread-the-bear​     /     closed starter.

She’d spent maybe an hour in New Vegas tops. Enough time to hear out the plan, to learn about House’s ace in the hole. From there it had been the final march to the place that decided it all. Six found herself impatient through it. Enough people had died. Enough things has been left up in the air for too long. They were so close to the end, and she was ready no matter what happened. She carefully snuck through the hailing of bullets, through the sounds of the vertibird and bomber plane flying overhead. Legion and NCR were falling in equal measure around her as she snuck between blockades and falling bodies. She just had to get to the Legion camp across the Dam, and that was far easier said than done.

But she did it, and it wasn’t by her own gumption and impatience alone. Though they both did wonders, first against the new Caesar as she stood with him at his camp and they surveyed the battle below him. His assumption she was here to retreat came and went, signed with a promise of his return as Legion soldiers pulled back to return Eastwards. One problem done. One more to go.

Oliver was trickier. Her fear came from something else as Securitrons poured out of the underground bunker. This standoff lasted longer, words not enough, but the entourage certainly helped. Her heart wasn’t into it by the end, more curious about the help from above that had been keeping her safe since she’d noticed it on the way to the Legate’s Camp. The fighting was over. Both the Bear and the Bull had been tamed.

Six knew there’d be time for her to shake off her jitters soon enough. It wasn’t until she saw Boone again, still alive and safe and perfectly untouched that she allowed herself to start that process. Slightly trembling hands rubbed themselves on the hips of her vault suit like it’d dry off the nervous sweat. Then she hugged him. Upset as she had been knowing he’d come anyway, it didn’t matter anymore. Her heart was pounding.

“You were supposed to stay in Novac!” She didn’t sound even remotely close to scolding, though. Not when she was laughing like she was, “We did it. Feels a little surreal, don’t it?”

[erimeows]

On Your Doorstep

It wasn’t very often that Batman was weak, you’d noticed. Any time that you were in trouble, the masked vigilante swooped down and saved you, graceful yet terrifying as ever in how he defeated his enemies- robbers, low-life thugs, mostly- without breaking a sweat most of the time. You figured that, after years of doing this, he’d perfected a technique. The Riddler had been in jail for more than a year now thanks to him, and he had an impressive resume. The bat was cold, determined, and steely-eyed, but at the same time… He was awkward, cute, and he had a morbid sense of humor. You were oddly attracted to him, and though you saw him in passing plenty of times, even striking up the occasional discussion with him when you managed to find him, you weren’t close to him like you wanted. As stupid as it was, you’d started purposefully looking for him and getting yourself into trouble on purpose to lure him to you, and somehow he was always just there when something happened, a fact that you chose not to happen.

You’d only been living in Gotham for two months, working as Bruce Wayne’s new assistant. It was an easy job; half the time he seemed focused on his work, half the time he seemed… Preoccupied. You weren’t sure what it was that had him so distracted most of the time, but it was there, and the man was elusive and hard to understand because of that. All you had to do most days was file some papers, go through some emails, and make the man the tea he liked; chai, unsweetened and filled to the brim with crushed ice. As simple as your job was, it paid a lot, putting you in one of the nicer areas of Gotham- though, ‘nicer’ still wasn’t all that nice in a city like this.

A sigh fell from in between your lips as you began to settle down for the night, knowing that you had work yet again first thing in the morning; six days a week, ten hours a day, five in the morning to three in the afternoon. You made sure your windows were shut and locked with the windows covering them, and that your security system (that Bruce Wayne had insisted on installing for you when you moved in- unexpected, but welcome, really) was up and working with the alarms and sensors active. But, when you went to check all four locks on the front door of your apartment, you were surprised to hear a knock. Just one.

You furrowed your brows, skeptical as you pulled your robe close to your body. None of your family lived in Gotham, and you hadn’t made any friends there yet, so who could possibly be coming by this late? You grabbed your cell phone from the pocket of your robe and dialed 911, thumb hovering above the call button as you looked through the peephole, only to see…

Batman.

At your apartment.

All skepticism aside, you closed out of your calling app, put your phone back where it was, and opened the door to look at the vigilante, only to see that he was… Different. His posture was hunched over more than usual, sweat gathered at the few open spots in the gaps of his cowl, and his eyes looked dead while his lips looked uncharacteristically cracked and dry. You didn’t ask anything at first, simply stepping aside to let the man in, and when you did, he shakily laid himself down on your hard wooden floor. You just stood there and locked every lock on your door before staring down at Batman, who up at your running ceiling fan as if hypnotized by it. 

“I need… A bowl,” He grumbled, voice scratchier than usual. You were baffled at first, but then you just saw how pale he was and ran to the kitchen for the largest bowl you could find, which you brought back to the living room. Before you could hand it to him, Batman snatched it, and then you heard it; him throwing up, retching, the sound of liquids mixed with chunky solids hitting the plastic bowl. You had to take a step back and look away to keep your own stomach from flipping upside down. After a few more gags and heaves, Batman seemed finished (for now, at least), so you knelt down by his side and awkwardly patted his armored back. His eyes- a sea-foam color that was strangely familiar and surrounded by an ungodly amount of eyeliner to hide the features around them- flickered to you. “Thanks.”

“Um… Can I ask why you’re here?” 

“Oh, I just… Needed the bowl,” He trailed off, though you were sure by how he averted his gaze that he wasn’t being truthful.

“You could’ve thrown up in any trash can or street in Gotham, and you chose to come here for a bowl?” You scoffed and sat next to him on the floor. “I think you just need someone to take care of you and didn’t know where else to go, Batman. Am I right?”

He didn’t answer at first, looking away instead with a pout on his lips. So, you gave him a moment, took his bowl to the kitchen to clean it, and then came in to see him laying in your living room chair. Instead of sitting in it like a normal person, he was splayed out with his body facing sideways and his long legs tossed over one of the arms.

“Nice chair,” He said.

“Thanks…?”

You remained in the middle of the living room, your (e/c) eyes on the ill vigilante. Usually, you only ever saw him in the darkest nights, so it was odd seeing him just… Exist. Being sick, throwing up in a bowl like an actual human, sitting so oddly in your leather chair. You noticed that he had a habit of picking at the ears of his cowl and kicking the ends of his feet together where he sat. Again, something about those eyes and the way he moved struck you as familiar, but you couldn’t put your finger on it.

“Something wrong?”

“I’m a little worried,” You answered and walked towards him, leaning down to touch what you could of his face that wasn’t covered by his mask. He jolted at the touch, but let you do it, simply watching you. “You’re really hot… Sweaty, too. Do you have anyone to take care of you at home?”

“Uh. No,” He answered, stiff. You thought back to your boss, Bruce Wayne, who’d been without Alfred for a week after forcing the butler to go on a well-deserved vacation. He seemed all over the place and unsure of how to do a surprising amount of things. You wondered if Batman was like that, too- or maybe the man was just alone. “I don’t.”

“Then you should stay here,” You offered and received a shake of his head in return.

“No, I shouldn’t,” Without any further clarification, he rushed to stand up, only to get woozy enough that he fell right back into the chair.

“See? That’s exactly why.”

“But you have work at five tomorrow.”

“How do you know that?” You demanded, and, clearly feeling called out, Batman sunk into the chair as if he would disappear if he got low enough. “Have you been following me?”

“Not… Exactly…?” He sounded unsure of his own answer, scratching the back of his neck.

You just stared at him, dumbfounded.

“You’re a terrible liar,” You laughed and sat down on the available arm of the chair he was in. “I can’t believe the Batman has been following me!”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” He mumbled. “I had to… You’ve been consistently acting like an idiot since you got here so I’d have to come save you. I know what you’re doing, and I don’t know why, but…”

You gave a nervous laugh.

“Hey, why don’t we get you laid down somewhere? You really aren’t in any condition to go home by yourself, so unless you want me to walk you home-”

“I don’t. You can’t see my house,” The man stared down at his lap as he said this, which had you raising your eyebrows. You doubted you’d be able to figure out who he was based on where he lived unless it was extremely recognizable. Then again, to be able to afford such a nice suit of fitted armor and so many gadgets, you imagined the man must’ve been loaded. That really got your brain working… Who all in Gotham had a lot of money? There was the Kane family, though you doubted it was any of them- most were either too old or too young or just didn’t fit the profile… The Crowne’s were a possibility… Cobblepot’s were out of the question, but then you remembered your boss; Bruce Wayne. He was a little shorter than Batman appeared to be, but then again, the vigilante appeared to have steel wedges on the bottoms of his boots that would make him taller. The eye color was the same, you realized, and while the voices were definitely different with Bruce Wayne being a soft-spoken, soft-toned man and Batman being gruff and deep in the way he spoke, you figured the billionaire of many talents was fully capable of changing his voice on command. Were you starting to put together the truth, or were you reaching? “Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Overthinking. You’re making that face.”

And how did he know that? Did he truly follow you in the darkest hours of the night enough to learn your faces, or was he the man that you worked with who saw you for ten hours a day? Perhaps it was both? You pushed the realization deep into the back of your mind- you could deal with that later when you were alone and able to think logically. 

“I don’t make a face,” You huffed and crossed your arms.

“Sure you don’t,” He rolled his eyes- that stunning sea-foam hue highlighted, even in your cheap artificial lighting- and you couldn’t help but think about what he would do if you dared to come close enough to take that damn cowl off his head. You took a couple steps towards him, and though he didn’t stop you, you could tell that he was scrutinizing; analyzing your every movement, waiting to see what you would do. You rested a hand on the side of his face, that of which was partially covered by his mask, and though he leaned into the touch, he seemed wary of you. “What are you doing…”

“What are you sick with?”

“Who knows,” He shrugged. “I’m probably going to get you sick if you keep getting this close to me, (y/n).”

And, he shouldn’t have known your name either- you’d never given it to him, or at least not to Batman.

“We should get you laid down like I said,” You smiled, unsure of what else to do.

“I can make it home just fine,” He argued, but made no move to stand up and leave like he claimed he could. Maybe it was how you looked at him that made him relent as fast as he did.  “Fine… If you insist. I’ll sleep here.”

“No, you won’t. You can sleep in the bed.”

“Then where will you sleep?”

“Uh, on the floor? Or in the bed if it bothers you that much,” He didn’t say anything back, standing from where he’d been sitting and storming into your bedroom- how did he even know where it was? You swallowed your questions and followed him, unable to help but notice how much faster he was than you- just like Bruce Wayne, who you often struggled to keep up with when the two of you were walking and talking at work, your heels clicking against the floor and his long legs enabling him to effortlessly pass by you- and he never slowed down for you either, just like Batman was doing now. When you finally reached the bedroom, he was already sitting on the edge of your bed. You looked at him and tilted your head. “Don’t tell me you’re sleeping in that. It’s probably making your fever worse.”

“...I’d feel ridiculous sleeping in just the cowl and my underwear,” he murmured and scratched his neck.

You gave him an incredulous look. 

“Or… You could just take it off,” You proposed.

Batman- Bruce Wayne- whatever or whoever he was, proceeded to gaze at you as if you were fucking stupid.

But then, he was snatching you by the wrist and pulling you to the bed.

“Lay down on your side and look away,” He ordered, and you did so without questioning it, your eyes trained on the wall as you heard him shuffling behind you. “Stay there.”

The sound of weighted clothing, armor, and everything else he was wearing dropping to your carpet filled your ears. 

Then, before you could say anything, there was a blanket over you and a nearly bare body getting closer to yours. Arms were wrapped around your waist from behind, strong with a light layer of dark hair on them, fists clasped together to keep you there. Bare legs, thick and muscular with that same layer of hair, were tangled with yours. Finally, you felt a warm sigh of relief and the scratch of a light stubble on the back of your neck.

He still smelled like vomit, and he was hot and sweaty, but you’d been waiting for this opportunity for too long to give it up. So, you relented with a sigh of your own and stayed, allowing yourself to be held in the surprisingly comforting embrace.

And, when he was gone without a trace in the morning and you were left with a fever and a cough, it was no surprise to you- nor was the fact that Bruce Wayne happened to be unavailable because he was sick, giving you the day off. 

You just prayed that the illusive man would be back on your doorstep some time soon.

[cheatdeathsarchive]

Six loved Freeside the moment she stepped into it.

She loved the grit, the roughness of it all. There were people who needed help, but more than that they just needed a chance. She cared a lot about them. It was for that reason she did what she could all over the place, from appeasing the NCR squatters to helping the Followers. Neither of them though caught her eye as much as the Kings’ School did, however.

She believed in his creed, understood his vision -- at least, she liked to think so. It was why she had swung by today, and what a good day to swing by it was. Things seemed busy, like they were on the pulse of something. Six wanted to be apart of it, too.

“Howdy King,” Six sidled up to him with a large smile, her hands folded behind her back, “You seem busy today -- I wonder if I could help.”

⚔️ To Build a Kingdom // Closed Starter for @cheatdeaths ⚔️

The King knew what the people thought of Freeside.

When people thought about the little stretch of land surrounding the immediate exterior of New Vegas’ prized Strip, they tended to think of the bandits that roamed the streets like the hounds of Denver— looking for easy prey to pick off. They thought of the chem addicts hanging out in the backalleys trying to lure people down for their own personal supplies or caps. They thought the NCR agents that passed through meddling in Freeside affairs— his affairs. They thought about how much trouble it was.

They never saw Freeside for what it could be. Not like him. He saw the little shops, the bars, the vacant buildings still half standing, he saw the Kings, and the Followers, and he knew there was potential for something great. Potential for something wonderful to be built. A lasting legacy that could make New Vegas stronger. More united. But between House and his iron clad robot forces and the turmoil between the two greater factions— especially the NCR with all their meddling— progress was slow and difficult. It wasn’t easy. But he reminded himself that nothing worth doing was ever easy.

And for once he found himself out of his fancy chair, milling about the Kings’ School and drawing up actual step-by-step plans for improvement. He stood at the front counter, surrounded by several others of his posse with a map set before him, the lot of them debating whether or not their next move would be a smart one— or of the plan was possible, or rational, at all.

[mimisempai]

Dear Loki - Chapter 2/7

Summary:

Loki, bored while waiting for Mobius in his office, starts to explore the drawers of his lover’s desk and finds a bunch of letters addressed to him...

On AO3 Rating G

Dear Loki,

I guess I should have known better, you're a trickster first and foremost, so it was sure you would want to fool us. To fool me. Even if I had the slightest hope that... but no, I realized that it was still too early for you to know that you could trust me.

I wouldn't say it didn't hurt, but I understand.

Ravonna and the others didn't catch on and only saw you responding to your nature. But I know it was a way for you to regain control.

I am untying my tie now and I must say that you almost had me at the elevator.

Loki smiled at the memory of that moment.

"I mean, it is adorable that you think you could possibly manipulate me. I’m ten steps ahead of you. I’ve been playing a game of my own all along."

"What, charm your way in front of the Time-Keepers, hustle them, and seize control of the TVA? Am I getting warm? A double cross by history’s most reliable liar."

How irritated he had been to see that once again Mobius had read him like an open book. But what had probably pissed him off the most was to see that it didn't seem to affect Mobius. 

And above all what had destabilized him for a long time was that whatever he had done, the man had never stopped showing him respect, had never turned his back on him. 

Damn it! Mobius had gone so far as to plead his case with Ravonna.

"Okay. Why are you in there sticking your neck out for me?"

"I’ll give you two options, and you can believe whichever one you want."

"A, because I see a scared little boy, shivering in the cold.

And you kinda feel bad for that ice runt."

"Or B, I just wanna catch this guy, and I’ll tell you whatever I need to tell you."

Loki resumed his reading of the letter.

You asked me why I was sticking my neck out for you?

Well, I did answer you, but a little dishonestly I must admit. Because A and B were just part of a big answer that I wasn't ready to tell you yet.

I want to save you because I know you are able to make good and great things. But you are not ready to hear it yet. And your attempt to fool me is proof of that.

And your answer confirmed it to me.

Loki remembered that he had been stung by being called a scared little boy but also by being exposed in this way. He didn't want pity or compassion. And he had told Mobius so.

