#* they could start something new ! — book : musings.

[loganjameshowlett]

SWALLOWTAIL

01: PRAHA

pairing: joaquín torres/ex-widow!reader summary: sam, bucky, and joaquín find you with a proposal word count: 7.4k+ series masterlist | next installment

The man is unremarkable. 

Slate hair on an expedition away from his forehead, though combed into a respectable style. Grey-blue eyes as murky and opaque as the waters of the Vltava. A long face, sharp chin angled into the upturned collar of his dark jacket. The café is crowded, and he does not strike you as particularly observant, sitting as he is with his eyes on his latte and a yellowed paperback whose cover has been half torn off. Foolish. New to the game, perhaps, though that is hard to picture, given his age. Maybe just new to the field. A desk jockey on his first field assignment. Could be a midlife crisis situation, you muse. Easy money, whatever the case. Laughable. 

But then again, you’d take laughable gratefully after the ringer the last few had put you through. 

He had made his way into the café two hours ago, and was still nursing the same cup of coffee he ordered when he came in. He rarely changed positions, skinny left leg thrown crossed over the right at the knee, elbows decorously kept off the table even as he held his book up in front of his face. He bored you within five minutes of watching him. Within three, you had realized he wouldn’t need very close watching at all, and you allowed yourself the luxury of letting your mind wander away from your mark. The couple at the table to your left was arguing in Czech– he had promised to accompany her on a trip to Sofia to visit her family and was now trying to beg off due to work– and the old man with cute tortoiseshell glasses a few tables in front of you was talking warmly to his grandchildren in gravelly-voiced Italian. The couple argued for the better part of an hour, which, at least,  helped you pass the time. 

When the unremarkable man stands from his unremarkable table inside of this unremarkable café beneath the watchful shadow of Prague Castle, you drain the rest of your mug. The door doesn’t have time to close before you’ve slipped out behind him. The man tracks down the road with his hands in his pocket, and boards a tram headed down the hill and across the river into the heart of Old Town. He sits in the front– you can’t believe your eyes when he hardly glances at the other passengers before sitting down– and you sit in the back, head catty cornered in the curve of the wall in order to watch him and everyone else. 

The Red Room hasn’t caught onto the fact that you’ve made base in Prague, as far as you know. Most of your work you did outside of the city, and largely outside of Czechia altogether. Frankly, it annoyed you that one of theirs was toddling around your city, and such an obvious dunce at that. Though it did make the job easier. Less travel, if nothing else. 

He gets off the tram in Old Town and starts ambling his way toward the Astronomical Clock. Heading towards the most touristy piazza in the city. Obvious, but not a bad move. Would be easier for him to lose a tail there than in most other parts of the city. It also, fortunately for you, made your job a lot easier. 

The Red Room hadn’t entrusted him with any crucial information, obviously. They did this kind of thing sometimes, letting a desk jockey get the taste of the field when they had something menial that needed to get done and didn’t care if the operative got themselves killed. Usually low level information trade offs between Widow handlers, which is exactly what Unremarkable Man is doing in your city. It boiled down to glorified elementary school note passing, essentially. But the coded message he was carrying on a usb hung like dog tags around his neck would tell you where Solenne Rousseau would be carrying out her next mission. And with any luck, you’d be there to intercept and break her conditioning. 

Seven ex-Widows were free to move about the world as they liked, armed with new identities and new lives, because of the work you’d been doing since you became a free agent two years ago. Your extensive knowledge of how the Red Room operated, even if said knowledge is a little dated these days, made your attempts to break Widow brainwashing more successful than other’s; your brief time working with SHIELD before they imploded gave you the skills and connections you needed to spirit the newly freed women away to lives where they can make their own choices and live in relative safety. The work was never done– The Red Room stole and trained up little girls faster than you could blink– but it’s the only worthwhile thing you could think to do with your life. Especially now, free from the Red Room as you are but severed from the only people you had come to trust since your Widow days. 

In the thick of the crowd beneath the astronomical clock, it is easy for you to sidle right up to Unremarkable Man’s back. Your fingers are swift as they unclip the chain around his neck, and you nudge him into the path of a large group of French tourists. Their disgruntled jostling and sidestepping allows you to pull the usb and chain out from beneath his sweater without his noticing. Within seconds, the crowd has swelled between the two of you, taking you out of the range of his sight. In another few seconds, you’re out of the square entirely, taking a meandering route home. It’s a beautiful day after all, unseasonably warm for early spring, and with the day’s one task being such a cinch, you had a stretch of languid time to actually enjoy it. 

You rent a two-room flat in Prague 2, close enough to your favorite part of the city, Old Town, without having to deal with the worst of the thronging tourists. The street is cobbled and tree-lined, and the building a pleasantly bright, white-painted limestone. Kids fill it with laughter and shouting on their way home from school every day, and your windows get full sun. You’ve spent the last six months trying to convince your mind to see the place as home after more than fifteen years without one, but you’re starting to think that home might be a concept too alien for you to comprehend. 

You are six blocks away from your building when things start to feel wrong. 

A prickle on the back of your neck, the unmistakable feeling of someone watching you. The street was just busy enough to mask anyone obviously following you at a quick glance, and looking about any more thoroughly than that would tip off any pursuers that you were onto them, so no can do. Maintaining a leisurely pace, you take a left, moving away from your building and towards a shopping street that you know is always crowded. 

You’ve considered this scenario before, of course. Being who you are, it was only a matter of time before someone came after you. You try to keep on the move, lay low, continuously update your cache of false documents. The mistake you made was deciding that you could stay in Prague just because you like it. Just because it felt like a place you could one day think of as your own. Even rookies know that staying put might as well be a death sentence. Is it the Red Room closing in on you now? Somebody you went after in your SHIELD days? 

The possibilities twist through your mind in a tumult as you use the crowd for cover from your pursuer. You slip into a deli that you know has a back exit, emptying into a wide alley inhabited by dumpsters and questionable puddles. You meld into the shadows at the back of the alley just in time for the door you just came out of to bang open once again. Three men pour out onto the cobblestones, taking a few steps before realizing that the freedom of direction once leaving the alley would make their mark impossible to follow now. 

It takes a second for you to place the taller two, but once you do, you sigh, hand dropping from the gun holstered beneath your jacket. 

“What the hell do you two think you’re doing?” you ask, stepping forward and crossing your arms over your chest. All three men whip around to face you. The dark-haired one all the way to the left hisses out a shit, hand coming up to his heart. 

“Good to see you, too,” Sam Wilson says, your name warm and bright from his mouth. You scowl. 

“Wilson. Barnes. Did you come all the way to Europe just to stalk me through my neighborhood?” You ask, leveling a decidedly unimpressed stare at the pair of them, and the wide-eyed kid they seemed to have acquired since the last time you saw them. 

“We need to talk,” Bucky says, face and voice serious. You’ve always appreciated his ability to cut right to the chase. “And not in this alley.” 

You have known Sam and Bucky to historically get into some bullshit, but you also know they wouldn’t have come all the way to Czechia if it wasn’t dire. It’s probably something you don’t want to hear. Something that will distract you from your own work, almost assuredly. Unfortunately, they are also two of the only people you still currently trust on Earth, and for that they deserve an audience, if nothing else. 

“Fine,” you decide. “Come on.” 

—

Your flat is the most airtight place you could take them to talk, but that’s not saying much. You sweep it regularly, of course: no bugs, no cameras. You looked into all of your neighbors when you moved in, and you do as extensive a dive as you can into each person that moves in after you. Still, it’s an old Central European apartment building. The walls are thin, and anyway, you’re only one person. Thorough as you are, there’s always the chance that you missed something. 

But there isn’t a better alternative, so you herd the three men up four flights of stairs and into your tiny apartment. The tall ceilings help to accommodate them, but even so, you feel kind of squished. You’ve never had so many people in here before. You’ve never had anyone in here before. 

“This the kid wearing your old wings?” you ask Sam, gesturing at Brown Eyes, who had immediately begun pacing the limited floor space upon entering your apartment, clearly brimming with unshed energy. His steps falter with your question, and he casts a startled kind of glance over at Sam. 

“You keeping tabs on me?” Sam asks, voice sly. 

“You’re Captain fucking America, Sam. I’d have to work harder to not know what you’re up to.”

“That’s Joaquín Torres, and yes, he does wear the wings now,” Sam says. 

“Nice to meet you,” Joaquín says brightly, extending a hand. You glance down at it and then back up to his face, before relenting to one curt shake. “I don’t just wear the wings, I’m the new Falcon.”

“No, you’re not,” Sam interjects. 

You tell Joaquín your name, trying out the whole polite, small talk thing he seems pretty eager to partake in. “They call me Swallowtail in the field.” 

It was a name Maria Hill had given you, after breaking your Red Room conditioning and taking you under her wing at SHIELD, however briefly. You wear it with a pride not reserved for many other things. 

“Oh, shit, you’re Swallowtail?” Joaquín asks, eyes widening. “The ops you did with Agent Hill are legendary, dude. It’s an honor.” 

Your eyes narrow at him as you try to assess, for about the half-dozenth time since he busted into the alley, what his deal is. Giving up the ghost, you set your sights on Bucky instead. “What are you doing here?” 

“We need your help,” he says, and the gravity of his tone stops the first response that comes to your head from actually leaving your mouth. They deserved to at least have you hear them out, you had decided. You’ll follow through on that, even if you are already bursting to just say no and be done with it.

“A piece of modified Stark technology resurfaced a few days ago,” Sam starts in. “The Aetos Device. Heard of it?”

When you shake your head in the negative, he carries on. “Stark thought it up during the very early Iron Man days. It’s a power nullifier– disrupts essentially any kind of power, from Hulk’s gamma radiation situation, to newly-awakened Inhuman genes, to every kind of mutation a mutant could be born with. In the end, Tony never built it– too much like playing God even for him, I guess– but the schematics were recently discovered to be among several dozen stolen by HYDRA during their infiltration of SHIELD.”

“Two nights ago, a teenage mutant was killed with the device as part of a demonstration for prospective buyers,” Bucky cuts in. “His mutation was too essential to the basic workings of his biology, so it didn’t just depower him– it murdered him. Slowly and painfully. They watched as he suffered a deadly heart attack in front of them.”

Your chest constricts at the thought. The ability to depower any superhero at any time is enough to bring the world to a halt, or give Hydra the upper hand they would need to take over the world, or whatever it is they want to do these days. But the effect the device had on this mutant? Hydra could deploy a mutant genocide at any time. 

“The three of you are hunting it down?” you ask, surfacing from your thoughts. 

“Hoping it’ll be the four of us,” Sam answers. “None of us have powers, which gives us an advantage. They can’t take our skill sets away– it has to be us. You have the most active connections and up-to-date intel on the happenings in Europe, too, which we’ll need. My source tracked someone useful to us right here, in Prague.” 

“You know I don’t do teams, Sam.”

“Seems like a waste,” Joaquín says pointedly. His body language– arms crossed over his chest, chin dipped so he’s looking down his nose at you– makes you want to squirm. You know what he’s thinking, and he’d be right: no hero like the ones he’s used to would do anything in this situation except climb aboard right away. To do anything else would be selfish. 

“We know how you feel about teams,” Sam cedes. 

“So, then–” you start, but Bucky cuts you off. 

“You trusted us before. Helped us out of more than a few binds when we were on the run. It wasn’t that long ago that we had each other’s backs. Seems kind of like a team, doesn’t it?” 

“I could’ve left you idiots to fend for yourselves,” you say, feeling defensive. 

“But you didn’t,” Sam responds, like you’re making his point for him. “And being a member of a team didn’t kill you then, did it?”

A beat of silence as you glare at each of them in turn, thinking. 

“I think you wanna help,” Sam declares. 

“Oh yeah, seems like historically you do wanna help,” Joaquín tacks on. 

“Fine,” you say, stepping towards Sam and jabbing your pointer finger at him. “One mission. Then I go back to what I’ve been doing here.” 

“One mission,” Sam echoes, looking at you with that stupid smile on his face. 

— 

It only took about ten more minutes to decide that you wanted to punch Sam Wilson in the head. 

Your simple question of what next? was met with the admission that the intel they were working with and the safehouse they were working out of were both courtesy of Contessa de Fontaine. Not exactly the most trustworthy fucking person to rely on for information or safety of any kind, no matter what excuses came out of Sam’s mouth. 

“I am well aware of the Contessa’s past. I don’t even trust her as far as I can throw her, believe me, but her intel hasn’t led us astray once,” Sam defends. The angrier you look, the less able to stop talking he seems to be. Good, you’d like to sit here and see how he tries to talk himself out of this one. 

“You’ve relied on her intel how many times?” you ask. Bucky shoots you a stern look in the rearview mirror of the car they had led you to once you agreed to join up, like he’s asking you to let up a little on Sam. Not a fucking chance. 

“A few! It’s been accurate every time. There’s no reason to think this time would be different.” 

“It’s fucking stupid is what it is,” you mutter. Outside the tinted window, the crowded streets of red-roofed buildings thin into newer, sadder looking apartment blocks. Prague holds more charm than it knows what to do with usually, but sometimes this sad, Soviet remnant peaks through in communist architecture, or a certain feeling tied to a sparse, gray-skied winter day. Despite the sun, you’re feeling grim. 

Joaquín shifts from the other side of the back seat, scooting forward and reaching over the console to turn the radio on, twirling the volume knob until some obnoxious slavic pop song fills the taut silence. He offers a sheepish smile and a shrug in return to the look you shoot him as he settles back into his seat. 

Guess we’re done talking about that, then. 

The safehouse is in a largely derelict apartment building on the outskirts of the city, close, Bucky tells you, to the private airstrip where things will be going down later in the night. The plan seems pretty simple: Jan Novotny, a pretty well-known black market arms dealer, is meeting a mysterious buyer who the Contessa claims has information on the Aetos Device. Apparently Joaquín is some kind of tech genius, and all the four of you need to do is get into the hangar, incapacitate the mysterious buyer’s guards long enough to copy shit over from his drive, and get out. With any luck, the guy will have the Aetos Device’s location stored somewhere on his drive, and the rest of the mission will be as straightforward as going and getting it. 

“Seems like a longshot,” you say, when they finish explaining the plan. Your voice echoes in the apartment, which is mostly empty except for a table strewn with various supplies and a makeshift tech center you assume is for Joaquín set up haphazardly in the corner. 

“Maybe, but we don’t have anything better,” Bucky says. “The guy’s not gonna have the device on him. Getting the intel like this is our most pain-free option, and will hopefully let us continue flying under the radar for a little while longer.”

“Right,” you nod. “Then we better make sure to stay under the radar tonight. If they realize we’re on them it might spook them into changing their plans and moving the device faster.” 

“Why do I feel like you’re saying that because you don’t think we can manage incognito?” Sam asks. 

You raise an eyebrow, looking at him and Bucky in turn. “I remember Linz. And Basel. Do you?” 

“Touché,” Sam cedes. “We have a few hours to kill until we can gear up and get going.”

“I want the–” Before you can finish your sentence, Bucky is already thrusting a manila folder, the edges dotted with silver paper clips, toward you. You take it with a thank you, flipping it open immediately. The intel is sparse, only a dozen papers inside at most. A few CCTV stills printed on glossy paper are paper clipped to the front of the folder, and a rundown on Novotny complete with a mugshot of his long, scar-pocked face waits for you at the top of the pile. Glancing up, you spot a dingy plastic chair shoved haphazardly against the wall near the tech set up, and you cross the room in a few quick strides, planting yourself on the seat. You’re hoping to commit most of this stuff to memory before you get out in the field. 

A few minutes later, Joaquín settles down in front of the field laptop and turns it on. The screen’s glow is the brightest thing in the dank apartment, and washes the plains of his face in pale blue. Every couple of minutes or so, you feel his eyes shift from the screen to you, lingering a few moments before turning back to whatever he is tapping away at. The fifth time he does this, you look up and meet his eyes. He freezes for a moment before glancing back at his screen, that same sheepish smile from the car spreading across his face. In the screen glow, you can just barely see the heat in his cheeks. 

A few minutes later, Joaquín seems to finish whatever he was doing on the computer. Across the room, Sam and Bucky are bickering about something while Bucky cleans a gun and Sam leisurely packs things from the table into a compact duffel bag. Joaquín’s hands go to his lap, his right foot tapping rhythmically on the floor. His fidgety energy has your hackles up for no good reason. 

“What was it like, working with Maria Hill?” Joaquín asks suddenly. You glance up at his face– open and expectant– before glancing down at the page you are in the middle of reading, and then back up at him again. His brown eyes seem to literally be sparkling despite the lack of real light in the room. 

You apparently sit silently for too long, because Joaquín presses onward. “I mean, she’s like, mythological. Is she really that much of a badass?” 

“I doubt that the things you’ve heard even come close to the truth of Agent Hill,” you tell him, before pointedly returning your eyes to the intel in your hands. 

“Cool,” Joaquín says, voice colored by genuine awe. You can feel him wanting to ask more questions, but your eyes stay studiously on the folder in front of you. Eventually he gives up, standing and joining Bucky and Sam over by the gear. 

When you finish reading, you snap the folder shut and stand, joining the rest of them. You hand it back to Bucky, who, in turn, hands you a pistol with a silencer affixed to the muzzle. You nod to him, grabbing a thigh holster from the mess of things on the table. 

The boys are loud as they gear up for the mission, banter coming easily and non-stop between them. You stand to the side, fastening the pistol holster over your clothes and checking that your throwing knives are all present and accounted for. You observe them as you do this: the way Joaquín manages to pull a small smile out of Bucky, the casual, affectionate touches Bucky and Sam share. Sam ruffles Joaquín’s hair, and Joaquín elbows him toothlessly in the stomach in return. It all feels… well, kind of foreign to you. Maria was the best mentor you could have asked for and you wouldn’t change a thing about your time with her, but, like her mentor before her, she was always rather distant. Eyes on the mission, always. It’s the reason she was so good at her job, but it didn’t make much room for bonding moments between the two of you. Not that you were ever trying to bridge that gap. The only social skills the Red Room ever taught you were the fraudulent kind, meant to snare marks and do little else. The trio seem to catch onto your uneasiness, because they don’t try to touch you or tease you or fold you into their easy rapport. Fastening the pistol into its holster, you steadfastly ignore the part of you that wishes they would. 

— 

The airstrip is small, just a hangar with a couple small planes parked on the tarmac and a singular runway. It’s nestled within a group of fields still halfway dry and winter-yellow. The city lights wink along the horizon, all the warmth Prague has to offer out of reach. The group of you had walked two miles in the dark from the safehouse to get here, a feat that was much easier for Bucky and yourself than it was for Sam and Joaquín, burdened by the Captain and Falcon suits as they are. Joaquín had spent the entire walk complaining about how heavy the wing pack got after five minutes of wearing it, and Sam had begun threatening to relieve him of his duties before the apartment building was even out of sight. 

“Okay, you two need to shut up now,” you say, voice low as you turn to face them in the dark. “Sam, you’re hanging back in the treeline, ready to provide aerial support if we need it. Buck, you’re scouting ahead so we know what to expect. The buyer’s plane is the only black one on the tarmac, and lucky for us, it looks to be parked farther away from the mouth of the hangar. Joaquín and I should be able to get in with minimal fuss and get in and out with the intel. We clear?” 

“Yes ma’am,” Joaquín says, and you roll your eyes. 

“Don’t get yourselves killed,” Sam says, already walking backwards toward the seam where field meets forest. 

“Bucky’ll make sure we don’t,” you assure Sam. “I intend to put that metal arm to good use.” Sam laughs, and turns his back on the three of you, moving to assume position. Bucky heads toward the hangar next, while you and Joaquín hang back, waiting to hear what to expect. 

Next to you, Joaquín rocks steadily from heels to toes, orange visor alternating between catching his face in the moonlight and hiding it in the shadows. When he catches you staring he cocks his head to the side, observing you right back. 

“Jus’ a little nervous. Aren’t you?” he asks. 

“I am not,” you reply, sweeping your gaze back toward the airstrip. 

“Come on, everyone gets nervous,” Joaquín insists. 

“The last time I was nervous before a mission, Mother locked me in solitary confinement for three days as punishment for my hesitation. I don’t get nervous anymore,” you tell him. Before he can reply, Bucky’s voice crackles to life in your earpiece, alerting the two of you that there are two guards stationed within and directly outside of the buyer’s plane. You nod and immediately start heading for the airstrip, but you can feel Joaquín’s eyes on you all the while. 

Only about half of the lights seem to be on in the hangar and on the tarmac, casting the whole business half in shadow. A smallish group of people cluster within the hanger– you assume it’s where the deal is going down. Large, imposing men with larger guns loosely clutched in their hands mill about between the planes. It is immediately clear to you that the present company does not expect any surprises, and the guns and guards are more about showing off might than anything else. 

You move forward, quick and silent in the dark, trusting that Joaquín will be behind you. He makes more noise than you, what with the wing pack, but not enough to get you into trouble. You dodge through the shadows until you are within a few dozen feet of the black plane. At this point you stop and pull Joaquín down with you behind a stack of crates. You need to observe the buyer’s guards for a few moments, get your bearings with who they are and what to expect before you jump in. 

Beside you, Joaquín is watching you again. You kind of respect that he doesn’t try to hide his curious observations, and strangely, having his eyes on you is already starting to feel run of the mill. 

“You always look at people like you’re trying to decide whether to disappear or stick a knife in their ribs,” he voices, though the words are pitched low enough you know that nobody else will hear him. 

Because I am. “Guess which one I’m thinking when I look at you,” you mutter, but the words lack any real bite. 

He grins. “You’ll warm up to me.” 

“Maybe if you don’t kill us first with the yapping on the job,” you respond, turning around to shoot a glare in his direction. Really, all the talking is bad form. You assume Joaquín is more used to being up in the air with Sam these days than pulling any kind of stealth on the ground. 

The two men stationed at the bottom of the plane’s stairs are more fat than muscle– all you and Joaquín will need to do is come up behind them and administer a handy little nerve pinch. They’ll be down for the count long enough for you to get in and get out, and quietly, too. You hope. You can’t get a good look at the pair inside the plane, but you should be able to use surprise and the close quarters to your advantage. You share as much with Joaquín. 

“Dibs on the baldy,” Joaquín says, and that’s that. You glance back at him once more to make sure he’s ready, before melting backwards into the shadows at the edges of the tarmac. You take the long way around the plane, ducking beneath the smooth cylinder of its body until you are directly behind the pair of guards. Quick as a cat, you reach around him and pinch his ulnar nerve, hard. As he goes down, you grab his gun before it can clatter to the asphalt. Joaquín’s bald man drops to the ground a moment later, Joaquín nearly tripping on the man’s legs as he struggles to yank up the gun before it can make any noise. When he catches your unimpressed face, he sends you a wordless thumbs-up. 

You mount the short flight of stairs up into the private jet first, pausing a few steps up until Joaquín is right behind you. You can see a shadow moving in the light of the cabin, indicating a guard on your left hand side, but you can’t see where the other one is. You pause for a moment, waiting to see if the other guard telegraphs their location, but you’re not lucky enough for that. 

“Go left. I got your six,”Joaquín says, voice a low murmur over your shoulder. You nod once and resume your ascent. It’s nice, you suppose– you might be going in half blind, but you’re not alone this time. Not like you usually are. And goofy as he is, your gut has been telling you that you can trust him basically since you met him. No better time than the present to test out if the feeling’s right or not. 

You move quickly once you get to the doorway: the first guard is seemingly on his way to the seats further down the cabin when he comes face-to-face with you. Shock flits across his features, but before he can do anything more, you grab the long body of his gun and ram the butt into the underside of his jaw, hard. Stunned, he takes a faltering step back, and you take the opportunity of his janky equilibrium to grab the gun and use it to spin him around. Once he’s facing away from you, disoriented, it’s easy to pull the gun up against his throat with both hands and choke him out. He drops like a sack of potatoes. 

You didn’t see the second guard standing at the bar behind him until he dropped, and by the time you have eyes on him, he has his gun trained on you. There’s no time to think, and muscle memory moves your dominant hand to your shoulder sheath. A second later, your throwing knife finds its mark in the hollow of the guy’s throat, and he goes down. You sigh and move further into the cabin, stepping over the incapacitated one to dislodge your knife from the dying man’s throat. You wipe his blood off the blade on the fabric of his pants and resheath it. 

When you turn around, Joaquín is looking at you, mouth slightly agape behind that stupid orange visor. And there you go again, hackles back up like you have something to prove. When he trains his gaze on you like this, you find that it feels like he’s looking inside of you, at all the blood-soaked bits hidden away in the dark. 

“He would have shot me,” you say sharply, feeling bizarrely desperate to explain and pissed that you’re explaining anything all at once. 

Joaquín holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “That was so badass,” he says, and there’s something like awe in his voice.

“Can you go do what you need to do so we can get out of here before I have to kill anyone else?” you ask, gesturing behind him. There’s an expensive looking laptop on one of the plush seats that you’re sure must be the buyers. 

“Oh! Right, yeah,” Joaquín nods. He turns from you and heads down the aisle, dropping into one of the seats and opening the laptop, before producing a small drive from somewhere in his suit and jabbing it into one of the laptop’s side ports. You glance out one of the small windows: from what you can see, things still seem business as usual over by the hangar. For the moment, at least. But you can feel the clock ticking. 

“How long is this going to take?” you ask, turning back to the cabin’s interior and taking a couple steps toward Joaquín. 

“Not too long, if– yes, there we go,” he mutters, more to himself than you as his fingers clatter across the keyboard. He pauses to turn his face up and shoot you a teasing smirk that is far too reminiscent of Sam’s. “Would go faster if you don’t ask questions, though.” 

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest and turning away from him to keep an eye on the door. 

Half a minute later, your comm unit crackles to life in your ear, and Sam’s voice comes ringing through. “Shit, guys, you got company. Coming in from the west.” 

“I have eyes on ‘em– they’re comin’ in hot, we gotta get out of here now,” Bucky responds, voice grim and urgent. You turn around in time to see Joaquín pulling the usb from the laptop and secreting it back into his suit. 

“I got what we came for,” he says into his comm. “Swallowtail and I are out. Heading for the rendezvous point.”

With confirmation that the job is done, you pick your way back to the door. Before you can even glance outside, you hear rapid gunfire far too close for comfort. You veer to the side of the door and opt for looking out windows on either side of the plane first, trying to get your bearings. 