"I don’t need your sympathy."

"Good, ’cause I’m runnin’ out of it."

How angry he had been to find himself doing the work of lowly people. But perhaps it had been the first time in a long time that he didn't have to flail around, so he'd grown into it. 

Loki remembered with a kind of happiness those moments when he had begun to believe that things could be different.

He laughed as he read the next part of Mobius' letter.

I can't believe that in just a few moments you were able to turn everything upside down so much. Okay, okay let's be honest I believe it because it's you. But this time it's not you against the world, it's you and me for the right cause. At least I think so. 

I have a weird feeling about this.

But then again I avoid showing it since as you said yourself, I make even the end of the world sound boring. 

I guess someone like me must be perfectly boring indeed. 

Loki remembered with sharpness these words pronounced in Pompei.

"Oh, Mobius! You make even the end of the world sound boring."

In his enthusiasm, he had probably been hurtful. But he hoped that in time Mobius would know that Loki found him anything but annoying. In fact, Mobius was probably the person who surprised him most in the universe. 

Loki also knew that assuming that people knew certain things made you forget to tell them. Maybe he should reaffirm to Mobius in a clear way that he did not find him boring. Not at all.

I am taking this letter back as you are asleep in front of me on a pile of files. You look so peaceful that I don't want to wake you up. If it were up to me I wouldn't wake you up. But unfortunately time is short.

Loki also remembered this vividly, after all that he had been through, he had tasted a few minutes of rest. He had fallen asleep with the awareness of Mobius' presence, but without feeling threatened by it for a single second. In fact there was something about this man that made Loki instinctively trust him. He had told him that he knew almost everything about his life after all, and yet he still treated him with respect. Perhaps it was this that made Loki prompt to trust him.

That's great, I never thought you would be interested in my passion. I feel like I got carried away with telling you about jet skiing. Then you pointed out how much fun it would be to actually do it. But unfortunately I know the reality of my life and that it can only be a dream.

Even though they had since fulfilled Mobius' dream, Loki had not forgotten Mobius' expression at the mention of jet skiing for real. There had been a melancholy written all over his being and Loki wondered how much Mobius had deprived himself of for the sake of his mission within the TVA. 

He made a promise to himself to do his best to discover and realize all the dreams of his beloved.

Now that I'm resuming writing this letter you're gone. You preferred to follow this variant rather than wait for me.

But I thought that maybe...

I thought I had read something just before in the archives when you found the place where the variant was...

Loki remembered exactly which moment he was mentioning.

"You’re gonna take my job if I’m not careful."

Mobius had looked at him with such validation in his eyes. The kind of approval he had always craved. The kind he would have liked to read in the eyes of Odin, his mother, his brother, without the glimmer of disappointment that often followed.

Loki remembered very clearly the pride he had felt at that moment.

Then there had been Roxxcart.

Loki had been touched by the way Mobius did not want to be separated from him. He had been lucid enough to recognize in the midst of the indignation and anger, the desire to protect him.

But Loki had shattered everything soon after, or so he thought when it happened.

Probably one of the most difficult decisions Loki had to make.

As he had walked through the time door, he had been unable to stop himself from looking back at Mobius who was running and calling his name, but Loki had to know. He couldn't help it. And he had walked through.

You left.

You turned around and left.

Did you even feel regret when you saw me running towards you?

Was everything I felt in the last few hours just smoke and mirrors?

Did you respect and trust me?

I am 

How could you

You 

Why

No, I can't believe that it was all fake, that it was all tricks from the god of mischief. 

I'll keep believing, until I find you and you tell me the truth.

I will wait.

I will find you and I will know.

Still with hope.

Mobius.

Loki folded the letter and placed it carefully back in the drawer.

Even so, Mobius had given him the benefit of the doubt.

There was something humbling about being the object of such devotion.

He couldn't wait for Mobius to come back to show him all the love his heart was filled with after reading this letter.

He looked at the time that had passed.

Thirty minutes at most.

He grabbed the next letter.

Dear Loki... Other chapters here

[h34rtizuku]

𝔭𝔦𝔱𝔶 𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔶

i hate angst without happy endings, but i’m also self-destructive. therapy is expensive, but ripping your own heart out and bearing your insecurities into a full-fledged story for you and others to read? free.

warnings : angst without a happy ending, insecurities, jealousy, mayhaps toxic behavior?? idk if ur looking for a good time, this isn’t for you bestie <3 also i might misspell uraraka’s name wrong a few times, i’ll fix them later :*

being quirkless had its advantages. with such a small number of us being born without powers, it left a lot of the mundane jobs open.

which is why, as soon as pro-hero deku opened his agency, i came to him with the request to be his assistant.

on the daily, he had people coming up to him asking for internships or to be his sidekick. but he never had anyone ask to be his assistant.

being the number one hero often meant that every day things, things one may take for granted or deem insignificant became just another list of things on the busy man’s to-do list.

therefore the appeal of having someone file his paper work and run to get him coffee in the morning was great enough to hire me.

and i was glad he did.

this is what i have been working for since i was a first year in high school. after watching the freckled boy break limb after limb to defeat his opponent.

yeah, i saw it as irresponsible and stupid that he had to break his own body to save others. but i was willing to overlook it.

my one goal during my remaining years of high school and up to college was that wherever that little green haired boy went, i would follow.

and that reigned true as his assistant. i would shuffle after him like a duckling following it’s mother, wherever he needed me.

if he needed me in a briefing to take notes for him, i was there. if he needed me to put in overtime to help him file the last minute paperwork, i was there. if he wanted a particular pastry from a specific bakery half way across town, i was there.

izuku was never mean, or demanding. always thanking me profusely for anything i ever did for him. leaving me to remind him that this was my job, and any way to make his life easier was good enough for me.

but maybe i should have held onto those blushed cheeks and crinkled eyes as he thanked me for the coffee that he didn’t even know he needed, for a just a little bit longer.

you know how a child will open a new toy on christmas and it quickly becomes their new favorite toy? playing with it non-stop, taking it wherever they go. until one day, they grow bored of it and never touch it again as it grows dusty at the bottom of their toy bin.

i know izuku wasn’t doing it on purpose, he didn’t have an intentionally mean bone in his body. i guess you could say, some other toys came around and took his attention away.

and that toy, was a particularly difficult mission in collaboration with uravity’s agency.

the two spent long hours cooped in his office as they went over notes, plans, intel, etc. until the conversation melted into talk about the old days and the wonderful memories they had together in high school.

i went to work the following days with absolutely no energy to handle whatever would be thrown at me. i hadn’t been able to get much sleep, as when i closed my eyes the only thing i could see was the look in his eyes when he saw her.

my patience was already thin given the events of the most recent week, but when the printer started malfunctioning leaving me unable to fax the papers izuku wanted me send, you could say that was the first domino.

i swatted and kicked and pressed any button on the stupid machine. telling myself i was merely trying to get to stupid thing to work, but deep down i knew that the printer was just my temporary punching bag. an outlet to unleash my anger and emotions onto something instead of letting them fester inside me.

so when one of izuku’s sidekicks came by, giving a snarky comment about my behavior, i was able to brush it off with a roll of my eyes and an equally snippy comment back.

but as the hunk of plastic remained steady in its plan to ruin my day, the lack of sleep and lingering resentment started to bubble within me once more.

i heard footsteps behind me and a joking voice say, “having a bit of trouble are we?”

if it weren’t for the white hot anger buzzing in my ears i may have been able to identify the voice before i lashed out on them. but we already established this was not my day.

so as my hands moved to clutch the machine below me, most likely to restrain my abuse to merely verbal instead of physical. i spit out, “listen i’m fucking trying okay? so how about you get off my ass and do something useful.”

i turned around to face who i thought would be another sidekick sent to push my buttons. but i instead came face-to-face with the green haired man himself.

eyes blown wide, mouth agape in shock, a light blush dusted under his freckles as he fought to handle the situation the best way he could.

but i beat him to it with a deep bow and an endless flow of apologies, opting to only blame my anger on the malfunctioning piece of junk behind me and not the several other reasons i was plotting murder in my head.

with a gentle smile and a soft chuckle he placed his hand to the back of his head, rubbing at the baby jade hairs of his undercut. “i see. bad days happen to the best of us.” he replied, his voice like honey.

i became drunk on the minor interaction he was giving me, bringing me back to the beginning days at this job where we would spend late nights trying to keep each other awake under the only singular yellow light as we finished paperwork. or where sometimes he’d invite me to spend lunch with him as he felt he’d enjoy the company.

i got lost in the intricacies of his face as he tampered with the printer. thin eyebrows furrowed in concentration, bottom lip captured between his thick scarred fingers as he muttered to himself.

i fell in a trance, locked on the slope of his button nose, his gemstone eyes, and chubby caramel cheeks dusted in freckles.

he looked essentially like the same boy i saw on the screen all those years ago, yet matured and hardened by the realities of life.

i wanted nothing more than to reach out and protect him any way my small quirkless body could. to be there for him the same way he was for everyone else.

he eventually got the printer to work with a boyish smile on his face as he told me that despite the good roughing up i gave the machine, he was able to locate and handle the issue. “next time, skip the punching and come find me, yeah? i’ll help with any problems you face.” he joked as he made his way into his office to resume his work.

i didn’t know it was possible to fall harder for that man, but he proved with every day of his existence that the impossible didn’t apply to him.

i was finally able to get some sleep the next few nights as my eyelids filled with the blush on his cheekbones and his gaze of concentration.

but my trip to cloud 9 didn’t last very long as the occasional meeting with uraraka became trips to her agency, and occasional meetings in civilian clothes to civilian places, like coffee shops and corner stores.

to anyone else, those would read as dates. to me, they read as dates. but izuku assured the gossiping sidekicks that it was strictly professional ~ nothing more, nothing less.

i knew that i would end up with more fits of restlessness and sleepless nights as i pictured the two of them laughing over a cup of coffee. so i sought out a replacement.

a moment. a look. a sentence.

anything directed at me that would choke out the ugly thoughts and images my brain would show me of the two of them together.

so that afternoon as i brought him his lunch, i placed the box safely onto the table beside him as he continued skimming through the papers littered across the desk.

he muttered a small ‘thank you’ but it wasn’t enough. as my hand moved to place his drink that i held in my other hand next to his food, a different idea popped in my head.

my hand moved faster than my brain could register what it had just planned to do. squeezing just enough for the lid to pop off and slip from my fingers to tumble into his lap.

as soon as the liquid and ice hit his lap he flew up from his seat and away from his desk.

my hands flew up to my mouth as a string of apologies fell from my lips. eyes watering in guilt as they moved around the room trying to locate something to soak up the mess with.

“i am so sorry, my fingers slipped and before i knew it i had lost control of the cup. i-i can’t tell you how sorry i am.” i rambled as i took my blazer off to wipe at the wet stains starting to form at the bottom of his teal suit.

“hey, hey, hey.” he said softly, taking my tinier hands into his large and battered ones. warmth enveloped my clutched sticky hands as he gently urged me to stand from my crouching position in front of him.

“it was an accident. no harm, no foul.” he said with a soft smile.

i should feel bad, as it wasn’t entirely an accident. but the warm and gentle look in his eyes made what little guilt i felt crumble away.

his thumbs rubbing soft circles to my skin as he worked to get the tears to stop streaming from my eyes was enough to get me to sleep like a baby for a good 2 weeks.

until it became a cycle. he would spend too much time around uraraka, and then i would do something all in the name of garnering his attention back on me.

was it wrong of me to do, to take advantage of his kindness? to take advantage of the fact that he was naive to my true intentions? maybe.

but i felt i deserved it. i felt i deserved to be looked at the same way he looked at her.

i wasn’t any different than she was. with the way she used her big brown eyes to pull him in. or the way her cute behavior made him blush. or the way her sweet way of talking made him laugh.

i can’t be her, or compare to her. so i found my own way around it. and no one could fault me for doing so. they just couldn’t.

at the end of the mission, uravity decided to throw a party in celebration of their win. a nice formal gathering, with everyone she had involved.

when izuku pulled me aside one late night to tell me that he was extending the invitation to me felt akin to a marriage proposal.

i wasn’t involved much in the case, merely being used as the one who provided them their lunch on their long meeting days. or filing and organizing the paperwork and notes that they would compile. i wasn’t out in the field, breaking bones like izuku or saving lives like uraraka.

i didn’t deserve to go, but i didn’t care. izuku had invited me personally and damn it, i was gonna be there.

yet, i shouldn’t have gone.

i shouldn’t have spent the hours on my makeup. i shouldn’t have enlisted the help of my best friend to do my hair as i gushed about how izuku had personally invited me, how he was the most perfect man ever, and how i was undoubtedly in love with him.

i shouldn’t have spent the week leading up to the event going from shop to shop trying to find the prettiest dress that was just the exact color of his eyes. i shouldn’t have spent about half my paycheck on said dress when i found it.

i shouldn’t have decided to face my fears and step out of my comfort zone to join a group of heroes that i knew were old classmates of izuku’s as they whispered about something that clearly was a raving topic.

because then i wouldn’t have heard how izuku was planning on confessing to uraraka. i wouldn’t have heard how this mission caused old high school feelings to rekindle. i should have known my place.

and that was far away from here, from the hero scene. i should have grown up to be an accountant or a chef.

when my father took me to get that checkup when i was 5, to confirm that there truly resides no quirk inside me.

i should have left it at that.

when i was riding my bike that day as a first year and i saw the group of boys huddled around a screen as they tuned into the u-a sports festival, i should have kept riding.

as maybe it would have saved me a lot of pain.

i backed away slowly, heels tapping against the tile floor as i hurried out of the building.

i didn’t realize how suffocated i felt until the chilly autumn hair brushed my face and into my lungs.

my whole body felt hot, i felt numb. i stumbled onto the sidewalk as i looked into the dark azure sky glittered with stars.

the tears finally spilled from my eyes as the stars muddled together into a messy blur. my stomach swirled and tensed as pit of nausea sunk in my stomach.

my chest heaved as it tried to process the crisp cold air into oxygen, but my throat was too tight to let much in.

i gasped and sobbed as my back hit the brick behind me, my legs wobbling unable to carry my weight much longer.

i slid into a crouched position as my tears mixed with the black of my mascara. streaming in pools down my cheeks, neck, and chest.

in the midst of my sobbing and heaving, i called my friend who was still at my apartment awaiting details of that night when i came home.

knowing it was far too early for me to be calling her she picked up the phone with confusion. it didn’t take much words from me, not like i gave her much, to convince her that she needed to come pick me up.

as she hung up the phone, my hand slipped from my ear, falling limp to my side as i placed my head into my other arm resting atop my knees.

this was inevitable and i knew it. no matter how many ways i was able to manipulate a sweet glance from him, it didn’t mean anything.

izuku was nice to everybody. sweet to everyone. kind to anyone.

but with her, it was different. he treated her that way, not because he had to, but because he wanted to.

they had years of memories, of laughs. they were perfect for each other, both smart, and kind, and always looking to help others. never acting selfishly or for personal gain.

they shared soft touches like they did old stories. they looked at each other with the same respect and admiration.

i was wrong. uraraka and i are nothing alike. she didn’t have to beg izuku to look at her like she hung the moon, he did so without asking.

unbeknownst to me, as i was manipulating izuku into these fabricated moments of gentle gazes and kind words, i was manipulating myself.

lying to the deepest parts of me that knew that this wasn’t real. that i wasn’t her. that he didn’t think of us the same way.

to him, uraraka is an old friend, who views the world the same way he does, who shares his same passions, who built her quirk to do some good within this world.

to him, i was a coffee-getter, the girl who knew his lunch orders like the back of her hand, the girl who filed his papers. the quirkless little fangirl who practically begged him to give her a job under him.

i heard the metal door open and snap shut announcing that someone was now outside with me. however, i just assumed it was a party-goer stepping outside for a smoke or a phone call so i didn’t bother to look up.

i also wasn’t in the mood for if the person happened to be a drunk girl who was ready to become my therapist as she saw me crouched on the sidewalk wishing to become one with the cement and simply cease to exist.