“I see at least ten or twelve of them moving toward the hangar. Machine guns, all of ‘em,” you report to Joaquín. 

His face is grimmer than you’ve ever seen it. “We’re gonna have to make a run for it. Once we’re far enough, I can fly us out without getting us both shot down and killed.”

“Hang on–” you start, but Joaquín is already in the doorway and counting down from five. You get behind him, ready for the two of you to stay close and move fast. 

Down on the tarmac, gunfire lights up the night. All of the guards who had previously been milling around the planes are gone, running to the chaos near the hangar. Good for the two of you– should make slipping away a little easier. You’re a little more reckless this time around, Joaquín foregoing the shadows you had traveled through previously for a more straightforward path. All you need to do is get to the treeline at the edge of the tarmac; the rendezvous point is a little further into the woods, but it will be a lot harder for any of these goons to follow you or shoot you through the darkness of the nighttime forest. 

But to get there, you first have to pass by the heart of the fighting. 

If you have any luck, everything going on will be too much for anyone to notice the two of you fleeing. But there’s a lot of guys on the field, and Joaquín isn’t exactly dressed in an incognito way. 

You’re almost there when a man shouts something in Czech. You only half catch it through the other noise, but you’re sure he’s talking about the two of you, calling attention to your escape. You turn to look behind you even as you keep running: there’s a black-suited man with a machine gun bounding down the steps of a private jet far closer to the two of you than the rest of the fighting. Within shooting range. 

Time slows as you watch the man turn the machine gun on the pair of you. You’ve done a lot of death-defying things in the past, a lot of turning up broken but breathing when you should be six feet under, but you’re out in the wide open with a machine gun pointed at you fifty feet away. In the stretched out fraction of a second, you think you should start trying to accept death before you meet it. 

The machine gun starts shooting. You scrunch your eyes closed, not even able to find it within yourself to hate the cowardice of not meeting your death in the eye. But no bullets find your flesh. Dazed from the adrenaline and confused by the fact that you’re still alive, you crack your eyes open and are met with a slate of gray in front of you instead of the tarmac. It takes a second for you to realize that it’s one of Joaquín’s wings, slammed down and embedded in the asphalt, the only thing standing between yourself and gruesome death. 

Joaquín’s face is inches away from your own when you turn around, pale and drawn, his brown eyes wide. You’re both breathing heavily, and one of Joaquín’s arms is curled protectively around you, making sure to keep you behind the shield of his wing. 

“Hold onto me and do not let go,” he instructs, his voice clearer and more commanding than it’s been all day. You comply wordlessly, locking your arms around his neck and ducking your head to his shoulder. You can feel the quick but steady thread of his pulse where your temple is pressed against the hot skin of his neck. As soon as both of his arms are fastened securely around your waist, he turns away from the gunfight and launches you into the air. 

The feeling of sudden weightlessness sends your stomach into your throat and you cling tighter to Joaquín, eyes shut tightly against the frigid rush of the wind. Considering you haven’t been shot out of the air already, you have to assume Joaquín has taken you way high, way fast. You don’t actually want to know how true that is, so you opt to keep your eyes shut. 

“We’re good, okay?” Joaquín’s voice comes in crisply through your earpiece despite the strength of the wind. “I got you.”

You nod against his neck, feeling a little frantic. The flying thing right after the almost being shot to death thing was doing a lot for your complete discombobulation. 

“Sam, we’re coming into the rendezvous site aerially. Thirty seconds out,” Joaquín says into the comms. You hear Sam’s voice come through, but you don’t catch what he sees with how intensely you’re focusing on not throwing up on the Falcon suit. Despite all your training, sudden, violent movements have never exactly agreed with your composition. 

As promised, roughly thirty seconds later you feel a dip that must indicate Joaquín is descending. The actual landing is much gentler than you expect; Joaquín takes the brunt of it before setting you on your own feet. You take a reflective step back from once your feet touch the ground, but being not entirely oriented, you stumble a half step. Joaquín’s hands tighten on your waist for a moment, making sure you can remain steady on your own before he withdraws. 

“You good?” he asks. 

“Yeah. Thank you for that,” you nod, finally starting to feel normal again now that you’re out of the air. 

“You two alright?” Bucky asks, emerging through the trees to the right of you. You can see the brighter colors of Sam’s suit a few paces behind him. 

You nod again. “Joaquín saved both our asses. We’re okay.” 

“Attaboy,” Sam says, clearly trying to lighten the mood after such a near-miss, but the relief on his face is palpable. 

“Just all in a day’s work for the Falcon, am I right?” he asks Sam, who rolls his eyes. 

“Don’t push your luck, Torres.”

You’re all in for quite the walk back to the safehouse, the roundabout, forested route about twice as long as the one you took to get to the airstrip. It’s worth it to make sure none of the machine gun-toting goons are able to track you back, but the adrenaline crash after almost dying makes it tough. Sam leads the way and Bucky brings up the rear, with you and Joaquín trudging along in the middle of the formation. The silence between all of you is taut but not tense, as you listen for any signs of pursuit amidst the bucolic noises of the spring night. After a mile or so, you’re pretty sure the four of you are in the clear. 

“So, the throwing knives,” Joaquín says, the first words spoken for over twenty minutes. “They’re your ‘thing’?”

“I’m trained expertly in over two dozen forms of weapons,” you inform him. 

“Yeah, but you had the knives on you today before we even found you. They’re totally your favorite.” 

You shrug. “They’re easy to conceal and cheap to replace.”

“Good reasons for favoritism,” Joaquín nods sagely. He has taken his helmet off, and the damp waves of his dark hair catch and reflect the bright moonlight. Surprisingly, Joaquín’s idle chatter seems to immediately work on subduing your post-near-death experience anxiety. Usually, you’d sooner knock someone out cold and drag them back to the safehouse than endure all this conversation. The response raises all kinds of red flags in your brain. 

— 

It’s well into the night by the time you finally reach the safehouse. Joaquín looks like he could drop where he stands, which doesn’t stop Sam from putting him to work straight away. 

“Start running that information through our filters now. We need the device’s location,” Sam commands him. Joaquín lets out a tired sigh, but nods nonetheless. He frees himself from the wing pack, dropping it and his helmet on the table in the center of the room before settling down in front of his tech station. As he begins to work, Sam and Bucky start shedding gear on the table and methodically packing it into duffel bags. You opt to keep your throwing knives, of course– they essentially never leave your person– and the pistol Bucky had given you earlier in the day. 

“Got it!” Joaquín says, then cows himself as if shocked by his own volume. “Vienna. The device and its schematics were last tracked to Vienna, but it’s not there anymore. There’s details of a deal that went down less than forty-eight hours ago. A man by the name of Anton Babjak is identified as the buyer.”

“Babjak,” you mutter, gathering the name in your thoughts. “He’s known as the Bobcat in darker circles. He was an assassin back in the day, but he’s been operating solely as an arms dealer since I joined with SHIELD, as far as I know.”

“We need to figure out his next move,” Sam says, face serious as you’ve ever seen it. 

“I know someone who can help. We need to go to Madripoor,” you announce.

[shycoconutt]

Life changed a lot after Nanami Kento came into it.

Nights alone in your apartment feasting on cup ramen with microwaved broccoli (for your health obviously), turned into homemade dinners under candlelight. The long ride to work in the back of an Uber turned into riding in the passenger seat of Nanami’s luxury car, hands intertwined over the middle console. Quick showers turned into long, steaming baths with essential oils. Winding down from a long day turned from nights out at the bar to nights in under the covers while he softly reads to you.

“Darling, hey, wake up,” you hear Nanami whisper in your ear as you feel your shoulders shake lightly. You groan in protest, not wanting to be broken away from the warmth and smell of him all around you.

“I know, I know,” he softly chuckles, “but we need to get ready for bed properly.”

You nuzzle into his side more and wrap your arms around him. Squeezing him slightly, you take one long, dramatic inhale of his scent in the crook of his neck, fluttering your eyelashes to give him butterfly kisses.

“What are you doing?,” he laughs, “It tickles!”

“Just taking some for the road,” you smile into his skin.

“You’re such a dork.”

With Nanami, everything always seems to be taken care of. There is no need to over-extend your brain power, because once a thought or worry passes through, you know it’s been meticulously mulled over by your other half.

Your appointments are scheduled and on the calendar. Your laundry is clean and neatly put away in the proper place. Your memories and photos are filed and categorized, with some of your favorites even framed and displayed in your home and offices. Your books, CDs and other media are sorted alphabetically in pristine condition.

“But wouldn’t it be cool if they were categorized by, I dunno, color? We could make a rainbow wall!” you suggest as you marvel at his work.

Nanami, who is currently kneeling on the floor putting the last of your books on the shelf, turns and gives you a disapproving glare, “Absolutely not. It would be a disservice to your collection.”

“A disservice to my collection?”

“What happens when a series contains books of all different colored covers? Am I supposed to just separate them?”

You blink.

“You’re right. I apologize for even suggesting something so foul.”

But, most importantly, over everything, your body, mind, and soul are finally at ease. Past anxieties rarely present themselves anymore, and, if they do, you never dwell. People say you’re glowing, and they aren’t wrong. Your skin is clear, your hair is shiny and smooth. Your favorite clothes fit a little better, and your shoes are always polished to look brand new.

“Nananmi Kento looks good on you, girl,” Shoko muses, watching you over her lunch in the breakroom.

You smirk, daring not to look across the table to conserve your blush, “Feels good too.”

“Gross!” 

You curl over in laughter as Shoko chucks a strawberry at your head.

All this and more, because Nanami cares, protects, cherishes, and respects you. He would never, ever in a million years try to hurt you in any way. He is honest and loyal, vowed by his duty to be a man. Ever since he was young, he put immense thought into its meaning, only to be confirmed by one look at you.

One look and he knew that you were the one he would spend the rest of his life with.

“I think I should take you out on a date, if you don’t mind of course,” Nanami stutters, gently pulling you aside after one of your meetings.

“You think we should date?” you question, head reeling.

“Yes,” he starts, “I think we’ve been friends for long enough and it’s time to move forward with our relationship.”

The disbelief you feel must be painted on your face because Nanami’s normally pale skin is flushed cherry red just looking at you.

“I mean, long term,” he’s babbling now, “I want to make you my wife. Well, I wanted you to be my wife from the beginning, you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, but they always say the best relationships start from friendships, so I thought it would be best to take our time. Naturally, now is as good a time as any. We’re at good places in our careers, we already spend a lot of time together, our personalities mesh, and, I don’t mean to be coarse, but I think we’d look pretty good tog-"

Before your mind has a chance to catch up, you’re already cutting him off with a passionate kiss, arms wrapping around his neck to pull him down close to you. After a beat, you feel Nanami’s broad, warm hands grab hold around your waist, pulling you to him. 

His lips feel so soft, and more plush than you anticipated. You part yours slightly in an invitation, and he’s quick to swipe his tongue against your bottom lip. You reciprocate and smile when you feel the vibrations of a small moan escape him.

You break the kiss first.

“I’d marry you yesterday if I could, Kento.”

Where he ebbs, you flow. With the few traits he lacks, you flourish. In social settings, you pick up when he doesn’t have the bandwidth to keep going. You can read his mind from his body language alone. You've shown him how to aim for the ideal, even when his pragmatic nature leads the way. You’ve taught him to slow down, even when life is relentlessly shoving him along.

“Kento, are you- are you crying?” you question in shock.

It’s difficult to process the information in front of you. You’re not seeing things, right? That’s definitely a tear falling down his cheek. Quickly, you bring your thumb to his face, swiping it away.

Catching your wrist, he brings your pulse point to his lips, giving you a small kiss there.

Here, feet in the white sand of the island of Redang, under the dark, starry sky, Kento goes down to kneel before you.

Recognizing the gesture, your heart swells and all the air leaves your lungs. Both your hands immediately cover your mouth, and the burn of tears forming ignites behind your eyes.

Through the blur, you see him smile. 

Regaining composure over your senses, you remind yourself to take everything in. The way his honey-brown eyes reflect the lights in the distance, the way his open collar ruffles in the breeze, the appearance of the new freckles from the Malaysian sun that decorate his exposed chest, how his unstyled, blonde hair moves freely, how one of his hands takes both of your own, while the other holds out a breathtakingly beautiful solitaire diamond ring.

Your eyes take him all in and land back on his face, one that displays the most loving, adoring expression you’ve ever received. 

“When you came into my life, everything changed. I knew, from that point forward, I would dedicate my existence to ensuring your happiness. Nothing matters to me more than seeing you smile. It gives me purpose—fills the air in my lungs. I have never, and will never need anything more.”

You watch the tears cascade down his cheeks, mirroring your own.

“Please do me the honor of marrying me and making you my wife.”

One second passes, and you squeal, “Yes!”

a/n: This was supposed to be smutty and turned into something fluffy. I can't help it! I just adore him so much. also, how do we feel about this format? I've never done something like this before!

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One Two

Fish guy is actually pretty much the same height as Steve when they’re sitting next to each other on the edge of the pool. Steve finally gave in, the heat of the day getting too much, and is trailing his feet in the water – fish guy doesn’t seem to care, but Steve still made sure to shower before he came out here. Next to Steve’s feet, the flat point of fish guys tail is also swirling in the water.