“there you are, i was wondering where you went?”

i would have taken the amateur therapist over this.

the voice belonged to izuku, dripping with sugar and default kindness.

if i could become one with the bricks just a little bit faster that would be great.

“hey, are you alright?” his tone became worried but i still didn’t dare to look up from my arms.

“do you feel sick? did something happen? do i need to take you home?” there he goes, into hero mode. ready to drop anything to help anyone facing the slightest of inconveniences.

“please just leave me alone.” i mumbled, throat tight and voice wavering as i try to hold the tears that still remain to fall.

“what did you say? i didn’t quite hear you.” he said softly, gently setting his large hands onto my exposed shoulder.

they should feel like welcoming warmth, but instead they felt blistering hot as i shoved them away as quickly as i could.

“i said leave me alone.” i said, slightly louder as i no longer was stuffed in my arms and knees.

he immediately saw the mess my face was in, i could tell by the way he quickly reverted fully into deku.

“hey, what’s wrong? whatever it is, i can help. didn’t i say you could come to me whenever you ne-“

“oh my god just stop! i can’t take it anymore.” i snapped, finally able to look him in the face.

but not for long as i saw the same look on his complexion as the first time i snapped at him.

“you’re too fucking nice. leaving you vulnerable for people to take advantage of you. giving them a reason to be selfish.”

“i dont-“ he tried to start but i cut him off.

“i don’t need a hero, izuku. there are people you just can’t save.”

as he worked to wrap his head around what was happening, my friend pulled up in my getaway car.

i bent down and grabbed my purse, but before i could fully escape this night, izuku grabbed my wrist causing me to stare into his eyes.

now lit aflame with desperation, “please just tell me what’s wrong. let me help you.” he encouraged softly.

but i wasn’t going to fall for it, not again.

i wasn’t gonna be played for the fool as i took the soft look in his eyes for anything but the gaze of a hero hoping to add another save to their statistics.

“god you never know when to quit!” i yelled as i yanked my wrist back. “and i hate that i-“

loved that about you?

no, love that about you.

i shook my head, thankful that for once my brain caught my actions before i spilled and made a mess again.

i walked quickly to the car, opening the passenger door almost as fast in hopes that within its metal sanctuary i could finally escape this hell.

“y/n- i-“

“mr. midoriya.” i just about whispered, my energy long since drained.

he laughed gently and i cursed the way my heart squeezed a little at the sound.

still head over heels for the angelic sound.

“you haven’t called me that in a long-“

“i quit.”

“w-what?” he muttered in disbelief.

i wouldn’t believe it either, not after the way i came to him nearly 4 years ago saying i would even be willing to clean toilets if he asked me to, so long as i got to work for him.

“i quit.” i repeated.

“you don’t mean that.”

he’s right i didn’t, not really.

hot tears started to dribble as my lower lip puckered in a sour quiver.

“no i do, sir.” i shook. “i will send someone to collect my things on monday.”

and with that i closed the door.

“drive.” i whispered to my friend who after a moment of looking at me, trying to read me, silently put the car into drive and started forward.

leaving izuku behind to stumble after the car, mouth muttering, trying to form any sort of sentence or sense.

but i couldn’t see him, knowing not to look at the mirrors situated on the side of the vehicle.

for they too are liars, as objects in the mirror are farther than they appear.

*** my little blue bitch working overtime

🧼 also mayhaps “soap” by melanie martinez fits this story… unintentionally ~ but if i’m wrong it’s cuz i haven’t listened to it in a while

[spartanguard]

summary: Imagine Killian came over with the first curse. Imagine Belle wasn’t locked away—that she actually had been Lacey that whole time. Imagine if they met. (Imagine if they did whole lot more than that.)

A/N: It’s time for Kaitlyn’s annual self-indulgent birthday fic! It’s not CS—not remotely—but I had a desire to see Killian x Lacey, and realized that I couldn’t do it within canon. So here’s some AU that’s bound to piss people off but I enjoy it so don’t come at me. Hope some of you like it, too!

rated M | 1.3k | AO3

Ian Jones didn’t bother to lock the door of his office as he left it. If anyone really wanted to mess with the harbormaster’s files and ancient PC, they were welcome to it. Besides, this was Storybrooke; he’d be so lucky if something that exciting happened. 

(Besides—the real valuables were hidden...offshore, so to speak. His extracurricular activities were not necessarily above board but the only thing that made his mundane existence bearable. Just don’t tell the new sheriff that.)

Anyways. He left the docks, taking the familiar side streets and alleys that led to the Rabbit Hole. It was a Monday, so it’d be quiet there—well, save for the regulars, like himself. He wasn’t sure exactly when it became tradition to end a shift with a celebratory drink, and some might find flaw with the frequency in which he stopped into the watering hole, but those people thankfully kept their opinions to themselves.

No one spared a glance when he entered the dimly-lit dive, and no one ever did. He slid onto his usual stool at the bar and ordered his usual rum, then settled in for a usual night of drinking and casual, empty conversation.

(He never said his nights here were fulfilling; perhaps they were as banal as his days. But he liked it well enough to not seek out a change. He was familiar with the stir of restlessness, but it wasn’t telling him to do anything—yet.)

He glanced around the half-empty bar; billiards tables took up one side of the large space, where a couple dusty miners were making bets that everyone knew they wouldn’t honor; a couple was attempting to have a private rendezvous in one dark corner, oblivious to the fact that they were actually on full display; and a fight was about to break out at the jukebox over whether they should play Van Halen or Guns N Roses, if his hearing was right.

Actually, that caught his attention; bar fights didn’t happen often but were always entertaining. But more importantly, he’d never before seen this dark-haired lass, who was trying to take on a much-larger man. 

It wasn’t often strangers showed up in town, so anyone new was a break in the monotony. (That included the new sheriff, though he hadn’t had occasion to meet her yet...and he was rather hoping to hold off on that encounter as long as possible given his less-than-legal side hustle.)

And, though this (rather attractive) woman seemed capable of holding her own in a fight, neither party was the most sober and her foe was easily twice her size. Ian was nothing if not a gentleman (when he felt like it), and it’d be bad form to let her lose this battle, as she was sure to do—she wasn’t as steady on her stilettos as she thought she was.

He strode over as casually as he could and told the man to, “Leave the lady alone.” 

The brute was nearly bent over, trying to get into the woman’s face, but rose to his full height at Ian’s arrival. “Or what?” he sneered, then shoved Ian’s shoulder—specifically the left one, the arm of which quite obviously ended in a prosthetic hook.

Ian was well aware of his lack of appendage, and if there was one thing he hated, it was when others tried to use it against him. “Well,” he snarled, but rather than finish his sentence, swung back and clocked the man with his right fist. The asshole fell against the jukebox head-first, then slid to the floor, knocked out cold. 

The bar had gone silent at the scene, but a few moments later, the opening strains of “Runin’ With The Devil” began, and the hum of conversation resumed. One of the guy’s friends came to tend to him, but Ian had already turned around, headed back to his stool to finish his drink (and hopefully get some ice for his aching knuckles).

“Wait,” the lass said, reaching out for his forearm. “You’re just gonna walk away without letting me say thank you?”

He turned around and she was grinning up at him—a wide thing, slightly inebriated, but genuine, and he couldn’t help but return it. He even went so far as to bow slightly, replying “At your service, ma’am.”

Adorably, she snickered at him. “I don’t think anyone has ever called me ‘ma’am’ and meant it,” she joked. “It’s usually ‘miss’ or ‘hey you, stop that’.” He couldn’t exactly place her accent—Australian, maybe? There were a handful of foreign ones floating around town, his own included. But he liked it.

He also liked the way her skin-tight skirt clung to her hips, and the way her black bra was visible through the gauzy blue blouse that brought out the color of her eyes. He might have a chivalrous side, but he could just as easily be a scoundrel.

A fact she’d picked up on, if the smirk he found on her lips after his blatant perusal of her form was anything to go by. But he’d noticed her eyes heading south as well, more than once.

“So, does my handsome hero have a name?” she asked, shifting ever so slightly closer.

“Ian,” he replied; he had a feeling that last names weren’t needed for this encounter. 

“Lacey,” she said back, and offered her hand. He took hers gently and lifted it to his lips, placing a kiss on the back of it. An apt name, he thought; it matched her bra. “Can I buy you a drink?” she offered.

“If the lady insists,” he shrugged, and they wordlessly headed to the bar.

One drink quickly became a few, the alcohol loosening their tongues—and their inhibitions. Later on, he could hardly remember what was discussed, and was only surprised to discover that they’d both been in town as long as either could remember and just somehow hadn’t had a chance to meet. A pity, that.

Because she was a divine kisser.

He wasn’t even sure how it had started; they were just suddenly too close—her lips looking far too delectable—and he needed to taste them. They were rum-soaked but sweet, whatever drug-store chapstick she wore getting lost in the shuffle of their lips. 

When their hands began to wander, someone told them they needed to take their activities elsewhere, so they stumbled out into the chill night—but didn’t go much farther than the side of the building. They weren’t the first to engage in traditionally horizontal activities on the vertical brick surface, and likely wouldn’t be the last. 

He pressed her against the edifice, quickly finding her lips again and cupping her pert rear with his hand, settling his hook at her waist. Her hands slipped under his leather jacket to grip his hips, though one eventually drifted up to his chest; her palm felt like fire through the thin cotton of his tshirt. 

She started to wobble—no thanks to her impractical footwear—so he slid his hand down her thigh and pulled her leg around him, letting her feel the evidence of his arousal. She groaned into his mouth and arched her hips against his, making him bite back his own cry of want.

“Can I?” she breathed, one hand on the button of his jeans. 

“Please,” he practically begged. 

She made quick work of the fly, and her own situation was easy to deal with. It wasn’t elegant—one might even call it quick and dirty—but they soon found release then and there, under the flickering streetlight outside the bar. 

As quickly as they’d come undone, they righted themselves—but he was enjoying himself too much to leave it at that.

“Y’know, my place is just a block away,” she said softly, but desire was dripping from the simple statement.

“Lead the way, love,” he replied—and oh, he loved to watch her lead.

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

Months later—after the curse was broken, after Killian had finally met and inevitably fallen head over heels for the blonde sheriff who absolutely upended everything in his life—did he finally realize that his lover-turned-friend (with benefits) was actually in love with his mortal enemy.

Yet another thing he could hold over the Crocodile’s head, he supposed: he knew how to make Belle come.

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

yeah, I stand by that last line.

no idea who to tag but some of you that might like it: @kat2609 @optomisticgirl @thesschesthair @laschatzi @cocohook38 @kmomof4 @word-bug @pirateherokillian @scientificapricot @stubblesandwich @ohmightydevviepuu @shireness-says @phiralovesloki @profdanglaisstuff @initiala @idoltina @thejollyroger-writer @let-it-raines @donteattheappleshook​. Feel free to ignore; I have no idea who is into this.

[hopelesshawks]

Physical Fatality Part 13- Icarus

18+ Hawks x fem, pro hero!reader

Summary: You’re a rising star in All Might’s agency. Hawks is the darling of Endeavor’s. By virtue of your job descriptions, the two of you are supposed to hate each other, or at the very least be cautiously neutral. For a long time that’s exactly what the two of you did. You stayed out of each other’s way and formed little opinion of the other. One fateful night at an HPSC gala changes all that. Based on the album Hopeless Fountain Kingdom by Halsey.

If you don’t want to see Physical Fatality content blacklist #hopelesspf

This story will have multiple NSFW parts so it is 18+ ONLY minors dni

Warning for very slight suicidal themes this fic has a happy ending I swear

Masterlist

Agony.

Losing you is agony.

Endeavor is lecturing him for pulling the stunt with Bakugo earlier that day but he can’t hear or really process any of it when all he can think about is the fact you’ve blocked his number and seem to want nothing to do with him. He vaguely registers words of “I told you so” and “I warned you” and even a word or two about a demotion but none of it matters. Hawks doesn’t know how to do anything but be a hero. It’s been the driving force behind a lot of the choices he’s made in your relationship and he knows it’s the same for you, but that doesn’t make any of this easier.

“You’re going to have to work really hard to earn my trust back Hawks and the trust of your coworkers,” Endeavor warns. “Understood,” Hawks replies, his voice almost detached. It seems to disconcert Endeavor, the other man being far more accustomed to the snarky Hawks persona than the serious man in front of him now. “Hawks, uhm, do you,” Endeavor stutters suddenly unsure. He coughs to cover his discomfort and clears his throat before resuming. “Do you need to talk about what happened between you and Artemis?” he finally manages to ask. He looks so deeply uncomfortable potentially talking about the subject and his discomfort only grows when Hawks continues to give him nothing back. “That won’t be necessary,” Hawks replies before turning and walking out of the office. If Hawks doesn’t know how to live without hero work, Keigo doesn’t know how to live without you. So his only option is to abandon Keigo until the pain stops.

He can’t have slept more than a handful of hours that night but he still wakes up early the next morning to run an extra patrol before his normally scheduled one. He files paperwork, even revisits old cases, all in a bid to keep you off his mind. Of course it’s not enough to stop his coworkers from whispering. Typically he ignores the gossip of the lower ranking heroes but it’s hard when he knows they’re speculating about you and him. It certainly doesn’t help that your break up was so public and now it feels like nearly all of Japan has watched the video of it happening. Hawks used to be the darling of Endeavor’s agency, beloved by all of his coworkers. Now he’s practically a pariah.

His new outcast status is only made more obvious at the cocktail party later that day. He’d wanted to skip it entirely, the fact you were supposed to be his plus one to the event made it all the more unappealing, but he’s already skating on thin ice and had no legitimate excuse to justify his absence. So instead he watches the other heroes talk and drink and laugh about things while he hides in the corner, too exhausted and heartbroken to put up the persona necessary to maintain conversation. No one seems to ask about him anyway or even care what he thinks despite the fact it’s his personal life that’s become the hottest topic in all of Japan. He wonders if this is how Icarus felt as he plummeted to the earth. Hawks had flown too close to your light and warmth and now he’s fallen from grace. He wonders if it’s true that Icarus laughed as he fell. If so he can empathize. As painful as this fall is, he would live it over and over if it meant he could catch even a glimpse of you again.

When Shoto comes to join him it’s literally the first genuine interaction he’s had all day. “You look like shit,” Shoto comments by way of greeting. “Thanks. Feel like it too,” Hawks replies. He doesn’t have to pretend with Shoto and for that he’s grateful. “Are you ok?” Shoto asks. “Even though I’ve always hated these things I was always so good at them,” Hawks starts in response. “I’d talk, drink, laugh just like everyone’s doing, be the center of attention, play the part of the charming number two hero. And look at me now. I’m so fucking anxious about what they’ll say about me, about her, about us and what happened that I can’t have a proper fucking conversation. I used to be on fire and now I’m standing in the ashes of who I used to be and I’m just fading away. Without her I’m fading away. I’m just as pathetic as she said,” Keigo confesses and it’s a weight off but it also makes the hollow space behind his ribs where you used to live feel all the more prominent. “This right here is kind of pathetic,” Shoto starts, earning him a shocked almost laugh from the other man, “but you are not pathetic Hawks. I think (y/n) knows that, she’s just hurting. Rightfully so. The bullshit with the others in the agency will get better too.” “I don’t know about that one.” “You’re not the only one who’s done dumb or bad shit. Not by a long shot.” “Really?” “You know Iida?” Shoto asks, pointing to the man in question as he obliviously continues his conversation with one of the others present. “Yea. Your year at UA, stickler for the rules. What about him?” Hawks asks. “He chose his internship our first year with the sole intention of trying to hunt down and kill Stain to avenge his brother.” “Really? That guy?” “Yep. My dad isn’t so innocent either: quirk marriage, child abuse, oh the stories I could tell you.” “Jesus Christ.” “Exactly. Everyone has their own shit Hawks. This will pass and hopefully you and (y/n) can find your ways back to each other when it does.”