Fish guy loves pears. Steve’s sure they’re his new absolute favorite thing, and Steve’s watched him demolish six, cores and stalks and all, one right after the other.

He’s licking sticky juice from his fingers. Steve can’t see his eyes behind the shades; but he’s certain fish guy is watching him. Probably waiting to see if Steve will produce more food; fish guy has developed a hearty appetite, and he hasn’t put on much weight yet, but he’s not exactly what Steve would call emaciated either. A little over a week of regular food is obviously helping.

“Okay,” Steve sips on his beer, the points to himself, “Steve.”

“Steeee,” fish guy readily replies, nodding. Steve has no idea how or when he picked up the nodding and head shaking, but he uses both correctly, as far as Steve can tell, so Steve doesn’t argue.

Steve points at fish guy. Nothing, then a curious head tilt.

Steve’s starting to come to the conclusion that maybe fish guy just doesn’t have a name. Which, okay, Steve can kind of see that. He vaguely wonders if fish guy has any family; if he’d even want to go back to the Upside Down.

“Right. Should probably name you something vaguely fish related, no? Should we stay on brand?” Fish guy cocks his head the other way, like a bird. They’ve been sat here long enough that the sun has started to dry the ropey mess of hair that fish guy has; it gone kind of curly now, pinging up as it dries.

Steve really wants to comb it out, but he has no idea how fish guy will react; they’ve only just made it to sitting next to each other. Steve’s vaguely aware that combing someone else's hair is a bit...familiar, but he figures fish guy is kind of in his care or whatever.

Maybe they could build up to it.

“Fish,” Steve muses vaguely to himself, “fishing? Scales? Tails? Fishing, fisher? Fisher, Eddie, Eddie Fisher, that singer guy Mom really likes. What do you think, how does Eddie sound? Good as anything, right?”

Steve has no idea what’s going on behind the sunglasses, but fish guys head keeps cocking curiously to the side. Steve points to himself, “Steve.”

Fish guy, replies, “Steeee,” as expected, nodding.

Steve points to fish guy, and says, ��Eddie.”

Fish guy points to himself cautiously, and quietly volunteers, “Edidie?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says, nodding, “near enough, man. Eddie. Sounds good.”

“Good,” Eddie replies, startling Steve a bit because it’s clear as a bell.

“That’s right, good. Eddie.”

Eddie, very slowly so Steve can clearly see what he’s doing, reaches for Steve’s beer bottle. Steve’s instinct is to take it away, what if it’s poisonous or something? But then he figures Eddie’s been pretty clear about rejecting stuff so far if he doesn’t want it; plus he lived in the Upside Down for, presumably, years. If he can survive in a toxic environment like that, then surely a sip of beer won’t hurt him.

Eddie’s funny as he lifts it, sniffing cautiously before he works out the mechanics of fitting his lips around the neck of the bottle. He drinks. Seems to ponder it for a moment, and then drinks again, giving the bottle a mournful little shake when he realizes it’s empty. There wasn’t much left anyway; Steve figures he’ll be okay.

“Good,” Eddie says as he hands the bottle back, “inied.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, “finished.”

“Why do you think he doesn’t have any gills?”

“You are definitely asking the wrong person here Robs,” Steve scatters another handful of peas into the water, watching as Eddie bobs along, collecting them one at a time and popping them into his mouth, “ask Dustin. He’ll produce a book. There’s literally always a book.”

“I don’t want to ask Dustin, he’ll actually try and explain it to me...I’d rather speculate emptily.”

“You do love a bit of empty speculation.”

Robin nods in agreement, “so, no gills, what do you think?”

“I think…” Steve ponders for a few seconds, filling up the dog bowl with the rest of the peas and floating that on the water, “that he can’t actually breathe underwater. He can just hold his breath for a fucking long time.”

“Nah. Boring. Plausible. Logical. Could be correct. I need something wild Steven.”

Steve thinks, but he doesn’t have much of an imagination, not like the kids or Robin. Clever people have good imaginations; Steve’s not one of them. But he does remember hearing something about bugs one time, “he breathes through his skin.”

“Fucking rad.”

“You have been spending way too much time with Argyle.”

“He has the good stuff Steve, supply and demand,” she says shrugging, and then, “why, you jealous?”

Steve huffs, rolling his eyes. Because no, of course he isn’t. Much. Maybe a tiny bit. But that’s okay, Robin should have other friends and stuff he guesses. She pokes him in the ribs and he flaps at her.

It just encourages her, obviously, so he tries to ignore her which just makes her ten times worse. She pokes more, and she just knows him too well, goes for his ticklish ribs and before Steve knows what’s happening he’s on his side, trying to curl up to get away, begging for mercy and shrieking with laughter, Robin hollering “admit your jealousy Steven. Say uncle! Say iiiiiiiiiit!!”

Robin disappears suddenly with a splash and yelp. She scrambles on the grass, trying to right herself from where she was shoved, Eddie suddenly flopped half on top of Steve, his tail twisting around Steve’s middle. Robin scrambles back a few more paces, Eddie’s arms locked at the elbow to hold his torso up off the ground as far as he can, claws raking into the grass.

He’s completely silent, and Steve, shocked, just sits for a moment, looking at the back of Eddie’s soaking head. The water’s dripping from his hair in rivulets down his pale back, his shoulder blades standing out sharply, the knobs of his spine visible where his back is held in a sharp arch.

He’s puffed up like an angry cat, Steve thinks absently.

He makes eye contact with Robin over Eddie’s shoulder, and she raises her eyebrows just a teeny tiny bit, ‘what the fuck?’

Steve shrugs, ‘I don’t know.’ Then tilts his head to the house a little, ‘give us a minute.’

Robin frowns spectacularly, ‘I’m not leaving you alone with the crazy fish guy’ or words to that effect, Steve guesses.

He nods toward the house again, trying to give his best, ‘I’ll be fine,’ vibes.

She looks hugely doubtful, but does move away, all slow and careful. Eddie hand walks to keep himself between between Steve and Robin, his tail clenching around Steve as he does.

“Eddie,” Steve’s hand hovers in the air for a few seconds before he bites the bullet and lets his hand rest on Eddie’s tail. It’s surprisingly smooth. Not soft exactly, but not hard. Doesn’t even feel scaly really, just smooth and warm it doesn’t look scaly either, now that Steve can have a close up look. It’s just...black. Matt black.

Actually now that he’s here, there are some funny little slits toward the tippy bit, they kind of look like they could be openings, but he doesn’t have time to investigate because Robin’s gone, so Eddie turns to him.

Steve has no clue what to say as Eddie’s tail slowly unwraps from his middle, “Eddie,” he starts, as Eddie slips back into the water.

“Steee.”

Steve just sighs, retrieving what are now Eddie’s sunglasses from where they’ve fallen by the edge of the lawn, “what am I going to do with you?”

Eddie tips his head, listening, but Steve doesn’t have anything else to say. At a loss, he heads inside to make sure Robin is okay.

A/N I know the time line doesn't work with Argyle since this happened after starcourt but lets just all agree to ignore that. There is no tag list for this work.

Part Four

[jinxthequeergirl]

The ol Switcharoo (pt1.)

Stan x reader/ Ford x reader

Summary: you liked to assume you knew Stanford Pines better then most, but when you return to him after am extended trip you aren't sure you really do

Warning: NONE, she's looking as all hell and I apologize, it's mess I know but it's a start ok