Shortly after Todoroki finishes speaking his phone rings and he frowns down in confusion when he notices it’s Bakugo calling him. “I didn’t think we had task force business today,” Shoto says as he answers the phone. “We don’t. Is Hawks there with you?” Bakugo asks, his tone betraying his worry. “Yea he is.” “Shit.” “What’s going on Bakugo?” “It’s about (y/n),” Bakugo admits and Shoto’s eyes widen. He casts a look at Hawks before finally deciding to drag the other man with him to an empty office on the floor they’re currently on. He locks the door behind them and then pops his phone on speaker. “Ok you’re on speaker with me and Hawks what’s going on with (y/n)?” Shoto asks, his voice remaining calm. “All Might fired her last night so she was supposed to come in this morning and collect her stuff except instead she pretty much just threw everything away. I came back to patrol and found out she’d left Midoriya and I little gifts on our desk which was weird, so I hit up her roommates and apparently she never went home after she swung by here. I thought she and Hawks may have run off together but if he’s with you...” Bakugo explains. “Maybe she’s just clearing her head or something,” Shoto suggests. “No way. The whole of Japan is gossiping about her right now, the last thing she’d want is to be out in public,” Bakugo quickly refutes. “Was there anything else off about your desks? Drawers opened?” Hawks asks. “Maybe, I wasn’t paying that much attention. Why?” Bakugo asks. “Your task force notes still there?” Hawks asks in lieu of an answer. Hawks and Shoto wait with baited breath as they hear the sound of Bakugo moving around and then opening a desk drawer. “Nope, they’re gone,” Bakugo finally reports back. “Thought so. (Y/n) wouldn’t just roll over and kiss her career goodbye, she’s probably trying to take out the terrorist cell herself and use it as leverage to get her job back,” Hawks deduces. “Alone? That’s a suicide mission,” Shoto says. “Hence the gifts on the desks,” Hawks replies grimly. “Most of our notes are over there with you guys though,” Bakugo points out. As if on cue an alarm starts blaring overhead warning of an intruder. “That’s gotta be her,” Hawks says. “I’m on my way, hold her there so we can talk some sense into that idiot,” Bakugo tells them before promptly hanging up the phone.

Hawks has to give credit where credit is due. As foolhardy as your plan is, it’s incredibly well executed. As a former member of the guest list, you would’ve known everyone would be occupied with the cocktail party on one of the lower floors, far away from where the files you need are. The elevators will take forever with so many people trying to all get upstairs which only leaves the stairs, which are marginally better but still relatively slow. You must have spent most of the night planning this out. That thought fills Hawks with a certain amount of dread. You’re probably emotional and sleep deprived on your way to take on an entire villain group yourself all in a desperate bid to save your career. It almost sounds ludicrous. Yet, as Hawks races to the top floor in hopes of catching you, all he can think of is something you’d once told him during happier times, late at night as you two were wrapped up in each other:

“Honestly Kei? I’d rather die a hero than live long enough to prove those stupid reporters right about me.”

Author’s Note: Does this still count as a double update if I’m posting the second one after midnight 💀 anyway I can’t believe how quickly I was able to get this chapter out. The image of Hawks standing in the corner of a massive company party feeling like a shell of himself is actually a large part of what sold me on writing this fic for him. The song this chapter correlates to just felt so right for his character that I knew it couldn’t be anyone else. I thought about waiting to post this until later tomorrow today? but I’m ✨impatient✨ so instead y’all get it now

Taglist [open]: @akkaso @cathy8taffy @eeppff @iikillerkitteh @pixelwisp @pokesosa @lildockel @bread0nhead @lavender-moon13

[cheatdeathsarchive]

tread-the-bear​:

“There’s an indoor pool-?” Vague surprise, one of the few emotions that ever really came across in his voice.

His feet left the ground not long after, and Boone held on just a little bit tighter, but treaded water all the same. “It’s… not bad, yeah.”

“It’s nice out here…”

“It’s on a different floor than the rooms -- I’ll take you to it sometime.” Six offered him a smile, one encouraging as they swam out together. Distracting Boone with talking might make him pay no mind to what they were doing. Then it’d be as easy to him as shooting. Maybe it was just the sun and the unlimited energy it shared with her.

“I’ve had a lot of time to explore all the floors ‘tween Mr. House and the Casino. ‘Fore he let me extend invitations to everybody else I didn’t have much else to do. It’s how I found all them dresses, magazines -- all kinds of stuff. I think maybe you’d find some fun things on all them floors, too. I still haven’t explore ‘em all. There’s a whole gym on the same floor as the pool, you know. Though I ain’t too sure how all them machine’s’ll fair after all these years. Maybe I could get ‘em up and runnin’ again...”

Regardless, Six took a quick moment to hold her breath before shutting her eyes and ducking her head below the surface of the water. She was careful not to submerge too deep lest she accidentally pull Boone down too. It really was nice out here. “It’s nice havin’ the open sun out here, huh. Ain’t the same swimming ‘round with a ceiling overhead.” A pause, and Six let go of one of his hands, albeit reluctantly.

“You wanna swim deeper with me?”

[readinginthereadyroom]

it’s ice (txf 1x08) and there are alien parasites in the arctic. 

which seems to be the focus of the episode. after all this is the x-files. it’s all about mulder’s search for extraterrestrial life. except when it’s not. which is really quite often. 

because mulder’s search is actually for his sister. and the x-files project is actually about investigating unexplained phenomena. and it’s all the vehicle used to tell another story. about truth. about trust. 

because the truth is out there. trust no one. 

except that’s exactly what this ep is about. paranoia and fear. and you have to remember that it’s still early days. mulder and scully have only been partners for a few months at best. and scully’s assignment was to debunk mulder’s work.

only mulder does the unexpected. he doesn’t resent scully’s assignment to the x-files. calls her out on it even. I was under the impression...that you were sent to spy on me. but then asks for her medical opinion on a case. he’s seen her credentials. concludes that she’ll make up her own mind. and this his way of showing scully that he’s going to respect her. this is him deciding to trust her.

and they’ve been building on that trust ever since. 

except right now, when faced with a potentially ancient extraterrestrial plague. they are at opposite ends of a moral dilemma. save the parasite to protect the world from the unknown universe? or save the world by killing the unknown parasite?

and mulder and scully are arguing. full on yelling. the heating system’s broken and nerves are frayed and everyday paranoia is ramped up to a 1000. they’ve already lost the pilot to the parasite and are trapped by a blizzard. and mulder’s brand of reassurance—the truth—only makes scully more agitated. don't forget, the spots on the dog went away.

which scully takes to heart. any one of them could be any one of them. mulder...you may not be who you are. and she let’s the scientists’ paranoia divide and conquer them. locking mulder away from the three of them when he has the bad luck to come across the murdered scientist. only she realizes too late the implications of her actions. her fear. 

because scully didn’t trust mulder and now mulder isn't one of us anymore. and being outside the group. being contrary to expectations. mulder’s well-established M.O. automatically implies that mulder is infected. 

and you might be wondering. what’s the best way to cure an ancient extraterrestrial parasitic worm? why another worm of course! and scully only wants to do what’s right. what the science says is the correct course of action. this is her well-established M.O. after all. 

only she can’t. because her fears aren’t quite enough to overcome her moral compass. I want to talk to him first. try to make this voluntary. but it’s also more than morality. it’s trust. because yeah, it might be early days but they are already a team. partners.

and I think mulder understands what’s happening. he’s had time to think locked in his make-shift cell. and he needs scully back on his side. and he says at much. I would have but you pulled a gun on me. now I don't trust them. I wanted to trust you.

scully never lost mulder’s trust. and really, mulder never lost scully’s either. she just let her fears override her better judgment. she let the unknown come between them. 

and so they reconcile. examine each other for parasites and find none. they are a team once again. 

the ep wraps up quickly from there. they find the infected scientist, cure her with the remaining parasite, and are rescued once the blizzard passes. 

but the is one final, crucial moment left. where mulder finds out he can’t return to study the parasite because the facility has been torched. the remaining scientist practically rubs it in mulder’s face. the military, centers for disease control...you oughta know. they're your people.

only they aren’t. not that this one-off character would know that. mulder works in a secluded basement office on a project outside the bureau mainstream. his resume includes work on violent crimes, serial killers, the unexplained, and the occult. he’s spooky mulder. who built his career around close encounter that happened when he was a kid. 

so no. they aren’t mulder’s people. 

but scully is. and this ep only solidified that. strengthened their bond of trust. so when scully tells mulder to leave it there. leave all that potential knowledge under 200k years of ice. he does.

because no one doesn’t mean each other. 

[cheatdeathsarchive]

@luciferian-drama for loki.     /     closed starter.

The first night there had been easy to sleep through. It was the next morning that was hard to navigate, a feeling of unease and fear and homesickness keeping her in bed for the better half of the morning. Just some time to be alone and to cry it out. She came up with and scrapped several different plans until she came to the simple conclusion that the perfect plan would present itself when the time came. No telling what it would be yet or what angle either.

Staring out the small window in her cabin had her feeling lost. Not in the ways she was used to, just... overwhelmingly small in the most crushing of ways.

Staying that way wouldn’t do anybody any good, however, and so come lunch time she pulled herself out of bed. She minded the warning as she saw the door to the right that Loki had mentioned across the hall. Getting ready carefully, finding food carefully. She double checked all the flight parameters and explored the ship to better get acquainted. It was up to her to fly the ship, after all.

For how long? Until he woke up, she supposed. Which couldn’t have been much longer, right?

Part of her wondered if she should have flied home. That part of her lost out near every time she almost readjusted the coordinates. Instead she looked at their destination and the surrounding areas. The first day was lonely. She memorized the layout of their vessel best she could. Searched for the limited ways she could entertain herself, and waited and waited for the other person on the ship to make himself known. He didn’t that first day, and the few days that followed after. It almost made her paranoid.

What if he’d left in the middle of the night that first night, just... sent her out into nowhere to see how long she’d allow it? There was not really any sound when she pressed her ear up to the door to listen. Until she realized there was knocking and she’d been the one doing it.

“Um... are you in there?” A pause, and maybe she should have just let him be, “Hello?”

[the-bloodycircle-cb]

𝙏𝙒: 𝙈𝙐𝙍𝘿𝙀𝙍, 𝙈𝙀𝙉𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉𝙎 𝙊𝙁 𝘽𝙇𝙊𝙊𝘿, 𝘿𝙀𝘼𝙏𝙃, 𝘿𝙍𝙊𝙒𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂, 𝘿𝙀𝙋𝙄𝘾𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉𝙎 𝙊𝙁 𝙑𝙄𝙊𝙇𝙀𝙉𝘾𝙀 𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝙃𝙊𝙍𝙍𝙊𝙍 𝘾𝙍𝙀𝙀𝙋𝙔𝙋𝘼𝙎𝙏𝘼 𝙏𝙃𝙀𝙈𝙀𝙎

𝙋𝙇𝙀𝘼𝙎𝙀 𝙋𝙍𝙊𝘾𝙀𝙀𝘿 𝙒𝙄𝙏𝙃 𝘾𝘼𝙐𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉 𝙊𝙍 𝘼𝙑𝙊𝙄𝘿 𝙁𝙍𝙊𝙈 𝙍𝙀𝘼𝘿𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙄𝙁 𝙏𝙍𝙄𝙂𝙂𝙀𝙍𝙀𝘿 𝘽𝙔 𝘼𝙉𝙔 𝙊𝙁 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘼𝘽𝙊𝙑𝙀.

•

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𝙒𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩: 7398

𝓟𝓪𝓰𝓮 2 𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝓸𝓯 8

❝𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓶𝓮𝓽 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓪

𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓻𝓲𝓫𝓵𝓮 𝓯𝓪𝓽𝓮, 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮𝓷'𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾?❞

It was a warm Sunday evening in a quaint little suburban area. The sun peeked over the fluffy clouds, golden rays spilling onto the red shingles of the roofs.

A young boy- somewhere in his teens- was skipping with joy down the sidewalk, clutching a clear plastic bag in his hands. He had waited incredibly long for this day, saving up his allowance to finally purchase the very thing he's been eyeing for almost three months now.

"I can't believe I finally got the collector's edition of Majora's Mask! This thing is antique~!" He chirps to himself, watching the game cartridge jiggle around in the plastic bag.

The walk back home took no less than five minutes, kicking off his shoes and making his presence known to his mother. He was quick to shower and have dinner before rushing back upstairs, already done his homework in advance so he could finally game in peace.

Throwing his hood over his head, he inserts the cartridge into his Nintendo GameCube he got two Christmases ago, grinning when it goes in easily.

"Finally, I hope the game doesn't lag. I spent all my pocket money on this shit, it's old but still playable." He mutters to himself, remembering the words from the antique shopkeeper earlier that day.

The smile that spreads across his face at the sight of the game loading successfully was filled with excitement and relief, clicking on a new slot before pressing play.

“Huh. There's a few glitches in this thing.. heh, must be the age. It did come from the early 2000s.” He snickered, getting used to the controls of the game.

A few hours passed and it was late into the night now when the male began to feel uneasy. He had passed through a few locations in the map and he felt as if something was watching him play. But that was impossible, his parents were sleeping and he was the only child.. it should definitely be impossible, shouldn't it?

He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand when he finally found the source of his anxiety in the dimly lit room. Eyes widening by a few fractions, he stared at the pixelated character in the background of the screen, blinking in disbelief.

“Is that... The Elegy of Emptiness statue of Link?” He sputters, watching as the pixels shift around, as if reacting to his words.

His fingers shook a little as he held the controller in his hands, chewing on his bottom lip.

“This must be like.. an easter egg or something, right? Yeah, haha, definitely. It's like.. and extra companion.”

The teen thinks to himself, feeling himself calm down at the thought. He disregards the way the statue continues to slink through the map with him, resuming his gameplay.

Things seemed to have calmed down, the male sinking back into his gamer zone but deep down in his stomach he could feel fear bubble. Ever since his revelation the dialogues that he encountered kept glitching, some of the words too pixelated to make out and some even being changed to words like “why?” and “stop”.

He doesn't let the goosebumps stop him though, pushing the sight of the uninvited visitor to the back of his mind as his fingers pressed the buttons to move his character.

But then, things.. went terribly wrong.

“Ah finally, now if I cross this I'm pretty sure I'll get to the other cliffside. Just walk down the bridge and I'll arrive at the next town!” He chirped to himself, eyeing the digital clock on his bedside.

01:34 a.m.

Right as he stepped foot on the long bridge, he heard it. The change of soundtrack from the normal roaming one to a more.. unnerving one. The teen's eyes searched around the screen, unable to find the statue anymore.

“That's funny.. it was there a few minutes ago.” He mutters to himself, continuing to move down the bridge. The music picked up, sharp notes piercing his ears as he watches the pixel water below churn and glitch.

He continues to feel uneasy, breath hitching in his throat when he spots a text box pop up under the Link character. Eyebrows furrowed, he felt ice cold fear wash over him despite being wrapped in a blanket. The text glared at him in the darkness of his bedroom as he jumped when his clock ticked.

02:00 a.m.

“You shouldn't have done that.”

A cold voice rasps, the sound grainy and distorted as it resonates through the headphones he was wearing. He almost screamed, unable to move his fingers to click the next dialogue.

But he didn't have to.

The next text box appeared by itself, again with the same glitchy letters and the same cold, disembodied voice.

“How foolish of you to have continued playing even after knowing there was something wrong with the game. How desperate are you youths to play this wretched game?”

His words couldn't seem to exit his mouth, being stuck in his throat when he froze up in absolute terror. He doesn't know what was going on, who was talking to him? Were these dialogues supposed to be apart of the game?

“You look absolutely terrible, did I scare you? I was waiting for you to finally realize it, take a guess what music is currently playing.”

Without needing to move, he saw his laptop screen lit up from his desk, eyes flying to stare at it in shock. He got up with shaky hands, staring at the game file before falling back onto his bottom.

DROWNED.wmv

He scrambled back to his GameCube, seeing no more glitchy dialogues but his own character nowhere to be seen. He blinks, gasping when he sees he statue yet again, this time it seemed to have his Link avatar in its grasps, dragging it over to the water's edge.

It took him too long to finally process what was happening, and it only hit him full force when he heard the first piercing scream. It was that of a young boy, fearful and pleading as he cried bloody murder. The teen's eyes could only stare helplessly as he watches Link kick and squirm in his statue's grasp, the sound of the struggle evident over the music.

“LET ME GO LET ME GO LET ME GO.”

He fell back in horror when the statue pushed Link's head down into the river, hearing the drowned out screams coming from the still alive Link as he's forced to take the water down his lungs.

The male finally found the courage in him to stand up and make a run for it, right as Link's lifeless body starts floating down the river.

Then again, he was too late.

Right as his fingers touched the doorknob he was flung back to the floor by an unseen entity, groaning in pain. He had hit his head on the desk side, swimming through consciousness and unconsciousness when he felt it.

Drip

Drip

He looked up, about to scream when he had his mouth covered, the man above him giggling from the terrified look on his face. He had no visible eyes to be seen, only pure black voids of his eye sockets and a single red dot as his pupil. What was more unnerving though, was the sight of him seemingly crying with the tears dripping down his cheeksn

And those tears were blood.

The man dragged his limp body to the GameCube, a small flash of light before he no longer felt the carpet of his floor. Instead, he felt cold damp grass underneath his body, looking up to see the moon shining.

His assailant had brought him into the game. He was transported straight into Majora's Mask.

“Y'know, I expected some more struggle from you. Are you just gonna stay there and let me drag you all the way before the inevitable happens?"

The male could only attempt to toss and turn as he was dragged by the legs, finally orienting himself to struggle once he hears the rush of the river a few feet away.

The teen finally screamed, he screamed and kicked and flailed and tried as hard as he could to free himself.

But did he really think his captor would let that happen?

“Aha, now this is more entertaining~ You remind me of myself, far back from now. I was here too, struggling and screaming for my life. But who came for me?”

His eyes grew cold, brushing the bloodied tears away. “No one.”

With that, his assailant tossed him into the river, gripping him by the hair. The man's hair shimmered to an almost silver in the moonlight, though streaks of gold were highlighted by the dim lighting. The teen let out another plead, clawing at the man's fingers to free himself only to elicit another giggle.

“You're funny when you beg.”

SPLASH

He started to flail again, screaming as he feels his lungs burn. He kept struggling, and with every struggle more water enters into his mouth and nose. He screams and screams and screams, the music of DROWNED.wmv getting louder and louder until it stopped.

Yuta hummed, finally loosening his grip on the boy's hair. He watches his lifeless body float down the river in a similar fashion to when he ‘killed’ Link just now, a satisfied grin on his face.

The next thing you know, the mother would go to wake her son up only to find an empty bedroom. It would be classified into one of the many missing children cases, remaining unsolved, forever. No sign of any struggle, no windows opened and nothing out of the ordinary. The only exception was the GameCube, the screen now completely pitch black with a text box in distorted letters.

“You've met with a terrible fate, haven't you?”

𝓑𝓔𝓝 𝓓𝓻𝓸𝔀𝓷𝓮𝓭! 𝓝𝓪𝓴𝓪𝓶𝓸𝓽𝓸 𝓨𝓾𝓽𝓪

【Ｔｈｅ���Ｓｅｃｏｎｄ　Ｐａｇｅ】

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝘾𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙤𝙧: @yanlee @yanlee-spam

𝙑𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙨 (?): @time-for-confession @m00n-purplerose-chatbot @yourdaddychan @hunter-chaeyoung @domyukhei @amazingspiderhan @yanderexhoshi @yourcupidchuu @m00n-miaka-cb @xx-macabre-chungha-xx @your-jaemin @seventeen-chatbot @soft-hyunjin-chatbot @playboy-jun @leextaeyong @moonlightchn @ateez-zombie-wonderland @camboy-superm @madmanwoodam @midari-jieun @underground-ateez @ghost-hyunjin @gryffindorxjeno @yanderesungie @mafia-chaeyoung @angelhyuck-cb @caretaker-johnny @dancertenbot @roomie-xiaojun @heartbroken-yeji @exoticdancer-chatbot @criminalinvestigator-mingyu @softbf-skz @seoyejibot @lawyer-jungwoo @la-soleilmafia-cb @mafiaxwayv @sk-tao @jungseonghwa @incubuswooyoung @floristluda @empress-jiaqi @yarindere @alteredjiaqi @ateez-treasure9au-chatbot @yandere-jaehyun @spn-seungwoo @demon-nct (DM if you want to be +/- especially if this kind of concept makes you uncomfortable.)

[cheatdeathsarchive]

luciferian-drama​:

He didn’t try to fight the accusation of getting her fired, Loki only gave a concession of a shrug. He knocked the bottle back again to take a generous swig. 

He paused for a moment, long fingers tapping against the glass. “You’ll do better than you think you might, but if you’re asking me to be your tour guide, I can do that. You and me, the galaxy ahead of us…”

Loki’s smile widened, but after a moment he settled the bottle down and reached his hands out over the table towards her. Before they touched he paused, flexing his palms and fingers… showing off the shackles. His eyebrows raised. “Help me get these off, please. Then we’ll discuss next steps.”

For only a split moment of time, she deliberated.

At the end of the day, she’d get nowhere not trusting him. Being guarded was important, but how much of it would have been her shooting herself in the foot in the long run? Dot liked to think she could read people relatively well -- at least, so far in her life she hadn’t ever been led wrong by her judge of character.

It was why she only pursed her lips for a fraction of a moment before reaching gently out to do as he asked. No need for them now, anyway. No doubt they must have hurt, too, biting into his skin like they had been.

“... Are you okay?” She asked before really thinking about it. She wondered it sincerely, too. “Between well... everything, and then the shooting... Thank you, by the way. For helping me out of that tight spot.”

Granted, she wouldn’t have been in it if he hadn’t done what he did, but she could understand it objectively even if she didn’t like it. It would have been easier for him to have made sure she’d died in all the fighting, too. It was why she meant it.

[elmidol]

Rogue Order - Chapter 3 (of 4)

Summary:  You are a barista in the coffee shop that Armitage Hux goes to every morning. He’s polite, however has never cracked a smile. One day, you decide to try to change that by giving him a little treat. Things wind up going much better than planned.

Read on AO3

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Pairing: Armitage Hux/Reader

Rating: M; This chapter contains nsfw content (oral, female receiving)

for @terry2227​

notes: Modern Day/Coffee Shop AU; outline for fic was written by terry2227

Chapter Three

 You toyed with the edge of the book that you had brought with you for the expected lull after the initial morning rush--one that had been shorter lived than on days when ice was not slick along the pavement. Armitage Hux was within the walls of First Rogue as well. While you wanted to speak with him, to spend time with him at all, you were allowing him some room to get work done. He had brought in quite the assortment of folders along with a laptop computer. His fingers flew along the keys with minimal breaks for the period of nearly five minutes. You stared, impressed with his typing speed.

 Due to his intentions to remain inside the establishment, the coffee that you had served him was in a smaller cup, one of the porcelain mugs to be exact. He had requested that he first be given his regular order to assist in enhancing his concentration. Later he would indulge in one of the mystery flavors that you had written down.

 There had not been many words exchanged between the pair of you just yet. You glanced at Armitage once more for any indication that he was ready for a break. His fingers paused in their movements, the tapping of the keyboard ending almost abruptly. He reached for the coffee, pulling it upwards and taking the sip, and then replaced the mug and resumed his work. His posture was one that doctors would be proud of. He supported his spine where necessary, did not slouch. Yet he was not too rigid in a manner that may have caused muscle cramps.

 You touched the edge of your book again, this time drawing it up into your hands and opening to where you had last left off. Your eyes began to roam along the words. At first you did not soak in what was written; upon your second pass, however, you were drawn into the world painted by the author until the sound of a throat being cleared startled you back into reality. You were unsure just how much time had passed. Time enough for Armitage to rise from his seat and come over.

 Though he did not say so aloud, Armitage found it to be rather endearing that you were able to become absorbed in a book. The expression of contentment that it had encouraged to form on your face had him wondering more about the novel in question. Not that he would have time to read it--not for at least another month; his mind would wander back to work if he attempted to sit down and read. He considered asking if you would be able to sit with him while he worked then changed his mind. That might be awkward for the both of you, in part because it might paint him as being needy or desperate for your attention, and in part because you might not be interested in him beyond casual conversation. He settled instead on another approach, which could potentially span into an avenue that allowed him to invite you to join him.

 “Is there anything light on the menu that you would suggest?” He made a gesture with his hand. “I save lunch for being my heavier meal; it makes it easier when business lunches run longer to have more food. Otherwise the food can be saved as leftovers for the evening.” Armitage found himself enjoying the manner in which you were watching him, your eyes darting between his moving hand and his face as you listened.

 “We have several, yes,” you said, furrowing your brow and resisting the urge to look directly at either the menu or one of the pastry displays. There were small protein packs as well that were available. Allowing just shy of a minute to elapse, you mentally toyed with the options that you could present to him before you rattled them off beginning with two of the protein choices and ending with three pastries that would not be too filling. Between those there were fruits, although you had to dart away to the minifridge to ensure that they were in stock whereupon you noticed that yogurt could be included on the list as well.

 When Armitage stated that he would enjoy a pastry, you asked if he wanted it warmed. Here he did not answer right away, opting to internally debate, and then he nodded and walked back in the direction of his table after handing you the correct amount of change for the food. The moment of silence that had transpired after he had inquired about food caused him to realize that his approach might have been better. It was not as though he was oblivious to the pastries that the coffee shop served. As for the other items, he had never paid them much heed. You had not made a single comment to embarrass him or point out the fact that the pastries were on display; he liked that about you--it was a contrast to Brendol’s tendencies to pick at any perceived flaws, and the individuals that Brendol dated were of a similar nature. He did not have to be on his guard when with you.

 As he sat down in the chair, Armitage began to reorganize the files that he had brought with him. He created two piles, one composed of those he no longer needed for the time being and the second for what he planned to leaf through as he completed the tasks he had assigned to himself for the day. In this manner he was able to clear up sections of the table that would allow room for his food as well as you if you did decide to join him. He ran two fingers along the edge of his laptop, a twitch in his shoulder before he grew more rigid. The food would be heated in a matter of seconds, and you would soon be walking over. Armitage cocked his head enough to listen without, in his own opinion, being too obvious.

 Your footsteps were soft, though remained audible especially as you drew nearer. He caught a glimpse of you in his peripheral mere moments before you placed the plate upon the table a little to his right. After setting down the plate, you did not move away but instead shifted towards another chair and sat down. There were no other customers in First Rogue, and he hoped to take advantage of this before things changed. Armitage reached to tug a small piece off the pastry; this, for him, was a small act of rebellion--Brendol would have chastised him for not using a fork, for dirtying his hands.

 “Do you have a deadline on the project you’ve been working on?” you asked, keeping your gaze trained on him though you nodded in the direction of his laptop. You did not want to appear too nosey. This was a readily available topic to bring up in order to open up a further line of dialogue.

 Armitage had drawn a piece of the pastry into his mouth, keeping him from answering your question immediately. “I have quite a bit of time before the deadline arrives.” The hint of a smile flashed on his features, a kind of muscle twitch that you did not often see from him. “Doing groundwork now will save me hassle later.”

 “I have a few home projects like that,” you commented after a beat, earning a slow blink and a tilt of the head from him. You felt yourself smiling, relaxing. He was interested in what you had to say beyond First Rogue, which was everything that you had hoped for. Or, if not everything, a very good start. “Some of it has to do with organizing and decluttering.” You did not want to potentially bore him with other projects that were ongoing since you were ignorant of what all of his interests were.

 “I still have a box to unpack,” he murmured. You furrowed your brow while considering his words, recalling that he was newer in town. Given his personality, you had always assumed that he was the type to unpack and organize all his belongings the moment he was settled in a new place. It was, in a way, refreshing to learn that you had been wrong.

 Another customer entering First Rogue drew you out of the chair and back towards the counter. More patrons trickled in at that point, which you had expected yet found yourself disappointed--distracted may have been a more appropriate term--in ways that you never had before. Then again, Armitage had not previously remained within the walls of First Rogue until that day. You peeked at him multiple times while ringing up a larger order. The woman delivering it was a regular who came in twice a month due to organized events for her work; she treated her coworkers to some coffee and pastries while they prepared on the days before. 

 Preparing the order busied you enough that you were able to focus on work rather than glance again at Armitage. You rolled through another four orders before looking his way. At that point he was three-quarters the way through his pastry. Most others you knew would have finished it, which proved to you that he was taking his time--but was that because he was waiting for you, or were you flattering yourself? You shook your head, worked to maintain your smile, and handed over the final order that you had taken to the customer, who walked over to one of the other tables and sat down. That eliminated some of the privacy that had previously existed, you thought, chagrined.

 Armitage curled three fingers around the edges of the final pastry portion, breaking some of its flakes off the larger piece. In unison with consuming the food, he had worked more on the project and a side outline for other items to later be completed before the deadline arrived. The weather outdoors appeared to be worsening in terms of temperature. Passersby in the street hugged their coats more tightly around themselves, and many that eyed First Rogue darted instead towards cars to drive away. He very much doubted that several stores he knew of in town would be open for much longer.

 The patron that had walked to a different table drew his gaze as you headed in his direction again. You moved into the same seat as before, and this time Armitage readjusted himself in his chair so that he was better facing you. “Do you have all essentials?” He would need to drop by the store for one or two items in case the weather continued on this path for the next few days. When you replied that you were already prepared, he spoke again, this time more confident. “When the weather is more agreeable, may I take you to lunch?”

 You felt your heart hiccup in your chest, your lips parting in surprise. Doubt crept into your veins; you could not have heard him correctly, could you have? “Come again?” you asked, voice softer than you would have preferred. Armitage repeated his request.

 Lunch was, you reminded yourself, not quite as intimate as dinner. The setting would be more casual, relaxed. If he was pulling your leg, it would be easier to get out of that situation--truthfully, you were beginning to worry that this, your interactions with him, were to cure his boredom. Doubt was a cruel thing indeed.

 “Yes, I would like that.” What offered more hope that this was not some joke was that Armitage gave you his phone first. As you reciprocated, you felt the muscles in your shoulders relaxing. The pair of you agreed to postpone settling on a time or date until after the night’s weather forecast. When you did meet for the lunch date, it would be just that--meeting. You did not want to ask him to pick you up though he did offer to drive the two of you. It was nicer to have a quick getaway if things became miserable.

 Such thoughts nearly made you laugh as you sat across from Armitage midway through the following week. He had allowed you to choose the venue, which you had been only too happy to suggest one of your favorite local restaurants. Falling into a conversation with him there was easy as it had been in First Rogue. You settled for one of your preferred meals at the restaurant while Armitage looked through the menu before making his decision. With the orders sent in, the two of you were left alone, and it was Armitage who first began to speak. Not about coffee or the weather either. That was, perhaps, why it was not difficult to reply.

 “You don’t play any board games?” you repeated, leaning back a little as though the new perspective would change anything. Armitage shook his head whilst offering a flat no that was not rude, however it indicated this was not the first time his revelation had surprised the other party. “Do you just not enjoy games, or…?”

 Armitage refrained from biting the insides of his cheeks as he mulled over your inquiry. The question had been posed by others in his past, and on those occasions he had switched to a new subject. With you, he did not fear judgment. There was a sense of safety that prompted him to shift nearer. He rested his forearms on the table--doing so would have earned him much scrutiny from the others in his life--and swallowed before beginning to speak. “Games were not common in my childhood. There are several that are quite simple to learn, however I am at a disadvantage due to being less familiar with them.”

 “Oh,” you said. You had assumed a similar posture to his, the distance closing though the two of you were separated by the table. His eyes traced the contours of your face, mapping how the muscles in your countenance shifted with each new expression. “If you wanted to, sometime we could find a game neither of us have played. They’re always coming out with new ones anyway. Neither of us would have the advantage that way.”