Chat feel free to tell me is this is a dumb idea

~~~~~~~☆~~~~~~

You where a weird kid growing up.

A fact you wouldn't deny. Even as a child you knew you where diffrent and what intrested you was odd. You embraced it. You loved all things creepy and crawly. While most kids your age had posters of there favorite superheros or cartoon characters while your room was plastered with that of monsters and ghouls.

Things from Dracula all the way to the Mysterious Mothman decorated your room, they were the movies you had on repeat books you stuffed your nose in. You loved it all. As you got older, you loved them more, thrusting yourself into science to prove they could existed in the natural world that they DID!

The supernatural world was out there and you where going to explore it. Even as a kid you would be caught monster hunting always running headfirst into adventure no fears.

Your mother was supportive of your every decision regardless of if she believed it lead anywhere or not. She was more happy you where just passionate about something at all and was eager to send you to college.

That's what led you straight to Stanford Pines. The man you would proudly proclaim as your best friend. You'd met during one of your shared classes in college, quickly finding out you had almost similar interests and ideals, everything he had to say fascinated you. And he was more then happy to have someone so eager to find the supernatural with him.

Soon enough you where inseparable. (Y/n) and Standford there was no stopping the pair of you two through all of college whatever you two went through you went through together ups and downs everything was shared. Adding fiddleford to the mix and your trio was complete.

You where of course the first person he had asked to move into his house in gravity falls to further your research together.

"This place is incredible Fordsie I mean think of how much is actually out there!" You exclaimed gesturing to the untamed woods of Oregon from the roof of the house. Ford chuckled adding the finishing touches to a page in his second edition journal before offering it too you for your stamp of approval.

You gladly accepted the book. "And just think about everything else there is to come once we get the machine up and running!" You took a pen of your own and scribbled something in, nodding in agreement to his statment before sitting down beside him.

You took in a breath of fresh air and exhaled a sigh of relief. Ford copying your action. "To think I almost would have never made it this far." He said staring up at the darkening sky.

"Well let's not think like that fordsie, everything that almost stopped you from coming here got you here didn't it?" You said as if you where asking the stars that began to speckle the sky.

He looked over at you. "Everything happens for a reason sixer. Plus you got me out of it didn't you?" You joked nudging him with your elbow.

"That It did." He mused while watching you stare up at the sky with content. He gave a soft smile. Of all the great mysteries in the world, you became his favorite. It didn't matter how well he though he knew you you still surprised him every day.

That was in the spring.

Everything about your life with Ford felt new, exciting, and perfect. You felt like your bond was stronger then ever, over the summer and fall. The perfect balance of cool and calculates and a fearless risktaker. You filled in for eachother where the other lacked completing eachother perfectly. Making your adventures flow smoothly.

Ford found himself thinking like this about you more often, stealing long looks at you when he thought you weren't looking. Standing closer to you, the trash in his room became filled with crumpled ink work of your likeness.

You had enjoyed the sudden burst of closeness you two had shared over the months you'd been in Oregon together it certainly didn't go as unnoticed as he had hopped it did.

He was a smart man, that was the one fundamental truth about himself no one could deny. But he was utterly clueless when it came to his own feelings

"Oooohwe you got it baaAAD don't you Stanford?" His face flushed at fiddlefords sudden outburst of excitement. "What are you talking about!?" He asked in a sharp hushed tone quickly averting his gaze from you only a few feet away.

"Standford I have known you almost ad long as you and y/n have been friends and I'm no expert but I do think I recognize how you look at them has changed."

"I pfft.. I wouldn't...that's my bestfriend-" He fumbled for his words face flushed a deeper red then before as he rubbed the back of his neck.

"Mcgucket! Fordsie! I'm head up to bed for the night! Don't stay up too late." You chimmed in with a yawn.

"Hahah! Yes very good y/n! Very good get good rest for not let the gnomes bite! Ahaha" Ford blurted. You laughed as you continued up the steps.

Fiddleford laughed once where had va ished from sight. "I'm just making an observation...I'm not saying you lay awake at night thinking about her. But your secretis safe with me." Ford let out a sigh of relief at fiddlefors reasuring words they wherent up much longer before both retiring to their rooms. Stanford proceeded to lay in bed that night staring up at his ceiling.

"Oh no."

When the winter rolled around things began to change. All the good memories you had together seemed to suddenly get lost and where instead replaced with something bad.

You remember sitting next to fiddleford staring at your bestfriend fall asleep in the middle of the floor waiting for something to happen. "Do you think this is a good idea?"

You where the first tobask the question both of you had been thinking. "If this thing can offer Ford everything we need to know about starting up this portal...then I say the risk is worth it...right?"

You chewed on your inner cheek staring intently at the man on the floor.

Since the winter rolled around and Ford had met this mysterious "muse" You felt a sense of unease fall over the house, Ford had suddenly become distant always away with the being. "Are you jealous?" Fiddleford pipped up turning away from Ford.

"Jelous?" You chucked. "Of what? There's nothing to be jealous of! Or even a reason to be jealous! If Ford wants to abandon his friends for some interdemensinal being that he wont share much about or even introduce us then fine by me!" You huff out the words folding your arms over your chest.

Everything went downhill pretty fast or at least that's what your memory served, by the time you where ready for the first test of the portal all the way to fiddlefords accident with the machine your new exciting life unraveled before your eyes.

He wasn't functioning the way he used

"Fordsie...I think we need to take a break."

He was pacing infront of you rappedly tapping a pen against his temple. "We can't stop now! We are to close."

You frowned, he was different now no doubt this wasn't the same Ford you had be friened only a few years ago, this wasn't the same Ford you had grown to love. He was far more distant now, all the little things he thought went unnoticed by you completely stopped. He kept his distance now. He was losing sleep because of this now, if it wherent for you he wouldn't even be eating.

"Ford I'm serious! Fiddleford got hurt...I don't think it's a good idea to continue we need time to stop and clear our heads!"

"My head is clear y/n! With bill by my side I know we can-"

"STANFORD PINES."

Stan stopped in his tracks. It had been a while since you had referred to him like that. He turned to you watching you pinch the bridge of your nose. Since when did you look so tired? And where you...angry with him?

"Stanford our friend was hurt because of this , it's time to take a step back and to reevaluate before someone else gets hurt...we need to get out of this house...maybe out of gravity falls for a while."

Ford stared at you for a while and you stared back for some reason in only a few months it felt like the both of you where looking at strangers. You watched as the gears turned in Fords head before he spoke up.

"Your right."

You perked up at his words taken aback by them.

"I think it would be in our best intrest if we both went to see our families for some time."

Again you where surprised by the words that left his mouth. He'd never spoken to you about his family you had always assumed they wherent close. At the same time part of you hoped he'd want to vacation with you somewhere warm away from the snow. So place that would bring back the real Ford.

"OK, we can do that." You said offering a warm smile.

That night Ford helped you pack so you could catch the first bus out of gravity falls that morning, he promised he'd be leaving the next day.

It was quiet while he helped. He wasn't joking with you or excitedly retelling one of your adventures from the summer.

Your mind still kept wondering back to how this could be the same person. Maybe this was who Ford was all along and you where blinded by the thrill of adventure.

"Promise to write?" You asked

"I promise."

"I'll see you in a few weeks."

Still you knew things would be better when you both returned from a long over do break. You watched a bundled up Ford wave you goodbye from the snow as your bus pulled away and you sighed.

Ford frowned as he watched your bus drive into the distance. This was for the better right? He could see the worry and pain he had seemed to be causing you which was never his intention. He didn't want to lie to you just to get you away to take care of yourself but if that's what it took to do just that.

You eneded up returning when the snow had melted in gravity falls. You hadn't meant to be gone that long, your family had begged you to stay and your mother needed the help around the house, you had wrote Ford like you promised but it seemed like the mail was eating up your letters. Either way you had been well rested and eager to return to your friend and to work. You took a hopeful deep breath once your feet hit the gravity falls soil.

"StanFord!? Are you home yet!?" You shouted, pushing open the door to the house. You were met with silence.

"Fordsie!?" You stepped further in carefully. You noticed all of the science equipment and creatures you had collected over the past year or so had been moved and almost put on display. You heard a floorboard creek, and you stayed silent, pressing up again the wall by the door, ready to either surprise your friend or scare an enime.

The door swung open and a familiar face appeared yelling welding a baseball bat.

You screamed, falling back onto yours, butt. "FORD WAIT! WAIT, IT'S ME ITS Y/N!!!" You shouted, holding your hands up to shield yourself. He stopped yelling and lowered the bat. "Y/n?...."

"Yes, it's me. Please put the bat down!"

"What are you doing here?" He asked, placing the bat down and staring at you. "I live here with you, remember?"

The man seemed to stare at you like he was trying to figure out why he knew you. "Y/n! That's right!" He helped you up.

"I wasn't away for that long, was I fordsie?" You chuckled.

"Oh uh no no it's not that...uh come inside. we have some uh catching up to do.." You raised your eyebrow at him now, getting a better look at him. Something was off.

But you followed him to the kitchen, hoping your doubt and worry would wear off soon.

"Hey by the way...would you mind calling me stan from now on?"

[kiss-inthekitchen]

bonus! i said i wasn't posting anything new til this weekend but i just got up to s5 e2 and spencer reid with that lollipop has made me insane, here's a drabble i just wrote in like 30 mins. barely edited, hot off the presses, hope u like

sucker

~500 words

Who the hell let this man have a lollipop in the workplace?

You could kill Garcia. 

You’re trying to act normal– trying so hard– but he looks so good. His hair is longer than it's ever been, so beautifully curly at the ends and you just know it’s soft. You need to test the theory but you can’t and it kills you on even a regular day. 

But today is a thousand times worse. There’s something about Spencer since he got shot, he just seems to give less of a shit. It definitely shouldn’t be as attractive as it is. 

It doesn’t help that you’d come in to tell him that you all had to be on the jet in thirty, and then he and Garcia had started asking questions, so Spencer’s been looking up at you from his chair for the past few minutes and something about it is getting to you. 

So yeah, you’re trying not to get so immediately caught for staring at Spencer as he wraps his lips around the lollipop again, but you’re also not about to miss a single second of it. You’re not about to do yourself that disservice. 

You clear your throat as the news broadcast about your unsub ends. “Right. So we’re going to Louisville.” 

Spencer moves to get up, finally. Popping the candy in his mouth, he waves one– large, long-fingered– hand at Garcia and reaches for his crutches. 

What is wrong with you?? You need to get it together before you’re stuck on the jet with pretty boy and all of the most astute people-readers in the Western hemisphere. 

God, you hate your life. If the universe was kind and loving it wouldn’t have had you meet Spencer in the behavioral analysis unit. If the universe was kind and loving, Spencer would be yours already. 

This was some kind of cosmic joke. 

“You good?” he asks. He took the lollipop out of his mouth to speak to you, his eyebrows raised in the most annoyingly attractive way. 

“Yeah?” you scoff, as if he’s the one being weird. 

“Okay. Cause you told me we have to leave and now somehow you can’t keep up with the guy on crutches,” he muses from the doorway, while you haven’t moved an inch. 

This man. If he wasn’t injured you would hurt him. You might just do it anyway. 

You shoot him a sarcastic smile. “I was being polite.” 

“How chivalrous of you,” he says, putting the candy back in his mouth and crutching his way down the hall without a second glance. 

You look at Garcia, and it’s a mistake. You can read her like a book. “Don’t,” you warn, pointing at her, and she presses her lips together but is clearly smiling behind them. “And I am so mad at you for that,” you add, gesturing after him. 

“Wh– he just took one, it’s not like I–” 

“Save it!” you call, already halfway out the room. You hear her laugh behind you, and shake your head. You love that girl, but she was not doing you any favors. 

Fuck it. 

You breeze past Spencer in the hallway. “Keep up, pretty boy.” 

You hear his indignant, playful scoff behind you, and you can’t help the smirk that creeps onto your face.

[holylulusworld]

How to cure a grump (12) FIN

How to cure a grump (12)

Summary: You’re losing your job on Christmas.

Pairing: CEO/Boss!Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Warnings: grumpy Bucky, fluff, mentions of smut, banter

How to cure a grump (11)

How to cure a grump masterlist

“Alpine and Blizzard,” you sigh as you glance at the kittens on your bed. Bucky insisted on taking them home. Home. You didn’t know where home was any longer, nor if you wanted to go back to New York City with him.

“You’re staring at them again,” Bucky muses. He wraps his arms around you from behind to rest his chin on your shoulder. “They are cute. Alpine is a little princess.”

“I need to book a flight and…no…I…” You try to find the right words. “Where do we go from here? You fired me, and then you came back into my life to turn it upside down. We had sex…and now we have kittens, and I don’t know what to think or feel any longer.”

“Y/N, breathe,” Bucky softly whispers. “I know this was a little intense, and that firing you before Christmas was stupid. I don’t know where we go from here, but I want you to come back with me.”

“What for?” You question. After you fell for your former boss, you didn’t think much about the future. It was the heat of the moment, at least you thought so when you could think again.

“Doll, I know our relationship started rocky, but we have something real. Your mom played along because she saw we belonged together before we knew. I don’t want to lose what we built. Let’s go back to New York and turn this into something good.”

You look at the kittens again. Can you even give them a good home? What if Bucky loses interest in the kittens and you the moment he’s back at home?

“The pilot called. We can fly back any time,” Bucky nuzzles your cheek. “I know you’re scared and unsure. I promise we will work things out. I came to this sleepy town at the end of the world to find you.”

“My hometown is not located at the end of the world,” you mutter under your breath. “Uptight asshole.”

“I love it when you talk dirty to me, baby doll.” Bucky kisses your cheek. “Now, let’s pack your things. Your mom is excited to travel in a private jet. We will show her New York City. I have a whole tour planned.”

You nervously shift in your seat. It’s the first time you travel in a private jet. You feel out of place while your mom is having a blast inspecting the jet and asking the stewardess questions.

“Y/N, relax,” Bucky takes your hand to hold it. “I know you’re nervous, but you don’t have to be. This plane is secure. We’re home soon, and you can have a rest.”

You don’t tell Bucky you’re not afraid of flying but of what awaits you when you arrive in New York. Uncertainty makes you anxious. There’s no guarantee that Bucky won’t change his mind and break your heart.

“I’m not like him,” he says and squeezes your hand. “I know you’re afraid of letting me in, but I swear, I’ll never break your heart.”

“Your mom is safe and sound. She’s having dinner with my mom,” Bucky tries to calm you. Your mother is out and about with Bucky’s mom, and you’re scared something could happen to her. “I know you worry about her, but she deserves to have some fun after being there for you and me this Christmas.”