 Such an offer implied that the pair of you would likely be at a residence instead of in a restaurant or some other public venue while you played. There would be no need for him to become self-conscious. No eyes on the two of you. It would not matter if he struggled; he doubted you would judge him poorly, as you hadn’t done so yet. Armitage replied with his acceptance as the waiter started to walk over with the food that had been ordered. Even while eating, the conversation did not die away. You alternated speaking, sharing information with the other, learning about interests, both those that you shared and several that differed. When the meal ended, neither of you was quick to leave.

 Armitage walked you to your car, moving in for a kiss when your body leaned into his. Your lips were soft, mouth pliant. The two of you broke away only when there was a need for air. “We should do this again sometime.” He felt ridiculous for phrasing things that way, yet could not think of anything else to say. He could think only of your mouth on his, of how your body had felt pressed against his own. How much he wanted you. How comfortable he felt with you.

 “Definitely,” you said, elation coursing through your entire being.

 The dates that followed were never a disappointment, and their venue transformed from casual to more intimate settings. When he asked to take you to a place in the city the first time, you had hesitated--you did enjoy some of the restaurants and shopped in its stores; it was the fact that the city sounded, to you, to be his territory that you did not immediately respond. Armitage was attentive to your mood, and proposed an alternative location, one within town. His willingness to accommodate you in this way eased your mind, and so the two of you had gone into the city. On one of the warmer days--the air remained frosty, only with less of a nip to it and one that was tempered by a warm beverage--the pair of you had gone for a stroll in one of the city’s parks. That particular date had been one of your favorites. Armitage had been more at ease, the wall that hid his emotions shifting aside multiple times as he smiled your way.

 That date had been two weeks previous, and the two of you had agreed on going to his place after enjoying a movie together. You had a game that you would try out, which you handed over to him once he had opened the door for you to enter. You walked into his place first and allowed yourself a chance to look around. You were more than a little curious how he had his place decorated; you knew already that he did not have family photos hanging, as he was not close with his parents. His friends were limited in number, and the majority of them had not been to his house since he had moved into town. Another fact that you knew was that Armitage had a cat named Millicent, who eyed you from behind a scratching post that was set up for her.

 You squatted down, encouraging her to come closer while Armitage set the game on the table. She did not budge, to which you took no insult. You were more distracted by the man you were with. Standing, you found yourself in his arms, which shifted around you. The first kiss had you leaning into him. The second encouraged you to move backwards in the direction of the couch that you had seen.

 His hot mouth sealed over the flesh of your neck, breath and tongue wetting the area. You felt your body responding, your abdominal muscles tightening as you raised your hands to his hair. The locks fell out of place under your touch. They were softer now than on days that he had work meetings, where he often gelled back his hair to keep it out of his face. A low groan escaped Armitage as your fingers danced along his scalp and made their way to his ears, which you knew were one of his more sensitive areas. You grinned, moaning into the kiss that he placed on your lips. That devilish tongue darted out again, this time to toy with yours. You were happy to oblige, working your tongue against his, tasting the hint of mint that lingered.

 “You really like that taste,” you said between kisses, your hands moving even lower, now on his collarbone, his chest.

 Armitage shifted himself and felt the tip of his nose skim along yours. The way your mouth worked around the word taste had him biting back what he truly wanted to suggest. He might, if given more prompting. He did not want you to be under the impression that he had invited you to his apartment with the sole intention of having sex. There was more build up to be had, more verbal foreplay. Armitage allowed himself to smirk at the thought, his eyes narrowing slightly. You responded to his expression by biting your bottom lip and letting your gaze roam along his face. You pressed your hips into his. That was encouragement enough; he placed his hands on your ass, squeezing, kneading the muscles and pulling you in closer, grinding against you.

 “I do like it,” he said, lifting his eyebrows and continuing to smirk. He held his breath for a moment as you touched both of your hands to his chest, running them up and down along his shirt, feeling him through the material. Blood was pooling throughout his body, a faint blush settling on his face and running lower.

 You made a trail with your hands from his chest up to his face, and the pair of you moved in unison so that your mouths met again, hungry, wanting. His tongue explored your mouth, caressing the contours and making you clench. Armitage began to map out your body with hands as well, and you did not stop him, instead pushing more into his touches, grinding against him until he moved you onto the couch, nearly pinning your body with his. He danced his fingers down further and further, parting your thighs with one hand and tracing your slit with two fingers of the other. You moaned again as he moved between your legs, grinding against you, his cock, though still clothed, hard and sliding so close to where you needed and wanted him. You undulated underneath him, hands tugging at his shirt, drawing him in as much as you were able.

 He rolled his hips, thrusting against your body and building friction that you increased with your own movements. Jolts of pleasure shot through you, heat welling into the lower part of your belly. Armitage’s hands were on your breasts then as he continued to explore. Kneading them, pressing them towards one another and bouncing your breasts against his palms. He tugged you, grinding his pelvis into yours, dropping his hand lower so that his fingers could toy with your clit through your clothing.

 “Don’t stop,” you said, grabbing at his wrist long enough to maneuver his hand into a new angle. You began to undo the front of  your clothes until Armitage realized what you were doing.  With a grunt, he assisted you in ridding your body of that first layer. His fingers then hooked into your panties, drawing them aside when once more you nodded. You curled your toes, eyes glued on his mouth.

 Armitage found that he did not require any further encouragement; he knew what you wanted, that it was the same thing he wanted in that moment. He ran his tongue along his lips in anticipation. He kept his fingers hooked into the panties so that they did not slip back into place as he repositioned himself. His other hand pushed at your inner thigh, his mouth moving nearer until his nose brushed along your clit. Glancing up, Armitage met your face and noticed how wide your eyes were, how your chest rose and fell heavily just as it had that day in First Rogue when he had realized how much he wanted you. His cock throbbed.

 He teased your inner lips with his tongue, tasting you, holding in a swear of desire as your tang coated his tongue. You shivered under him, your body trembling. Armitage grazed his teeth along your flesh. Your quivering grew in intensity, a whimper erupting. That whimper turned into a much louder sound, a moan, as he wormed his tongue into you, sliding a finger closer as well. Feeling you begin to move in for more contact, he withdrew.

 “Please,” you groaned, the heat spread throughout your entire body. He obliged almost immediately, almost as though you need not have begged him at all. You swallowed thickly around the saliva that had gathered in your mouth as your eyelashes fluttered. His tongue was shifting inside of you, this time more deeply. It curled, toyed with you. He noisily slurped, the wet sounds making you more slick. “Fuck!”

 You reached down and tangled the fingers of one hand into his hair, rocked against his mouth. Armitage nudged your clit with his nose, swirled his tongue again then flattened it. He pressed his fingers to the side of your outer lips, tracing ghost-like patterns that journeyed to your cunt, where he moved them into you along with his tongue. Then he paused again, and you just knew it was intentional. When you repeated the previous plea of please, Armitage resumed. His fingers began to scissor  you open, his tongue wriggling between them, darting in and out of you.

 The sounds of you whining urged him on. Armitage was aware of the loud, wet sounds that escaped him with every lick, every nip that he delivered. He knew, too, when he found your g-spot--the breathless gasp, the twitch of your thigh muscles, the way you clenched around his fingers--and he stroked you repeatedly. He lapped at you, focusing on your clit as your slick coated his fingers, dripping down along his hand until he licked at the trail and drew it into his mouth. Your body was thrumming, he could feel it. Knew you were enraptured by the intensity of your orgasm, which you rode out, fucking yourself on his fingers, which he never stopped moving. Your cunt clenching, pulsing around his fingers. He slurped at your cum, drawing more and more of it into his mouth until your movements slowed.

 You shifted, feeling simultaneously spent and enlivened. Armitage moved upwards as well, which made it easier for you to kiss him. You felt his hands wandering your body until he was squeezing your breast. Meanwhile you pawed at the front of his pants, feeling his cock twitch. “I think the game can wait until later,” you purred against him. Armitage nodded, his hungry mouth claiming yours again.

[buckyswinterbaby]

Leave a Light On—Series Chapter 2

Song: “Bad Dreams” by Faouzia/“Ashes” by Céline Dion

Word Count: 1,724

Synopsis: In the process of settling into life at the new compound, Steve and Natasha find comfort in one another presence. Then together they start working towards rebuilding the program and assembling a new team of the Earth’s mightiest heroes.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Natasha Romanoff

Warnings: language, fluff, angst, death mention, grief, PTSD, eventual friends to lovers, slow burn (if you read real slow), eventual OC inclusion (not sure if that needs a warning but I don’t really wanna get complaints 😂).

Please like and reblog (I love that shit)! Click here to fill out the form to be added to my tag list!

Divider is made by me. Please as permission to use it.

Previous Chapters: Chapter 1

Note: Here be the second installment of LALO, I hope you all enjoy it. If you do, I would greatly appreciate a reblog/commentary as I’m just starting out (on Tumblr, I’ve written elsewhere). Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list!

It didn’t take long for the pair to settle into life at the compound once again, resuming their dynamics with one another, almost as if no time had passed. Things were still very different from the energy of the old compound. There were no early morning arguments over coffee grounds, Clint was no longer around to slip down the hall during his routine call with Laura. It was still home, just different.

The normal buzz of conversation was replaced with the sounds of ongoing construction on the opposite wing of the compound. Natasha complained, at first, about the steady sound of hammering and drilling that often began as early as eight in the morning, but the assassin soon found comfort in the consistency. She saw everything Steve was trying to build, the tired look in his eyes as contractors came to him with another problem they had uncovered and the bags under his eyes from another sleepless night. She wanted to help but for the first time in years, she was truly lost.

Even after the snap, she still knew Clint was alive and out in the world. She couldn’t find him but she could still function, if anything, keeping busy is what kept her sane. Following his death, she no longer had the energy to pick her work back up, at least not at the same level she did before. Natasha knew she spearheaded the Avengers after millions were dusted. She never gave up hope that a solution would be found and the lost would be returned. Clint’s death was permanent. “A soul, for a soul” was not a transaction that could be reversed and finding a way to live with that was easier said than done.

Steve was doing his best to help her and she saw it, the way he spread himself too thin. Too many nights of being jolted from his sleep from night terrors of his own or the screams that escaped her from across the hall.

As she shot up in bed from another nightmare of Clint falling to his death, she heard his familiar steps leaving his room before he punched in her access code to enter her room.

“Nat?” he called out, his voice still thick with sleep. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of her room, as only a thin strip of moonlight was cast across her bed. He shuffled over to her quietly, trying to not startle her in case she had yet to realize exactly where she was. Gently, he sat down on her bed and waited for her to gather her bearings.

Within a few minutes, bloodshot green eyes looked over at him, “Go back to bed, you look exhausted. I’m sorry I woke you.”

“I could say the same about you, you’re not looking so hot.” His hand moved to rest reassuringly on her leg as he spoke again, “Which one was it tonight? Vormir?”

Natasha nodded simply, “Isn’t it always?”

“No, some nights it’s the Red Room, during others it’s the battle. You don’t typically scream during those,” Steve answered, a hand running over his face as he tried to wake up. She tended to block out her night terrors to the best of her abilities as soon as she woke up, pushing them back into her subconscious, as deep as they would go. Normally after a few hours, she couldn’t even remember which nightmare she had that night.

“You have my nightmares memorized by if I scream or not?” Steve could see the slight outline of her grin in the moonlight. “That’s almost sweet, Rogers,” Natasha teased.

“Almost,” Steve let out a light chuckle and looked down as her hand moved to take his. He knew she was deflecting, it was a nasty habit of her’s that he was trying to break, but changes like that take time. “Let me help you. Lay down,” he instructed, his voice still calm and kind.

Natasha considered protesting like she usually did, but she was too exhausted. Steve moved to lean against her headboard, half sitting and half laying down in her bed, before he held his arms open. There was nothing romantic to his actions, just a friend offering support so she wouldn’t feel so alone. The assassin laid next to him, allowing his arms to hold her, and found a surprising amount of comfort in the simple act. They laid like that as Natasha eventually drifted off to sleep once again. Steve stayed still and watched her quietly, almost as if he was waiting to be sure her nightmares wouldn’t start again, before allowing himself to fall asleep.

When the sun rose the next morning, Natasha was still tucked closely to his side. It was not unusual for the two to end up in the same bed from one or both having a rough night. Sometimes it was just easier to have someone nearby. This night was not unlike the rest as Natasha blinked into consciousness and looked up at Steve, who was already awake and watching the sun rise quietly. The early morning rays washed over his features, a growing stubble on his jawline was now visible. Not that Natasha would ever admit it, but she preferred him this way. The facial hair was a change when he first decided to keep it, after his falling out with Tony, but it quickly grew on her and those he became allies with while on the run.

Natasha moved to sit up in the bed beside him, leaning against the headboard, “Did you even manage to sleep?” she asked with playfulness in her tone but concern on her face. She knew he never slept well after he came out of the ice and his problems only seemed to grow afterwards. He had a cocktail of PTSD from WW2, New York, Sokovia, Thanos, and even Germany. The events of his life were testaments to where he had been and what he had conquered to get where he was, but they also served as reminders to the price Steve had paid time and time again. He may have never truly died, but he lost more pieces of his life as time went on. Sometimes Natasha still found herself questioning why he came back when he had the chance to take back one of those pieces.

“I did, for a few hours,” he responded, looking away from the window and over to her with a light smile. “It’s more than I usually get, which I likely have you to thank for that.”

She lightly nudged him with her elbow, returning his look with a small grin. The pair sat in silence for a few more minutes, taking in the peace while they could. It was the rare moments like these that they were most grateful for, especially after everything that had happened within the past year. Nowhere to be, no tasks to be done, no one in need of saving. Just two friends sitting together in a building they were trying to make into a home.

Not long after, they went their separate ways to get ready for the day. Natasha walked into the new kitchen, her hair was still a bit damp from her shower. She couldn’t help but watch as Steve shuffled through a large stack of paperwork, his coffee sitting beside him, untouched. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration as he read through the first few documents. If only his day could continue as good as it began. Natasha quietly set a hand on his forearm as she reached for half the stack of papers in front of him.

“Natasha,-” he started to protest but was promptly cut off.

“Don’t try to fight me on this, Steve, you know I’ll win.” Natasha picked up the papers, moving them away from him, “Let me help you.”

The assassin moved to grab herself some coffee before sitting down with her half of the stack, skimming through the first few files quietly. After a few more moments, Steve spoke up, “I told you when you came here that I didn’t want you to help because you felt like you had to.”

“I’m well aware that I don’t have to. I’ve been here for what? Two, maybe three weeks since you picked me up? You haven’t pressured me to do a damn thing. I’m doing this because I want to. Besides, we always did make a good team, you and I.”

***

The next few weeks followed closely in suit with papers spread out across various surfaces and a steady brew of coffee filling their cups as they tried to piece it all together. There was a lot to plan for the program. Protocols, regimens, and most of all the criteria that would help them select possible candidates. Some of the structure was already there from the Avengers Initiative through S.H.I.E.L.D, or what it used to be. But they both knew how much the world had changed since the original program launched and they knew the new one had to be able to grow and develop with it.

It took some time, but eventually, they managed to narrow down the core ideals they wanted any recruits considered to hold true to. Many of which were formed from the most prominent and influential traits of their old team. The values that not only made them heroes, but the ones that made them human.

That was the goal afterall, was it not? Not the perfect soldiers that the government may want, but good individuals. People from all walks of life that could come together to create something larger than themselves.

Steve and Natasha stood outside the compound after the last few construction projects on the compound were finished. As they looked at the future of the Avengers Program, they couldn’t help but smile lightly, knowing that Tony and Clint would be proud of what they built from the ashes of what use to be.

Natasha crossed her arms and took in a deep breath, “So, what’s next?”

“Now, we find some recruits.” Steve responded, looking over at her, “You ready for a road trip?”

“I am, but I’m driving this time. I’d like to arrive before I get to be your age.”