You sigh deeply. “She took care of me after I came home. She took care of you and everyone else. Mom never had the time to live her life to the fullest. I want her to be happy, but still, I’m worried.”

“Your mom is a grown woman, and believe me,” Bucky chuckles, “she’ll twist nipples or castrate anyone getting in her way.”

“It’s a family tradition.” You chuckle and wrap your arms around Bucky’s neck. “So, do you want to know about more family traditions, or do you want out?”

He looks at you, a soft smile on his lips. “I think I want to hear more about family traditions. I’ll be a part of your family soon enough…”

THE END...for now

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part twelve: the watcher

word count: 2.5k

warnings: similiar themes of stalking, feeling watched, paranoia, etc.

eleven | twelve | thirteen

It might as well have been written on a billboard in big, neon letters,

Lando noticed it as soon as he stepped into Brews & Books the next evening.

She wasn’t usually jumpy. A little awkward, sure, sometimes hesitant in conversation, but not jumpy. Today, though? She was tense, her shoulders held a little tighter than usual, her hands moving in small, anxious motions—tugging at the hem of her sweater, smoothing the already-flat surface of the counter.

She greeted him with a smile just like she always did, but he saw the tightness in it.

“You alright?” he asked as she started making his drink.

“Hm?” She glanced up, blinking like she hadn’t expected the question. “Oh– yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

Lando tilted his head slightly, watching the way her fingers tapped absently against the counter. He didn’t press yet. Instead, he leaned on the counter, pretending to inspect the pastry display.

“You sure?” His tone was lighter this time, almost teasing. “You look like you’re waiting for something to jump out at you.”

That made her exhale a short, almost-laugh. “It’s nothing.”

But she still didn’t relax.

"You look tense," he added a beat later, glancing at her subtly so as not to spook her by bringing too much attention to it. Yet when he said it, she nearly dropped the cup.

It was such a simple statement, but the way he said it made her feel seen. Too seen.

“Oh,” she said quickly, forcing a laugh. “Just a long day. Lots of customers.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “You sure?”

She hesitated. Just for a second. But he caught it.

“I—yeah. Just a little tired.” She focused on the coffee machine, avoiding his gaze as she frothed the milk. “It’s nothing.”

Lando didn’t push further. Not immediately, at least. Instead, he leaned against the counter, casually observing as she worked. The almond croissants were a new addition to their lineup of baked goods. Perhaps he’d try it sometime, he mused.

She could feel his presence, even when she wasn’t looking at him directly. It made her more aware of herself—the way her hands trembled slightly, the tension in her shoulders.

After a pause, he spoke again, voice much lighter this time. Quieter too, like the words were intended only for her to hear. “You know you can tell me if something’s wrong, right?”

She finally glanced at him, brow furrowing slightly.

He tilted his head, offering an easy, almost amused smile. “You said we’re friends, right?”

She forced a smile of her own, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I.. yeah– yes, I mean. I did say that, that’s true. And thanks. But really, I’m fine.”

He hummed, not entirely convinced, but he let it go.

For now.

She didn’t say anything else either, uncharacteristically quiet for the reminder of the time Lando spent sipping at his coffee. In fact, she didn’t say anything at all until later.

By the time the last customers left and she locked the door behind them, it was just the two of them in the shop. Lando had stayed longer than he usually did, taking his time with his drink, absently flipping through one of the books from the shelf while she tidied up. Mostly just for something to do – reading had never really been his thing.

She remained quiet as she wiped down the counter, lingering near him like she was debating something. She hesitated near the door, glancing out at the darkened street before turning back to find him still lingering at his usual spot.

She bit the inside of her cheek.

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe she really was just being paranoid.

Finally, just as she set the rag aside, she exhaled and said, “Okay… Maybe I have been a little weird lately.”

Lando slowly closed the book, resting his arm over the cover as he turned his attention to her. “Yeah?”

HIs face seemed carefully neutral, no sign of teasing or worry or anything that would indicate his thoughts at all, in fact. It was slightly unsettling, but she felt encouraged by the fact that he seemed to care enough to have noticed in the first place, and that he had willingly offered to be a listening ear.

Hell, he even called them friends.

She leaned her weight against the counter, crossing her arms. “It’s stupid. Probably. But…” 

You can still back out. You don’t have to make a fool of yourself by saying anything.

“I think someone might be watching me.”

Lando went very, very still. Other than that, there was no visible reaction – he only watched her, dark eyes sharp and unreadable.

It was intimidating, to say the least. Maybe she was acting crazy, and now she’d gone ahead and blabbed like some crazy cat lady who wore tin foil hats that thought the government was spying on her and her cats.

She shifted under his gaze, suddenly regretting saying anything. 

What were you expecting? That he’d actually take you seriously? That he’d care?

He kept his expression neutral, tilting his head slightly. “What makes you think that?”

She frowned. “I don’t know. I just—sometimes it feels like there’s someone there. But never when I actually look? And maybe I’m just being paranoid, because nothing’s happened per se, and I haven’t seen anyone exactly, and—” She cut herself off, exhaling sharply as she shook her head as if it’d somehow physically shake off the craziness. “See? Stupid.”

Lando’s grip on his coffee cup tightened for half a second before he forced his hand to relax.

She wasn’t stupid. She was just too damn observant.

She ran a hand over her face, suddenly exhausted. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just losing my mind.”

“Or maybe you’re smarter than most people.”

She glanced up at him. His expression was unreadable, but there was a certain sharpness to it—a flicker of something knowing.

For a second, she wondered what he knew about being watched.

Before she could even think to say anything about it, however, he leaned forward, elbows on the counter. “It’s not stupid if it’s making you uncomfortable,” he said, his voice calm, even.

“Have you told anyone else?”

She blinked. “No. I mean, who would I even tell?”

He shrugged. “A friend. Family. Your boss.”

She shook her head. “Margot would just worry. And I don’t—” She hesitated. “I don’t have anyone else here, really.”

That made something flicker in his expression. Something almost imperceptible.

She shifted uncomfortably. “Anyway, it’s probably nothing. I should just drop it.”

For over two weeks now, Logan had been tasked with keeping an eye on her, feeding Lando reports—nothing serious, nothing intrusive. Just the usual movements. Her schedule. Who she spoke to. Where she went. It was a precaution, a necessity, but now? 

Now she was picking up on it.

He couldn’t have that – Logan was a professional, after all.

Subtly, he pulled his phone from his pocket, typing out a short message under the counter.

Loosen up. Don’t disappear, but make it less obvious, would you?

He hit send.

“Hey, look–”

Her voice pulled his attention back to her.

Her brow was furrowed, her lips pressed together. “You don’t have to sit here and humor me. I know how it sounds. Like I’m–”

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” Lando said simply.

She blinked. “Oh.”

He leaned back, fingers idly tracing the rim of his cup. “If something’s bothering you, then it’s worth paying attention to.” 

Crystalline green eyes met hers, momentarily taking her breath away with their intensity. “You’re not imagining it,” he added.

She blinked. “How do you know?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he sat back slightly, drumming his fingers lightly against the counter. Then, in the same easy tone he always used, he said, “I’ll walk you home.”

She hesitated. “I don’t want to be dramatic—”

“You’re not,” he interrupted smoothly.

She blinked.

He leaned back slightly, tilting his head as if weighing his next words carefully. “It’s late when you close up, isn’t it?”

“Yeah…?”

“And you walk home alone?”

She hesitated again before nodding reluctantly.

Lando let out a slow breath, almost like he was holding something back. “That’s not exactly safe, you know.”

She laughed, though it came out a little forced. “Yeah, well. Not all of us can afford a car and a driver.”

His lips twitched, not quite a smirk, but something close to amusement. “So I could walk you home.”

When she shot him a dubious look, he had to sigh. “You finish late. You live alone. Doesn’t hurt to be careful, does it?”

She frowned, shifting her weight. It does make sense, she reasoned with herself. It wasn’t like she wanted to be paranoid. And the truth was, knowing someone was walking with her would probably help her sleep better a bit better at night.

“…I guess not,” she admitted.

His lips curled slightly, like he had expected her to agree. “Good.”

“I can stick around more,” he said, tone even.

She frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Walk you after,” he shrugged. “Make sure you get home safe.”

She laughed, caught off guard. “So now, what, you’re like my bodyguard or something now?”

He smirked. “If you want to call it that.”

He took another sip of his coffee before adding, “I could also give you a ride to your uni if you want. S'not far.”

That caught her off guard. She raised an eyebrow, chuckling incredulously. “What, so now you want to be my personal chauffeur too?”

Lando huffed a quiet laugh. “Don’t push your luck.”

It was easier to joke about it, but underneath it all, she could tell he was being serious. And something about that unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.

But still, the idea of not having to take the bus every morning was appealing...

Noticing her thoughtful expression, he decided to give that extra nudge. “You know. Since we’re friends and all.”

Her lips parted, the words stuck somewhere in her throat.

He’s using my own words against me! How dare he.

Finally, she managed a weak, “I… you really don’t have to.”

“And yet, I’m going to.”

She sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. “You don’t listen, do you?”

“Selective hearing,” he grinned, eyes shining with mischief and dimples on display. He waited for a retort, and when none came, he grinned even wider. “Then it’s settled.”

She frowned. “That’s– That's not how this works, Liam.”

He grimaced inconspicuously at the use of his fake name, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he picked up his coffee again, leaning back slightly, looking entirely too comfortable. “You’re not exactly arguing very hard,” he observed.

She exhaled through her nose, crossing her arms. “Because I know it’s a bad idea to walk alone at night, I just—” She shook her head. “I really don’t want to be a bother.”

He lifted an eyebrow, chuckling lowly. “You insult me. You really think I’d offer if it was a bother?”

She paused, caught off guard by the sincerity. Something about the way he said it made her feel… safe. Certain. Assured.

Not in the way she should feel safe, necessarily. Maybe there was something too composed about him, something about his ease that made her wonder just what kind of man could offer protection like that without the slightest hesitation, as if it was second nature. 

Like nothing in the world would dare touch him.

She sighed, then muttered, “...Fine. I guess, if it makes you feel better...”

Wearing yet another smug expression (or perhaps his face was permanently stuck that way), he nodded like it had been inevitable, but said nothing else.

“Alright then. I’ll wait outside, yeah?”

And just like that, it was settled.

Lando walked her home.

She tried to tell herself it wasn’t a big deal, that it was just a precaution, that it didn’t mean anything. But there was something about his presence beside her—calm, steady, entirely unbothered—that made her feel safer than she had in days. It was nice not to feel like she had RedBull running in her veins, hyper and on edge.

They didn’t talk much. He let her lead the conversation, responding only when necessary, but never prying. Still, she could feel his eyes subtly scanning their surroundings, always aware.

By the time they reached her apartment building, she felt a little less ridiculous about the whole thing.

“Thanks,” she said awkwardly, shuffling her feet. “For, um. This,” she gestured vaguely to the space around them.

Lando just shrugged. “Anytime.”

Something about the way he said it made her hesitate.

“…I’ll be fine tomorrow, though,” she added quickly. “You really don’t have to—”

“You have class in the morning, don’t you?”

She blinked. “Well yes, but–”

He raised a brow, leaning lazily against the side of her building. “Want a ride?”

Her stomach twisted with something dangerous. “I—”

“Relax,” he said, amused. “I’m not asking for your social security number. M’only offering a ride.”

She huffed, crossing her arms. “Do you always do this?”

“Do what?”

“Just casually offer to drive random girls to school?”

His smirk widened. “Only the ones I’m friends with.”

Friends. There was that word again.

And she really needed to stop liking the sound of it.

“…Okay,” she finally said, sighing. “But only if it’s not out of your way, okay?”

Lando’s lips twitched before letting a chuckle escape. “No.”

That made her even more suspicious.

After a beat, she shook her head, clearly at a loss. “You are very confusing.”

He just smiled.

But when she finally went in, her shoulders were less tense than they had been in a while, a calm beginning to settle where this once was a nagging unease. 

And so she found herself waiting for him the next morning anyway.

Logan’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He read the message from Lando, his lips twitching slightly in amusement.

She’s caught on after all, huh? Good for her.

From his spot across the street, tucked into the shadows near a parked car, he exhaled and took a step back. Maybe he had been a little too consistent.

Time to switch it up.

Rolling his shoulders, Logan removed the camera strap from around his neck, clicking through the photos he’d captured of her that day—some in the café, others as she left, a few of her walking alone. Satisfied, he set the device in the passenger seat beside him and slid into the driver’s seat. His nondescript Vauxhall Astra eased away from the curb, the hum of its engine fading into the night.

High above, from the rooftop of an adjacent building, another figure remained perfectly still.

Stormy blue eyes peered through the darkness, framed by sharp features and an air of quiet control. Unlike Logan, he didn’t need the shadows to disappear—he belonged to them, woven into the city's fabric as seamlessly as the skyline itself.

A slow smirk curled his lips.

“Well, well,” he murmured, tilting his head. “Look at you.”

Long, pale fingers hovered over the ridged button atop his sleek, black camera. He took his time, watching, analyzing, before pressing down.

Click.

A single frame captured – evidence of a hunter tailing another.

And just like that, George Russell was gone.

[hiraethwa]

his sun, her star

[a valentine's day special] five times kageyama tobio tries out a term of endearment and the one time he finds the right one

cw. very light smut <3 lots and lots of fluff // wc. 1.8k

love letters from <the collection — to be loved is to be known>

the first time kageyama tobio lets a term of endearment tumble from his lips, you think you hallucinated it. 

"darling?” tobio’s voice floats to you from the kitchen where he is intently slicing the shiitake mushrooms in the kazarikiri technique for the sukiyaki dinner tonight. 

you shake your head to yourself. maybe you misheard him, he has never shown any inclination to adopt any terms of endearment in the months since you started dating, nor any interest when you asked a question hinting at it. 

it has always been tobio and y/n, did there need to be more?

“how are the mushrooms coming along?” you round the island, sliding an arm around his waist, and stop next to him at the wooden block where he has been hard at work—and immediately have to stifle a laugh. 

it seems like kageyama tobio finally met his match in something he couldn’t master with his skillful hands, for slivers of mushrooms lay discarded on the board. the poor shiitake mushrooms are missing chunks and look like they have been thoroughly dissected. 

“that’s–“ you choke on a burst of giggle bubbling up your throat. “they look great, tobio.”

you suppress the smile bursting at the seams of your lips, or try to. tobio pouts at you and turns to you, allowing your hand to glide over his back and come to a rest on the other side of his waist. 

“that doesn’t sound very genuine,” he whines, cheeks tinged pink with the embarrassment from  his earlier confidence that kazarikiri would not be a challenge for him. 

“it’s because–“ the rest of your words come out muffled as tobio quickly jumps to cover your mouth. 

“don’t say it.” he drops his hand once he’s sure you won’t tease him, and hides his warm face in the crook of your neck. 

oh, tobio. 