“You know what, Romanoff…”

[junggoku]

Lemon Curls and Latte Art - Ethan Ramsey x f!MC

book: Open Heart

pairing: Ethan Ramsey x f!MC (Nina Valentine)

word count: 6,679

summary: Ethan’s been having a tough time with a case and desperately needs some coffee and time away from the hospital. His small impromptu trip to his favorite coffeeshop may just become more than he expected. (Alternatively: local doctor man goes to get coffee. Gets roasted for 5 minutes straight by cute barista.) A coffeeshop au

A/N: Soooo first and foremost, I’m super excited about this. I’ve been surprised at the lack of coffeeshop au’s in this fandom so I decided to take matters into my own hands. I’d like to give all my love to the wonderful @namkook​ for keeping me sane through this whole project and for helping me every step of the way. I love you and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you for putting up with my constantly annoying you with this. I typically don’t like my writing, I’m so proud of this one and I hope you guys enjoy it as much as I did when working on it. Without further ado, buckle in and enjoy! She’s a long one wheew

Sometimes it was easier to just drown it all out. The rustling of the nurses as they moved about. The moans and groans of patients as they anxiously waited for their diagnoses. The shrill voices of interns trying to suck up to him to better polish up on their resumes, instead of focusing on their damn jobs.

On that particularly busy afternoon, Dr. Ethan Ramsey felt it was especially crucial that he drown out all the background noises and forget about his surroundings for a moment, if he was going to hang onto his sanity.

He had been pouring over a patient file all morning, having reached an impasse. When something like this happened, it was best for him to go out and clear his head. Sighing heavily, Ethan pushes out of his leather chair, leaving the mountains of scans and paperwork behind him as he closes the door to his office with a resounding thud.  

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

Day 1

The chime of the bell above the door signaled his arrival into Derry Roasters, a soft click of the hinges punctuating through the air as his eyes adjusted to the gentle lighting in the quaint coffee shop.  

The scene was completely opposite the hospital, with almost all of the tables here being empty save for an elderly man in the corner with his book. It seemed the cafe was experiencing a quiet afternoon, soft music playing from the small speakers lodged in the ceilings.

Whenever Ethan was stuck with a case he couldn’t quite figure out, he found himself wandering to the coffeehouse, a humble mom and pop establishment that made decent coffee. It was a step up from the caffeinated dishwater the hospital cafeteria served and he didn’t hate it at the very least. It was also close enough to the hospital that he could get to it by foot, but far enough that none of the gaggle of bright-eyed parrots interns would follow him to kiss his ass.

Crossing the distance of the room up to the front, Ethan stops right before the register. Having seen not one soul behind the counter, his hand found its way to the small silver bell waiting by the tips bucket, ringing it albeit impatiently. There was normally always someone waiting up at the front, the usual barista－a short and kindly old lady, her slightly stout face adding to the welcoming atmosphere－felt it necessary to be present at all times to best serve customers so they did not have to wait long. So much for that. Their service is going to shit.

A bright ding reverberates throughout the shop, ricocheting off the walls. With a purse of his lips, he waits for a few minutes for someone to respond to the bell, the dimple in between his eyebrows growing more prominent the longer time stretches.

About to forgo the coffee and just head back, his ears pick up a foreign sound coming from somewhere. Is that...singing?

Singing was perhaps too generous a term. There was a faint humming emanating from behind the door that led to the back, and his ears tickled as it continued for a few more seconds, before the door swung open and a figure stepped out.

Ethan’s train of thought stutters for a brief second as ice blue eyes meet a warm chocolate brown, wide and doe-like staring up at him in surprise.

She’s new.

Silence envelops the room and Ethan finds himself studying the woman in front of him as he does with everyone, an occupational habit he’s honed over the years.

Long, dark brown hair cascades over her shoulder like a wave, a pair of chocolate brown eyes to match the curtains as they peer up at him, a hint of curiosity in them. The new barista is donning a polo the color of mustard paired with the black apron of the coffeeshop. His eyes glance over the silver name tag that brandishes the name “Nina”. Next to the tag, a small frog pin sits crookedly, the silver lining a bit dim from what he expects comes from overwear.

In his musings, he doesn’t notice the barista, Nina, pursing her lips, “Are you going to order something or are you just gonna stare at me all day?”

Shaken out of his thoughts, he raises a brow at the bland tone of her voice, before deciding to ignore it, “The Vienna.”

Slipping his card from his wallet, he sets it down on the counter as she rings up his order, sliding the piece of plastic back to him once she’s finished.

Wordlessly, he starts moving over to a table nearby when she pipes up, “What? No ‘thank you’?”

He spins around, a brow quirked as he meets her eyes. The slight curl of her lips tells him she’s mocking him and his lack of a response.

“Thank you.” He speaks, voice flat and face unimpressed. Her lips twitch.

“Gee, you’re a real charmer, aren’t you. I do need to know if you want this here or to go,” Eyes lit with mirth, Ethan itches to end this interaction and head back to the hospital. So much for that break.

“To go.”

The smirk doesn’t leave her face as she turns around and gets to work, and Ethan is eternally grateful for the conversation being over.

A few minutes pass by before he hears his name being called. Striding to the pick up station where the barista placed his order of Vienna in a styrofoam cup, her cheeks lifted into a winning smile, one she must use on all her customers.

Ethan picks it up promptly, the desire to get back to work coursing through him strongly the minute he glimpses at her face (his mistake) and finds that she’s still staring at him with a strange amusement lighting her eyes.

“Hope it's to your liking, Dr. Ramsey.”

“How do you know my name?”

Nina raises her brow, and throws a look at the elegant Dr. Ethan Ramsey, etched into the fabric of his white doctor coat, “I’m assuming that’s your name since it says so on your coat. If you were trying to go incognito, maybe lose the coat next time.”

With a wink, the barista spins around and disappears behind the door to the back, not giving him time to answer to her quip. Something pricks at the back of his mind as he watches her go. Casting a quick glance down at his coffee cup, the letters Ethonk are scrawled on the curved surface, and he couldn’t tell if he wanted to laugh or groan. More the latter probably.

Sighing for what was possibly the millionth time today, Ethan tightens his grip on the cup and makes his way out, feeling more annoyed than when he had come. I’m not coming back here.

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

Day 2

Why am I here?

He sincerely had no idea why he found himself lingering at the front of Derry Roasters a few weeks later, shoes avoiding the crunch of leaves under his feet as a delicate autumn breeze curls through his hair and rustles the pages of the book he had nestled in his arm.

Ethan had initially planned to not come here again for a long while, having no desire to run into that impudent barista from last time, Nina, her name was.  

Annoying.

Shaking away the thought, he pushed the front door open and strode into the cafe, the click of the latch bolt falling back into its frame announcing his arrival once more. The shop was fairly empty again at this time, being so long after the busy lunch rush hour.  

As usual, Ethan made his way up to the register, but his steps faltered for a half second when he noticed a new addition to the counter by the pick up area: a small potted cactus, its thorny arms appearing almost golden bathed in the gentle autumn light streaming in through the windows.  

A little curious, he continues walking and taps the bell once when he makes it to the front.

Unlike before, the door leading to the back whipped open almost immediately after the ding, and out came the petite barista, long brown hair tied into a loose ponytail today. Small specks of what looks like cream powder dotting her cheek and on the sleeves of her peach-colored blouse, the brunette saunters over and plants herself directly across him.  

Chocolate doe eyes instantly find his blue ones and Nina flashes him an amiable smile. Or it would be amiable if it weren’t for the twinkle of mischief he catches in her gaze. He bites back a mental groan.

Ethan opens his mouth, prepared to just tell her his order quickly so he could leave, when she beats him to it.

“Did you see Henry?” Her voice is a little hushed, conspiratorial. Bemused, his eyebrows furrow in place of a question.

“...Henry?”

The barista nods her head in the direction of the pick up station, eyes darting to the potted plant he saw earlier and back to him, “Henry!”  

He’s not sure how to respond. Nina waits for a few beats before crossing her arms across her chest, ogling him for a reaction, “We just got it yesterday. I thought it’d be nice to spruce up the place,” She leans forward, her apron brushing against the register.

“You don’t feel a connection with it?” She pursed her lips, brown eyes twinkling with mirth. The furrow in his brows deepens, not quite enjoying the way she was eyeing him.    

“Why would I feel any connection to a cactus?”

“Well, you are one emotionally,”

Ethan lets out a short scoff, his expression wholly unimpressed, “We’ve had a grand total of two interactions.”

“And the two were all I needed to know everything,” Nina tosses him a tiny smirk, seemingly relishing in getting under his skin, a frown beginning to mar his features. How tedious.

Sighing deeply and already feeling exhausted, Ethan ignores the quip and barrels forth, “The Vienna.” He tosses his card on the surface of the counter, almost impatient as she gingerly grabs it and rings him up, saying nothing more all the while.

Not giving her an opening, Ethan snatches his card out of her grasp the minute she’s done, and turns around to find an empty table far away from the register.

“I’ll bring it over to you when it’s done,” He hears behind him as he continues moving.

Settling into a table in the back corner of the coffeeshop, Ethan sinks into the leather chair and opens his history book, determined to ignore and forget his interactions with the barista so he can take a break. Why he came back here when he already predicted this happening was beyond him. He won’t repeat the mistake again.

A few minutes later, Ethan feels a presence in front of him and peeks from his book to find Nina placing his cup of Vienna on the table. Turning his attention back to his pages, he reads another line from Robert Service before glancing back up.

She was still standing there. Hands clasped together in front of her chest, Nina was peering down at him, blinking innocently.

“...Is there something wrong?”

“No,” She answers, giving a slight shake of her head in emphasis. She still didn’t move.

“...”

“...”

“...Did you want something?”

Her expression shifts promptly, fixing a saccharine smile his way and a sense of dread creeps up his spine.

“Well you see,” Nina sweeps an arm around the expanse of the room, where only one other patron beside him was sitting in the opposite corner, tapping away on their laptop, “no one’s really here.”

He feels a budding headache pricking, “And what does that have to do with me?” He asks, tone flat.

Her large smile widens a little more, “I’m bored and you’re the most entertaining thing here.”

There’s a brief moment where the two of them did nothing, a staredown ensuing with the only sound coming from the ceiling speakers and the tap, tap, tap of the laptop.

Pressure behind his eyes growing, he brings up a hand to scratch at his stubble. Yes, he really regrets coming here today.

“Well what do you want to do then?” The defeat in his voice is evident as Nina starts shuffling over to the chair opposite him, appearing so pleased with herself Ethan could only breathe out another sigh.

“If it’s cool with you-”

“It’s not,”

“-I’m just gonna hang out here with you,” She plops into the leather recliner and beams at him, eyes scrunching into two crescent moons. Huh. “Besides, I’m doing you a favor really.”

His annoyance fading just a smidge, he eyes her, distrustful. Closing his book with a small thud, Ethan leans back, sinking further into the plush material.

“How on earth is you neglecting your work and bothering me when I’m trying to read you doing me a favor?”

Nina flicks her chin at the cover of his book. The glossy surface catches the warm rays of sunshine drifting in through the windows, the text Comrades!: A History of World Communism almost swallowed whole by the natural light.

“I am doing you a favor,” The steam from the coffee mug wafts up and swirls in the air between them, “I’m sure you’re already busy being a doctor full-time, I’m giving you a chance to take a break from your communist endeavors so you can actually enjoy your down time.”

Seeing no point in disagreeing when she looked determined to stay there, Ethan takes a sip of his Vienna, the liquid still warm and settles pleasantly on his tongue. Over the top of the cup, he catches Nina leaning forward slightly as though waiting for his reaction.

Putting the mug back down, he turns his head to the window, content on ignoring her still and watching the people strolling up and down the street outside.

Her quiet voice breaks him out of his reverie, “What’s it like? Being a doctor?”

At the question, Ethan turns his gaze on the barista, finding her peering at him with a mix of curiosity and...admiration?

He shrugs, “It’s alright.”

“...That’s it?” Her head tilts to the side, eyes widening as she silently urges him to elaborate. He’s not sure why he’s humoring her, but he relents and continues.

“It’s...it gives me opportunities to figure out the mysteries of the human body. To find ways to conquer and defeat the things that defeat us,” He keeps his gaze on her, watching as the brunette follows his every word like he’s telling her some universal truth.

Nina nods, seemingly soaking in his explanation and satisfied with it, “That sounds really cool. You’re like a hero,” She laughs a little, a tenderness in it that confuses Ethan, but he doesn’t say anymore on it. Hardly.

A beat of silence falls over them again. There’s no awkwardness in it though and Ethan’s content to let it stretch on.

“I wanted to be a doctor when I was younger.”

The spell is broken and Ethan’s attention is now directed solely at her, the barista tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. When he doesn’t speak, she continues, “Always wanted to help people. It just seemed like the perfect job for me to defend those who were fighting for their lives. For their second chances.”

The small frog pin on her apron gleams as she fidgets, light from outside hitting its metallic surface.

“Why didn’t you?” He finally asks, albeit hesitantly, “Become a doctor.”

A wistful look crosses her face and she smiles, “My brother’s health deteriorated and he  collapsed as I was graduating from high school. Things just never worked out,” Nina pauses and considers the room, Ethan noticing for the first time that the other customer had left, no more tap tap-ing sound to be heard.

“But it’s whatever. I like working here. And at least I get to keep my sleep schedule,” She jokes, eyes landing on him again.

Ethan doesn’t speak for a long moment, holding her gaze. At the lack of reaction, Nina begins to squirm, appearing nervous, but doesn’t prod him.

Finally, he finds his voice, uncharacteristically timid, “This place is lucky to have you.”

A blink and a beat later, and a glowing grin stretches across Nina’s face. She chuckles, a soft pink flush dusting her cheek.

Waiting another beat, Ethan clears his throat and begins to move, grabbing his book and nudging the now-drained cup of Vienna away, “I should head back. I have work. At the hospital.” He holds back a grimace. Moron.

Nina tilts her head, the action releasing a couple of strands to fall from her ponytail, “I would hope so, since you’re wearing your white coat,” She snorts when she sees the unimpressed expression on his face, “Go save lives, Dr. Ramsey.”

With that, the barista turns and heads back to work, humming softly as she goes.        

A feeling he can’t place courses through him, sending a slight shiver up his spine as he steps out into the street. Just a chill. With that, Ethan makes the familiar walk back to Edenbrook, the gentle breeze returning and dances through the soft locks of his hair the whole way.

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

Day 3

“Quit stalling already and drink!”

Grumbling, he lifts the cup to his lips, taking a cautious sip.  

The silence settles throughout the room, and Nina leans forward just a little bit, in an attempt to gauge his reaction. He tries to keep his expression blank.

“...Well?”

“...”

Ethan lets the silence linger for another moment before bringing the cup back to his lips. Slowly, a smile begins to bloom across Nina’s face, bright and smug, “Heh. So what’s the verdict, Doctor?”

He refuses to give her the satisfaction of a reply, instead determined to keep his eyes trained on the inside of his coffee cup. His ears pick up a tinkle of a laugh.

“I told you you’d like it,” The barista giggles, her eyes forming crescent moons, as she attempts to stifle the full force of her laughter. Placing a hand on her hips, Nina gazes at him, her self-satisfied grin making a home on the corner of her lips. Ethan decides, right then and there, that he hates it endlessly.  

He especially hates how that cheeky ass smirk makes her eyes sparkle more.

Releasing a bone-weary sigh, Ethan sets the mug down on the table and leans back in the chair, training ice blue eyes on the brunette across from him, “I tried it. Are you going to tell me what it was now?”

Still beaming, Nina sinks down into the soft leather chair opposite him, hand coming up to tuck a stray lock of dark hair behind her ears. Crossing her legs, she glances down at the drained coffee cup, “Espresso Romano. As you can probably guess, it’s a shot of espresso with a slice of lemon served on the side and rubbed on the rim.”

A soft calming song plays in the background, the notes resonating through the air and floats around them, framing the little pocket of the world they were occupying. Nina looks back up at Ethan, holding his gaze as she continues, “The lemon’s zestiness brightens the drink and cuts off the bitterness. Which, no offense, but that looks like something you could use some help with.”

Biting back a retort on the tip of his tongue, he picks up the discarded lemon curl, long fingers absentmindedly playing with the garnish. The silence settles once more between them as he takes in what she said.

In a voice so quiet he’s hoping she doesn’t pick up on it, the words leave his lips: “It’s decent.”