weeks pass by the time tobio tries it for the second time, enough that you almost forgot about the first time. 

“could you pass me some honey, honey?” 

your eyebrows rise to the top of your forehead as you run his words through your mind again. he definitely said it twice. oh. 

oh.

“honey? what for?” you call as you dry your hands with the towelette hanging off the oven. 

“the smoothie, it’s sour.” his eyes dart to you, continuing the tracking of your movements, hoping it comes off as casual. 

“mmhmm, here you go.” you skip over to the couch, dangling the bottle of honey between him and the volleyball match replaying on the tv. his gaze darts back to the tv, but it’s too late, he has already given himself away. “honey?”

he looks up at you, rapidly blinking before opening his mouth. “i–” his cheeks color and he presses his lips together, glancing away. 

“trying out something new, honey?” you let the tease loose in the form of a whisper by his ear, leaving tobio flustered and speechless. 

by the time tobio recovers, you have pressed a kiss to his cheek and flitted back to the kitchen to tend to the muffins in the oven. 

love was his third choice, bringing a smile to your face as you realize that tobio is trying to find a term of endearment that suits you and him. 

“do you need anything?” he pats your foot again impatiently from his position at the end of the couch. 

you let the book drop on your chest where you are occupying most of the unbelievably comfortable couch with your feet in tobio’s lap as he watches a replay of his match. something about getting too relaxed and hinata would beat him if he continued to do so. 

this couch is a great investment, after all. 

“hmm? what did you say?” you are quite sure he added love at the beginning of the question when he asked it the first time around. 

“i said, do you need anything?” 

“i could have sworn you said something else,” you muse, watching amusedly as tobio bites his lip and almost jumps off the couch. 

his nose flares as he catches onto you, realizing that in his attempt to settle on a cute couple name, you have found a new pastime in teasing him. 

tobio relaxes into the couch once again, squinting at you. you could only hold his stare and give him a sheepish smile in return. 

you catch tobio muttering to himself the fourth time, as he stares off into the back of the pantry, finger tapping on pursed lips. 

“angel? is that weird? hm.” 

“are we running out of pasta, tobio?” you chirp behind him cheerily, knowing you caught him dead in the act. you snake your arms around him, resting your chin on his shoulder. 

the scent of fresh laundry fills your nostrils, tangled with another that you could only describe as tobio. not particularly musky, but comforting and familiar, like home. 

“you are a minx. definitely not an angel.” he pinches the bridge of his nose, in utter disbelief that he let his guard down in this important period and allowed you to sneak up to him unnoticed. 

you pout at him playfully, pretending to be hurt by his words even though he could not see you. 

“do not. pout at me. i can feel it.” he pokes at your sides, making you jump from the unexpected ticklish sensation. 

finally, he turns around to look at you. of course you are still pouting at him. he sighs resignedly, accepting his fate of being unable to say no to your adorable face.

“come here, you naughty thing.” to which you accept happily, throwing yourself into his open arms and snuggling into his chest. his arms wrap around you securely, keeping you safe, always. 

but you could not help the tease that comes out, “how about ‘you naughty thing’ then?” you bite your lip in a pitiful attempt to suppress your laughter. 

tobio pushes you away, a look of horror painted on his face. you burst into laughter. 

the fifth term of endearment tobio chooses makes you question your sanity and regret all the teasing you wrought upon your beloved so far. 

it is similar to one he had tried before, only with a twist that ended in your demise—italian. 

amore mio. 

the syllables tumble from his stupidly kissable lips and wind up between the ridges of your ribcage in every direction as the sounds sink into your skin and your body soaks them up greedily, sending your heart into a swift gallop. 

you think you forgot how to breathe for a few moments before you inhale sharply, aware of the effects of the combination of kageyama tobio and fluent italian on your poor body. 

you don’t even remember what you were talking about before he pulled that out of his pocket. how long had he been sitting on that one?

suddenly your lips are crashing together as you yank him towards yourself, fingers snaking up his nape, tangling in his dark hair as you tug him closer. closer, you need him closer. 

movie forgotten, you all but climb into his lap, straddling his waist, as he kisses you back with the same intensity. his hands are pressing into your sides as he tries to keep his restraint from undressing you right then and there, sheathe himself inside you.

you are sure, so sure that you would see the imprint of his hand on your skin come morning, and the thought of it delights you too much. 

it turns messy quickly, hurried, as your hands wander over each other urgently, gripping and pulling and scratching, a sorry attempt at trying to slow down your impulses. 

tobio breaks apart from the kiss first, chest heaving, his beautiful blue eyes burning dark with desire, all while keeping a strong grip around your thighs. he hoists you up from the couch in one fluid motion, allowing you to lock your ankles around him before he carries you to the bedroom. 

he licks his lips at the sight of you all splayed out for him on the bed, “so, amore mio?”

to your disappointment, tobio decides that the fifth one was not the one, or at least you assume so since you have not heard the term since that night. the memory makes your cheeks color in shame as you recall how easy it was for him to turn you pliant with a mere few syllables. 

then it comes when you least expect it, as you and tobio huddle together for warmth by the lake in the dead cold of winter to watch the sunrise. 

it would be an adventure, you had promised tobio the night before, fully convinced that it would be fun to wake up at the crack of dawn and venture out to the lake to watch the sun climb the sky and paint dark skies with ripples of pink and purple, bursting into whorls of gold and vermillion. 

all at the coldest time of the day.

but you are undeterred by the cold and reassured by the warmth of tobio against your side, finding yourself enraptured by the ever changing palette of colors in the sky that is reflected onto the ripples on the calm surface of the lake when the sunrise arrives. 

“sole mio.” it is so soft you almost miss it the sixth time, but tobio says it again with certainty. “sole mio.”

you break your eyes away from the breathtaking sight in front of you to find tobio watching you in the same way. there is weight curling around each of the perfectly enunciated syllables, providing them with the momentum to shoot through the space between you and execute a flawless landing within your heart. 

you hear it, the unspoken explanation behind his choice. you hear it, through the glances and the touches, behind the curtained words whispered on sleepless nights—for you, the one who brought light and warmth and true belonging to him. 

you, who he believed to be the sun incarnate, bathing everyone in your radiance. it is not so true these days, when you feel selfish enough to shower only him with your everything. 

because kageyama tobio deserves nothing short of everything. 

“stella mia.” you lace your fingers through his, holding on to him with a death grip, eyes glazing with emotions you could never hope to put into words. you could only hope he hears them. he responds wordlessly by matching the strength of your grip—yes.

you had taken some inspiration from his choice in the fifth iteration, filled it with your own definition and ended up with one that filled your chest with a feeling of fuzziness akin to a soft blanket on a cold night. 

your star, who had endured shining in the darkness to make sure you find your way home, who had saved you again and again, never once complaining of the loneliness that shrouded him in the quiet of the night. 

for your star, you will shine bright and warm, chasing away the chill that clung to him like a second skin, bringing him in from the cold. you will gladly be his sun from now until the end of time. 

for your star, who had been alone for far too long. but not anymore.

a/n. happy (belated) valentine's day to kageyama tobio (and of course all my lovelies reading this <3333) it is 2am so forgive me if there's any errors in this i tried to edit it but i am afraid my brain is failing me (i had a vision and i don’t know if its vision-ing)

taglist. @hatsukeii @daisy-room @soulfullystarry @kitsune-kita @bakery-anon @thechaosoflonging @bakingcuriosity @wordsofelie @bookskeepers (gen) @mintgrumpy @noble-17 @box-of-roses @theshxaverse @animechick555 @jkkhay @sickpatientt (add yourself here)

tobio nation. @hiraethwrote @shouyuus @yogurtkags @mcdonaldsnumberone @lale-txt

[sugurusfavemonkey]

HIGH ACHIEVER - TWO: CHANGING LIKE THE CURRENT

summary: You've always prided yourself on your grades but when Suguru enters the scene, competing for the top spot in your major becomes more than just a matter of honor. What happens when you're forced to work together on a long project (and so what if he happens to be just your type)?

pairing: Geto Suguru x reader

word count: 2.7k

content: college AU; academic rivals to lovers; short series; mutual hatred attraction; afab!reader; angst/comfort; reader is described as being shorter than Suguru (but then again, the man is about 6'3' so who isn't?); smut (in future chapters - MDNI)

♪playlist♪

+more Jujutsu Tech College AU

previous chapter

"At long last, some progress!" Satoru threw himself on his best friend's bed carelessly, "with the way they absolutely despise you though I gotta say, even I couldn't see that coming. What did you do to actually get them to agree with that? Blackmailing? Threatening?" he shot up from his laid position with a dramatic gasp, "did you finally confess your undying devotion?"

Geto tsked at his theatrical behavior, eyes never straying from the pages of the book set on the desk in front of him. He was more than used to Gojo's antics to the point where it didn't even bother him anymore.

"Yaga got tired of the back and forth and decided to punish us with a group project, see if we learn to work together or something." He decided to explain only to avoid listening to Satoru's endless musing.

"Ah. That does make a bit more sense. Not nearly as exciting as I thought it would be…" Satoru sighed, "how boring."

Suguru wheeled around his swivel chair and faced Satoru with an appeasing smile, but his eyes betrayed his annoyance. "Don't you have a test to study for, Satoru?"

"Why? I'm gonna ace it anyway," he pushed himself up and away from the bed, casually walking towards his friend.

"Of course you will." Suguru ignored his approach, choosing instead to turn back to his desk.

"No need to be sardonic, Suguru. I'm sure you'll do just as well. We are the best, after all," he paused minutely, a large beam forming on his face, "though I'm slightly better."

Satoru leaned over his shoulder, reaching one arm around to close the book with a loud thud and picking up the phone his friend had discarded to the side before he started his studies and unlocking it with a naturalness that suggested he did it often. Suguru tried to protest, once more twirling the chair around to follow Satoru's movement with his eyes, hands clenching around the chair's arms.

"What are you-"

"Now, when are you gonna text her?" He interrupted Suguru, scrolling through the cell, "where even is her contact?" Satoru wondered in a whisper before giving up and pushing the device against Suguru's chest, "just do it already!"

"Satoru…" he groaned, grasping the cell in fear it fell as Satoru dropped his hold on it and walked backward.

"Chop, chop," the white-haired jokester clapped his hands. "You're stalling, pretty boy!"

"Sometimes I wonder why I even bother with you anymore."

"Because I'm the most incredible person you've ever met and you love me?"

"Keep telling yourself that." He retorted half-heartedly, but Satoru was already back at the bed, his Switch held above his head as he queued up Digimon World.

Suguru's attention was lured back to the device on his hand then. He drew in a breath in foreboding, staring at the list open on his phone, your contact glaring back at him as he remembered the contempt with which you treated him, the adorable way you frowned in anger at each of his jabs...

"Fuck it," he murmured to himself before opening up a new conversation:

Hey. It's Suguru. I was wondering when we could meet.

He looked at the words after sending the first text and winced at it, immediately following up with two more messages:

To talk about the project.

How's your Sunday looking?

Suguru stared impatiently at the screen for a whole minute before deciding he was being a creep and turning it off. He had barely looked up at Satoru and opened his lips to say something when there was a loud ping. The black-haired man scrambled to turn it back on, the notification of a new text received making his head spin and heart accelerate in his chest, it felt like the organ was being squeezed by his ribcage.

I can't on Sundays.

Oh.

Wednesday night had you lying on your bed as you read over Professor Yaga's email with an in-depth briefing on the project appointed to you and Suguru on your phone when a notification from one 'arrogant prick n2' popped up on the top of the screen.

At the shock of receiving a text exactly when your mind had been on said arrogant prick, you lost the hold you had on the device and let out a pained groan when it hit your chest. The throb on your chest from the blow had you spitting colorful curses aimed at Suguru until you managed to sit up and open the message. No, messages.

You opened up the keyboard, letting your fingers hover over the letters until you figured out an appropriate reply. You settled on a plain and straightforward sentence.

I'm sure you have a VERY important engagement on a Sunday.

You audibly gasped as you read his immediate response.

what is that supposed to mean?

I thought you were literate... or do you simply lack reading comprehension?

Just when you thought he couldn't possibly make you angrier, Suguru goes and throws yet another impossibly irritating dig to your intellect. You decided to cut off the conversation before it escalated for once, if at least to keep up your peace of mind:

good to know you're just as insufferable through text.

don't bother me unless you have something significant to say.

wait!

You were just about to put your cell down and move on to something productive when the text hit and curiosity kept your attention locked on the three little dots moving as he wrote a follow-up. Chances were it would be another taunt.

I'm actually busy this Saturday with a policy advocacy rally, would you like to come?

it could be useful to our project.

You hated when Suguru poked fun at you but, for some reason, you despised when he raised reasonable ideas. It probably had something to do with the fact that the mere idea of being compliant with him made you sick. How someone could elicit such strong feelings from you was a question you would rather leave unanswered for now.

fine.

text me the details.

no need. I'll pick you up at 7 am. Send me your address.

"This better be worth it if this lunatic is making me wake at ass dawn on a Saturday," you mumble to yourself, glaring at the text as if he would be able to feel your discontentment before giving up and sending him the address.

And to think you had found him charming upon first meeting… Only for Suguru to toss your first impression under the bus at the earliest opportunity. You were both still freshmen back then and you were feeling so proud to be able to answer the professor's inquiry with ease when his sweet voice chimed in from the back row of the auditorium, his white-haired counterpart snickering beside him,

"Actually," and it all went downhill.

Teeth grinding together, skin warm and heart thrumming loudly in your ears, the mere recollection was enough to bring your anger up tenfold. It's always been like this: Suguru has a way of getting under your skin with minimum effort that no one else has.

It was a small miracle that it hadn't been snowing that Saturday morning yet the frigid air was anything but forgiving. You mentally cursed Suguru with every single swearword you could think of as you stood by the entrance of your building at 7 am sharp bundled up in a large wool coat and scarf that did nothing to stop the cutting wind from hitting your face or the frostbite to your toes inside the not-so-warm shoes you wore.

You were strongly considering turning on your heel and getting back inside to your awaiting bed when you spotted the approaching car. Suguru parked right in front of the building's steps without turning off the engine and you watched as he leaned across the center console to open the passenger door for you.

"Get in." He ordered before you had time to utter your measly 'good morning'.

You huffed in annoyance, the puff of air leaving your parted lips serving as a reminder of the unrelenting cold and pushing you into action. You could had been petty and ignored his command since you had no obligation to Suguru and his rally, but you also just wanted to get this all done with as soon as possible.