The crescent moon smile she gifts him with tells him that she heard it loud and clear. He doesn’t say anymore, but he doesn’t need to. She hears the rest of what he left unspoken.

“Such a way with words. You really should’ve been a poet instead of a doctor,” Amusement never leaving her eyes, she leans over to pick up his mug and plucks the lemon peel out of his hands, dark brown hair falling over her shoulder at the movement. Soft afternoon sunlight streams in, bouncing off the tan of her skin and for a brief moment, she looks like she’s glowing. Ethan frowns, averting his attention to the space behind her instead.

Humming quietly, Nina stands up and turns, the soles of her white Converse squeaking in protest. Tossing him one more knowing smirk, she begins her trip back to the register, the arm of his empty cup resting on the crook of her finger. A minute later, she disappears through the door into the back area, the gentle music from the ceiling filling up the room in her stead.  

Ethan releases a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and glances back out the windows overlooking the street, the faint taste of lemon still sitting on his lips.  

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

Day 4

The coffeeshop feels a bit different in the mornings, fresh dew and the gentle rise of the sun blanketing the room, wrapping it in a peculiar warmth. The lack of customers at this time adds to the ambiance, though Ethan doesn’t pay much mind to any of that at the moment. Instead, his attention is aimed at the disheveled barista in front of him and the mayhem surrounding her.  

The next time Ethan walked through the doors of Derry Roasters a week later, he was met with what he could only describe as chaos. A collection of discarded coffee cups littered the counter and drops of milk and cream dotted the floor all around Nina. The brunette ran a hand through her long hair frustratedly, apron stained with liquids.

A quick explanation told him that she had been attempting to perfect the craft of latte art, though Ethan would argue that you can’t perfect something you didn’t even have the basics for. Recognizing that her skills were abhorrent and wanting to please customers, Nina had made it a habit to arrive at the cafe very early in the mornings, where she could practice in solitude. And that was what he had walked in on when he dropped by, having thought to get coffee before his shift later that day.  

He watches her struggle with the milk for another minute, bumbling around like a newborn, before peeling off his white coat, a strand of hair falling just over his eyes at the motion. Nina turns at the rustle beside her and is greeted with Ethan’s tall figure peering down at her handiwork.

Startled, she takes a half step back, eyes wide in surprise, “What...are you doing?”

In place of a response, he rolls up the sleeves of his button down shirt and helps himself to one of the aprons hanging on the coat rack by the back area.

“Watching you spill milk on yourself like an infant is getting painful. I used to work as a barista through undergrad so I remember some things...” He pauses, gazing inside one particular mug that was housing what resembled more creamy vomit than coffee, “...though I’m skeptical if it could even help you at this point.”

The flat tone of his voice must have irritated her, as she shoots him a mild glare, a cool determination flashing in her eyes, “That sounds like a challenge, Doctor.”

“It definitely will be.”  

A couple hours later, the work area resembles a battlefield, thermometer and portafilters thrown haphazardly all over the counter, milk and coffee powder strewn across its surface in reckless abandon.

Ethan shakes his head, arms crossed over his chest and focused intensely on the mess she’s making, “You’re not doing it right.”

Nina groans, the sound tickling his ear. Her grip on the pitcher slackens which promptly spills more of its milky contents all over the counter.  

“I’m doing it exactly as you said. You just suck at teaching,” She mumbles, tsk-ing a little at the new addition blooming on her apron. Taking in the growing clutter decorating the counter, Nina lets out a sigh before turning to Ethan, “This feels hopeless.”

“Giving up already, rookie?” He quirks up an eyebrow, a corner of his lips twitching.

She stops and blinks at the nickname, but doesn’t comment on it further, “No!...Just. Ugggh,” With a loud whine that sounds awfully like a puppy’s, Nina sets the pitcher down, knocking it into the thermometer that was sitting nearby. Placing a hand on the surface of the counter, Nina leans into it, sagging with disappointment. The chagrin expression on her face so directly contrasted her usual bright grin that it makes his chest throb strangely.

Clearing his throat, Ethan glances back down at the mugs, highlighting all her failed attempts. Despite the mess, he could still see her progress, the more recent works showing slight improvements.

With a flick of his fingers, he starts selecting some of the cups out of the batch, “These aren’t too bad. The shape is starting to take place.”

Not looking entirely convinced, Nina skeptically eyes the attempts he singled out.

“You sure?” She points to one, “This one looks like a bad rendition of the Scream.”

Gently, Ethan nudges the pitcher and the thermometer towards her, voice quiet but firm, “It’s an upgrade from the foamy blob you made earlier. You’re getting there. You just need to keep working on your technique.”

Releasing a sigh, Nina relents and pours more milk into the pitcher, readying for another round.

Delicate sunshine slants through the windows and catches on the tips of her hair as she bends forward, eyes narrowed at the face of the thermometer. Ethan keeps a watchful eye on her movements, leaning towards her a fraction more.

Despite the intensity coming off of Nina as she tackles the task, Ethan feels curiously light, as though the usual restlessness humming under his skin was dimmed. Hovering a little closer, the weak scent of apples from Nina’s hair tickles his nose, as she turns to heat the milk. Grabbing the steam wand, she inserts it into the liquid and turns it on, the thermometer clinking onto the side of the pitcher.  

When she gets to the part of pouring the milk into the coffee, the hand holding the steamed milk trembles slightly as she tips the wide-mouthed cup of the espresso forward in her non-dominant hand. Stepping ever closer and settling right behind her, Ethan leans his head down until it practically rests on her shoulder, her back to his chest, and brings a hand forward to steady her grip.

At the contact, the warmth of her skin spreads through his fingers, scalding in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

This close to her he can hear the intake of breath, the slight shudder in her voice as she continues, concentrating on the feeling of his hand and the milk as it spills into the espresso.

Morning light grows warmer as the sun rises up higher in the sky, and Ethan loses track of time as he watches Nina pour the foam, successfully forming an asymmetrical flower. The minute she finishes with the last drop, the barista sets the pitcher down, staring wide eyed at her work.

Turning her head slowly, she fixes her stare on him, a look of utter disbelief on her face, “...I did it.”

Ethan’s lips quirk and he nods once, “You did.”

There’s a pause as it sinks in.

“...Oh my god! I did it!” Elated, Nina leaps towards Ethan, throwing her arms around him in a bone-crushing hug.

“Oof,” He braces himself at the force of her knocking into him. Letting out a snort, Ethan finds himself chuckling at the brunette’s joy, a small feeling of pride spreading through his chest, having spent all day trying to get to this point.

The moment lingers, Nina’s arms still wrapped around Ethan’s broader frame, the thumping of her heart beating against his rib cage. In a tiny, slightly muffled voice, “Thank you.”

Tilting her head up at him, she awards him with a gentle smile, the softness of her face accentuated by the tender curl of her lips, “Seriously. It was thanks to your help today. Guess you really are a good teacher,” Nina quips, a levity about her now that made it difficult for him to look away.

Ethan smirks, “Of course I am. I’m good at everything.”

The barista rolls her eyes all the way up to the ceiling, “Glad to see you’ve got a strong ego.”

“Was it not earned?”

“...Okay yes, but it doesn’t mean you have to be annoying about it,” She grumbles, lips forming a pout.

It takes Ethan another minute to realize that neither of them had moved, the both of them still wrapped around each other. The warmth of her skin bleeding through his shirt, the faint apple scent of her hair tickling his nose once more and he unconsciously leans down.

Nina’s eyelids flutter as she moves towards him, and soon he’s close enough that he can count every speck of caramel in the brown pools of her eyes. The pink of her lips. The small shudder of her breath. Every second that ticks by is another he’s falling...Wait, what?

Ethan jolts, his thoughts crashing to a stop, his entire body tensing. Sensing the change of mood, Nina halts as well, pulling back slightly to look at him, brows furrowed in concern, “Are you alright, Ethan?”

No. He doesn’t respond as he starts extricating himself from her grasp, peeling away from her. The groove in between her eyebrows deepen as Ethan hurries to place some distance between them.

There’s another moment of silence that blankets over them, but this one is different. It’s tense, making Ethan’s gut churn a little.

“...Did I...is something wrong?”

Unable to meet her eyes, he holds back a grimace, hearing a tremble of hurt in her voice as she asks. He stays silent for another beat before glancing in her direction, not meeting her gaze, “No, it’s just. It’s...I gotta go. My shift starts soon.”

Not waiting for a reply, Ethan yanks off his apron, roughly throwing back onto the rack before hastily grabbing his white coat and rushing out the door, never once turning back to look at the barista, whose eyes never left his back as he briskly walked off back to the hospital.      

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

Day 5

“You’re still here, Ethan?”

At the sound of the voice, Ethan looks up from a patient’s x-rays he’d been examining, finding his colleague, Dr. Baz Mirani, standing in the doorway of his office.

Throwing a quick glance at the wall clock, it read 11:54 p.m.

Damn. It’s this late already? He’d completely lost track of time.

Rubbing a tired hand over his chin, Ethan releases a sigh before packing up his things, and leaving his office for the night, brushing past Baz on the way out. He wasn’t going to be able to do much more tonight.

A full effect of autumn had taken root and blanketed across the town in the past month. Stepping out in the night, Ethan lifted up his face, the scent of the fall leaves and cool evening air caressing the tip of his nose. As he moved closer to his car, a restlessness buzzed under his skin and he was unable to shake it no matter how much he tried.

He’d been feeling this way for about a month now. Ever since then.

A flicker of brown eyes and soft smiles crosses his mind and a gnawing apprehension sits in his throat, one that feels suspiciously like guilt. Guilt and...something else Ethan doesn’t want to define yet.

Sighing once more into the autumn night, he reaches his car door, ready to go home to his bottle of scotch waiting for him. The feeling continues to nip at him though, and he pauses when reaching for the handle of his car, the weight in his backpocket feeling much, much heavier.  

Maybe...He suddenly...felt an urge for some coffee.

Before he could talk himself out of it (this is a bad idea), he leaves behind his car and takes off in the direction of the coffeeshop, his footsteps slow and effortful.

The lights are still on when he reaches Derry Roasters, the blinds of the windows all pulled down save for two that overlook the counter. His eyes immediately land on the barista, sweeping away at the floor on the other side of the register, expression tight and disappointed.

The guilt started to creep back in at the look on her face.

This really was a bad idea. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to talk to her yet, after his abrupt exit last time. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be ready, but he certainly wasn’t today.

Backtracking, Ethan began turning back in the direction from which he came, but the movement catches her eye and right away, Nina glances up, brown eyes connecting with blue ones. Ah shit.

Seeing him, the barista’s expression tightens a fraction more, a cool gleam flashing across her eyes, and she frowns before beckoning him to come in with a quick nod of her head.

A weary sigh leaves his lips as Ethan ambles over, the ding of the bell ringing out like it was announcing his execution. The minute he walks in, Nina folds her arms across her chest, still wearing her black apron over the pale blue sweater she donned today.

“Did you need something?” She asks after a long, tense moment.

He doesn’t reply, the lump in his throat growing as he hears the familiar line, ones uttered by him not too long ago. The circumstances in which they were said so different.  

She presses forward when he doesn’t speak, “You haven't been around much lately.” It sounds a little like an accusation.

“My coffee machine’s working again. So I didn’t really need to come here anymore,” He tries to hold back a grimace at how calloused he sounds.

Nina’s frown morphs into a glare and Ethan’s sure he’d rather be toughing it out in the Amazon right now than having to be the object of this woman’s current woe and ire. He’d rather be anywhere else.

He regrettably continues to dig his own grave, “There wasn’t much else this place could offer since I could just get coffee from my office now,” Why the fuck-  

“Well sorry I don’t have much to offer a world renown doctor,” A tinge of bitterness laced in her tone and he holds back a wince.

It was strange how easy it was for him to deal with the people at the hospital, never finding any need to mince words with idiots with fat pockets, and vultures trying to increase their profits at the expense of others. With his patients, always doing his best to be honest with them as they faced their own battles everyday, fighting for their lives. But here, in front of this woman who miffed him and intrigued him to no end, Ethan always found himself hesitating and clumsy with his words.

He stays quiet for too long and his silence, his lack of anything annoys her.

“You really are a cactus,” Nina mumbles, tightening her grip on the broom, keeping her eyes trained to the ground.

Taking a steadying breath, the barista glares pointedly at the crack in the floor before speaking up again, “You’re always like this, you know. I’ve talked to you like five times, and even I can tell you what you’re like.”

He doesn’t speak, the tension in the air making it difficult for him to cut through, his throat closing.

Nina holds up her hand, dainty fingers curled into a fist before she begins counting, “You always have to be sarcastic or ironic about something,” She lifts up a finger, “You’re always grumpy and kind of an asshole,” She puts up another finger, “You’re so closed off it’s sometimes so hard to talk to you because I have no idea what you’re thinking,” She pauses, ticking off another finger as the edge of her glare starts to fade, “...You never say what you mean. You’re so emotionally constipated and you make a habit of running away. You can’t just admit you like something and you always have to find a roundabout way to-”

During her tirade, Ethan had inched closer to her, slipping out what he had hidden in his back pocket. In one swift motion, he presents it to her, shoving it right under her nose and effectively cutting her off mid-rant.

Nina blinks, staring down at the trinket. A small frog keychain sits in the palm of his hand, the plush material appearing velvety under the beam of the ceiling light.  

“...What?”

His other hand reaches up to scratch the back of his neck as she peers up at him, wide-eyed and confused at the gesture, “I saw it a while ago. I don’t know why I thought of you but I bought it.” He nods at the pin clipped dutifully on her apron, right next to her name tag.

A long stretch of silence envelopes them and Ethan’s not sure what to classify this one. It didn’t feel comfortable nor was it tense like before. The brunette continued to stare at the item in his hand before gingerly, almost shyly taking it into her hands, rolling it a bit between her fingers.

After another long moment, she speaks up, “My brother...always liked frogs,” Voice airy, she keeps her eyes on the plush and continues, “He got sick a lot, and they always made him feel better. So I would always be wearing them and bringing them to him whenever he got sick again.” Nina glances up at him finally and he notices her eyes glistening with emotion.

“He’s alright now, but I guess old habits die hard. I’ve grown attached to frogs myself,” She chuckles.

Ethan watches her, blue eyes lingering on her frame before finding his voice again, “I’m glad your brother is fine now. You’re a wonderful sister.”

Nina remains quiet, eyes still fixed on the gift and Ethan’s not sure why he feels the need to keep going, “I found it in the gift shop at the hospital.”

There’s another pause as Nina freezes again. As the seconds stretch on, Ethan’s worried he overstepped. Maybe don’t tell her that. Preparing to backtrack and excuse himself from this scenario, he readies an apology on his lips, when he’s interrupted by the sound of a snort.          

She’s...laughing?

Bemusement takes over his face as he blinks, watching as the barista starts curling over, laugh growing in intensity and volume. One peek at his face and she’s launched into another fit.  

Nina continues to laugh, her body shaking as the amusement runs through her small frame. Ethan stands there silently, not sure what he should be doing as the barista keeps giggling, hand clutching the keychain tight in her grip.

Finally, after what feels like ages, Nina’s laughter subsides, fixing her posture and settling her gaze on him, something that Ethan can’t define sparkling in her eyes.

A fond sigh leaves her lips as she regards him, “You make it hard to stay mad,” She lets out, voice delicate like a whisper.  

Nina links her hands behind her back, expression happy and radiant, and he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from her. In his daze, he doesn’t notice her moving, approaching quicker than he has time to form a coherent thought.

Nina practically skips towards him, closing the distance between them. Ethan almost reflexively took a step back, the sudden proximity shocking him speechless as he catches the caramel flecks in her eyes, sparkling and utterly captivating.

“So,” Drawing out the one syllable, Nina’s eyes crinkle into those familiar crescent moons, as she lifts herself up on her tiptoes and leans towards him, noses almost touching. Ethan finds himself rooted to the spot, completely at a loss before her as her eyes reflect like stars.  

“Are you gonna ask me on a date or what?”  

Fin.

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