You got in, closed the door behind you and, at Suguru's sharp gaze, put on the seatbelt. You hadn't even settled properly when he reached over you to adjust the grid vent of the air conditioning so the warm air would be aimed at you, one thick strand of hair escaping from his neat bun and falling in front of his eyes. The sudden proximity sent your heart into overdrive and your head spinning as you inhaled his intoxicating woody scent. You sunk back against the cushion of the recliner to avoid the slight brush of his arm to your chest but still, you felt the warmth irradiating from beneath the fabric of his white shirt.

You kept your back flushed to the seat even after Suguru pulled away and started the drive, hands clutching tight onto the seatbelt strip until you eventually regained your composure, the pleasant temperature inside the vehicle aiding in soothing you.

"Wish-"

"I'm s-"

'Wishing someone a good morning never killed anyone' is what you wanted to say yet you lost your nerve when he started at the same time as you. There was a terse silence as the both of you waited for the other to continue but none did. Finally, Suguru seemed to have enough as he picked up a neat stack of papers he had kept on the dashboard and offered it to you.

"Here," was all he said to present it.

"What's this?" You asked as you hesitantly accepted the papers, eyes curiously peeking at the writing at the top of the first page. You gasped once you managed to get a read on it, "I don’t need a…" you flicked through the pages, finding them to be numbered, and turned your incredulous gaze back to an unbothered Suguru, "20-page lit review, Geto. This project is about getting into the field and talking to people.”

"Tch. So we make uninformed decisions? I'm not surprised though. Being reckless does seem to match your usual approach."

"I am under no obligation to follow you into the stupid rally. I don't care about the dumb politics side of it when there's an obvious course of action to be taken. I'm here because I thought I'd give you the benefit of the doubt," you didn't miss the way his jaw clenched at your words, your gaze settled firmly on his side profile as you spoke. "I should've guessed you would be just as much of a dickhead as usual though."

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel to the point his knuckles turned white but Suguru remained otherwise silent. You took that as some form of reluctant acceptance on his part or at least an attempt to maintain some semblance of peace considering the two of you were stuck inside a car for an undetermined amount of time.

The rest of the trip was spent in agonizing stillness neither of you dared to break.

After nearly one hour, Suguru drove into the garage of a business center building, easily parking his nondescript black car in a tight, vacant spot. Once the engine was off, there was a moment where you just sat there, his hands still on the wheel and eyes steered forward. Suguru sighed before finally turning to you, his gaze softening minutely.

"Listen, for what's worth, I'm glad you've decided to come."

You didn't know what to make of his words. You almost let yourself believe he was being heartfelt until you remembered you weren't used to hearing anything other than patronizing comments or thinly veiled insults coming from him. You narrowed your gaze and gave him a faux saccharine smile.

"Of course. I know you want to get this project over and done with as much as me, Geto."

"…Right," he nodded slowly. "Anyway, we're here," Suguru opened his own door and stepped out of the car, briefly slanting his head to meet your gaze. "Let's move before you make me late," he smirked at your perplexed face and pushed the door close before you could formulate an answer.

"It's not like I'm holding you hostage," you scrambled out of the car and after him, voice a few octaves higher than usual as you closed the passenger door with more force than necessary. "You could've left the car at any point!"

Suguru chuckled lightly as he opened the back door to pick up a black topcoat you hadn't seen thrown over the back seats, "yes, but where would the fun be in that?"

"You just love annoying me, don't you?" You crossed your arms, eyes following his movements as he put on the coat, covering his sinfully thin waist and broad shoulders previously displayed in his perfectly fitted white shirt and high-waisted trousers. How could someone so irritating always look so dapper?!

"And if I do?"

"I-" you gaped, your brain abruptly malfunctioning as you struggled to come up with a comeback.

"Suguru!"

You were saved from the spotlight by a pretty woman waving from the door that led to the inside of the building. Suguru smiled and waved back, motioning for you to follow him.

"Took you long enough," she sidestepped so you could join her inside the lobby.

Suguru hummed, placing a placating hand on her shoulder, a kind smile etched on his face.

"You know it's not like me to not follow through when I commit to something, Manami."

"Well, tell that to Miguel."

The three of you stopped in front of an elevator and you waited awkwardly until Suguru seemed to remember you were also there.

"Oh, yeah. Manami, this is a… colleague from Jujutsu Tech. Don't mind her, she's just here to watch."

You scoffed but decided it best to ignore his lack of manners upon introducing you opting instead to offer your hand to the pretty woman "Nice to meet you, Manami."

She glanced from Suguru to you and took your hand in a firm handshake, her smile seeming to grow predatory, "Trust me, the pleasure is all mine."

During the ride on the elevator to the floor of the conference room where the meeting was being held, you tuned off their conversation, self-deprecating thoughts making you feel small as you compared your own casual clothing to Manami's tight-fitted, long black dress, dark high heels, and fur-collared white jacket. She looked effortlessly chic with her long dusty pink hair styled in subtle waves while you looked like a plain college student... which you were, and normally, you would see nothing wrong with that, except that something in that specific situation was getting to you. You sighed dejectedly.

You were pulled from your head when the elevator signaled you had arrived at your destination, and Suguru guided you out with a hand to your middle back. The warmth easily trespassed the layers of clothing and brought a flush to your cheeks.

"I have to get to the stage, but Manami will guide you to a seat, alright?" He leaned closer to whisper, warm breath fanning against your ear.

You only nodded, afraid your voice would've failed you.

"Great. Don't have too much fun."

At that, you couldn't help but laugh, covering it up with a cough, but Suguru noticed if his pleased expression was anything to take by, "Don't give yourself too much credit, Geto."

"Don't blame me for wanting to impress you."

"Impress me?"

He shrugged, still smiling as he walked backward and away from you, playful gaze glued to you until you couldn't take it anymore and faced a smug-looking Manami instead.

Suddenly, you wished you had gone back to your bed when you had had the chance.

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©sugurusfavemonkey 2025┃all rights reserved. do not copy, repost, translate or otherwise modify this work

[phoenixblaze1412]

how would zandik court us during his akadeymia days (if he even did) ?

I can imagine him as a gift giver of very..interesting items.

animal bones, rocks, shiny things (crow reference)

Zandik had never been one for conventionality. Not in his research, not in his theories, and certainly not in his interactions with others. So when he found himself drawn to you—one of the few students who did not shy away from his reputation—it was only natural that his approach to courtship would be just as unorthodox.

It started small. A peculiar bone, bleached white and smooth to the touch, left on your desk in the library without a note. You had eyed it warily at first, unsure if it was an elaborate prank, but when you turned to glance around the room, you caught a glimpse of familiar red eyes watching from the shelves before vanishing behind a row of books.

You had known Zandik was strange, but this? This was new.

Then came the polished stones—obsidian, quartz, even a rare piece of lapis lazuli. They were always left in places only you would find them: tucked between the pages of a book you were reading, slipped into the pocket of your satchel, or even balanced precariously on the edge of your notes.

There was never a word exchanged about them, but each time you discovered one, a warm sort of amusement bubbled in your chest. If Zandik was the one leaving them, he certainly had a strange way of showing interest.

But the gifts didn’t stop there. The next offering was a preserved butterfly, its delicate wings intact and shimmering with iridescent blues and purples. The craftsmanship of the preservation was exquisite, and as you turned it over in your hands, you felt a presence behind you. You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

“You have a habit of collecting things,” you mused, tilting your head as you examined the butterfly. “Do you leave these for anyone else?”

Zandik, standing just close enough that you could feel the heat of his presence, scoffed. “Do you think I waste my time on just anyone?”

That was the first time you realized the true intent behind his offerings. And, surprisingly, you didn’t mind.

Zandik was a man of science, but he was also a man of obsession. When something caught his attention, he pursued it relentlessly.

(Un)fortunately for you, that ‘something’ had become you.

The gifts escalated in frequency and peculiarity.

A small vial of shimmering liquid that, when shaken, separated into two mesmerizing colors.

A perfectly intact bird skull, cleaned with meticulous precision.

A bundle of dried herbs tied together with twine, their scent strong and earthy.

You had long since given up on questioning the logic behind them, instead finding yourself intrigued by the sheer variety.

“You’re like a crow,” you teased one day, holding up a small gear that had been carefully wrapped in parchment. “Always leaving little trinkets.”

Zandik scoffed but did not deny it. Instead, he leaned forward, his sharp red eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “And yet, you’ve kept them all.”

You faltered for a moment before looking away. It was true—you had not discarded a single gift. Each one was carefully stored in a box beneath your desk, a silent acknowledgment of the strange ritual you had both fallen into.

“I suppose I find them interesting,” you admitted, rolling the gear between your fingers. “Like trying to solve a puzzle without knowing what the final picture looks like.”

Zandik’s lips quirked into something resembling a smirk. “Then allow me to continue providing the pieces.”

It wasn’t until he gifted you something truly personal that you realized just how deeply he had fallen into this peculiar form of courtship.

One evening, while you were buried in research, a shadow fell over your table. You looked up to find Zandik standing there, an object carefully wrapped in cloth resting in his outstretched hand. Unlike his usual offerings, he lingered, watching intently as you took it.

Curious, you unwrapped the fabric and blinked in surprise. Nestled in your palm was a meticulously crafted metal pendant, shaped like a stylized eye. It was unlike any of his previous gifts—this one held meaning beyond fascination.

This was something he had made himself.

You looked up at him, finding his usual smug confidence replaced by something almost expectant. As if, for once, your reaction truly mattered to him.

“…Thank you,” you said sincerely, closing your fingers around the pendant. “It’s beautiful.”

Zandik's expression didn’t change, but you swore you saw a flicker of satisfaction cross his face before he turned sharply on his heel.

“Good,” he called over his shoulder. “Then you’d best take care of it.”

It was after that moment that you finally acknowledged what had been growing between you. The unspoken understanding, the exchanged glances, the gifts that had turned from curiosities to treasures.

Zandik may not have been a man of romance in the traditional sense, but in his own twisted, brilliant way, he had found a method of courting you that was uniquely his. And, despite everything, you wouldn’t have had it any other way.

[jmkjournalblog]

Sweet thing (Part 1)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Fem!Reader

Word count: 2000+

Summary:  A new mysterious girl appears in the Westview, capturing Agatha's attention.

A/n: I couldn't forget this plot that came to me after watching AAA so, here we go. Btw English isn’t my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes.

Agatha Harkness leaned against her kitchen counter, nursing a cup of coffee as the morning sun painted the room in soft, golden hues. The house was quiet, save for the faint buzz of magic beneath her skin. It was always there now, a faint hum that had taken root since Wanda’s Hex wrapped itself around the town of Westview.

Agatha didn’t mind the quiet—she thrived in it. It gave her time to think, to observe, and, most importantly, to plan. The game Wanda was playing fascinated her, the raw chaos magic that maintained this picture-perfect suburban paradise a symphony only she seemed to hear. But Agatha wasn’t content to be a spectator.

Her musings were interrupted by a knock at the door, sharp and deliberate. Agatha frowned, setting down her mug. Few people in Westview came calling without reason. The nosy neighbors usually knocked too loudly, their voices pitched with exaggerated cheer. This knock was… tentative.

Agatha adjusted her cardigan and opened the door, her curiosity immediately piqued by the girl standing on her porch.

She was young, with an almost ethereal quality to her—a soft, doll-like beauty wrapped in a modest sundress and wide-brimmed hat. Her hands were clasped in front of her, clutching a basket of baked goods, and she looked up at Agatha with a shy, hesitant smile.

“Hi,” the girl said, her voice light and airy. “I’m Y/N. Wanda mentioned I should… introduce myself?”

Wanda. Of course.

Agatha smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Well, aren’t you the polite one?” she said, stepping aside to let the girl in. “Come on in, sweetie. Don’t just stand there looking like a lost kitten.”

Y/N giggled softly, the sound almost musical, and stepped inside. She looked around the living room with wide eyes, as though taking in every detail with nervous curiosity. Agatha followed her gaze, watching the way her fingers brushed the edge of a throw pillow, the faint catch in her breath as she noticed the clutter of books and trinkets on the coffee table.

“You’re new in town?” Agatha asked, her voice casual as she gestured for Y/N to sit.

Y/N perched on the edge of the couch, smoothing her dress over her knees. “Oh, yes,” she said quickly. “Very new. Wanda’s been so kind—helping me settle in, introducing me to everyone…”

Her voice trailed off, and she ducked her head, as if embarrassed by her own rambling. Agatha studied her, intrigued by the girl’s bashful demeanor. Wanda had mentioned her in passing—a "sweet little thing who could use a friend." But there was something about Y/N that didn’t quite fit the mold of Wanda’s usual creations.

“Wanda’s good at that,” Agatha said, her tone light. “She loves playing the perfect hostess. But don’t let her fool you—she’s got a bit of a wild side, that one.”

Y/N giggled again, her cheeks turning pink. “I don’t think I’ve seen that side of her yet.”

“Oh, stick around, honey. You will.”

Agatha leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other as she observed the girl with casual interest. There was something almost too perfect about Y/N—the way her smile wavered just enough to seem genuine, the slight tremor in her hands as she picked up the cup of tea Agatha had poured.

“So, what brings you to Westview?” Agatha asked, keeping her tone light.

Y/N hesitated, her gaze dropping to the cup in her hands. “I guess… I wanted a fresh start,” she said softly. “Somewhere quiet, where I could figure things out.”

Agatha raised an eyebrow. “And you picked Westview? Not exactly the first place people think of when they’re looking for a fresh start.”

Y/N’s lips quirked into a shy smile. “Wanda said it was… special. And it is. It feels… safe here.”

Safe. Agatha’s smirk widened, though she quickly hid it behind her cup. If only the girl knew the half of it.

“Well, you’re certainly in good hands with Wanda,” Agatha said, her voice warm and reassuring. “And the neighbors will eat you up. They love a sweet, innocent new face.”

“Thank you,” Y/N said, her voice barely above a whisper. She glanced up, her eyes meeting Agatha’s for the briefest moment before darting away again.

The girl’s shyness was endearing, almost painfully so. But Agatha had spent centuries honing her instincts, and something about Y/N didn’t quite add up. She didn’t press, though. Not yet.

Instead, she leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand as she gave Y/N a conspiratorial smile. “Wanda matchmaking again, huh?”

Y/N’s blush deepened, and she shook her head quickly. “Oh, no! It’s not like that. She just thought I could… learn a thing or two from you.”

Agatha chuckled, her sharp eyes gleaming with amusement. “Is that so? Well, I suppose I can be quite the teacher when I want to be.”

Y/N’s laugh was soft, nervous, and she ducked her head again, hiding her face behind the rim of her teacup. Agatha watched her for a moment longer, the faintest prickle of curiosity tugging at her thoughts.

Whatever Y/N’s story was, it wasn’t as simple as she made it seem. But Agatha could wait.

“Welcome to Westview, sweetheart,” she said finally, her tone warm but laced with subtle intent. “Something tells me you’re going to fit in just fine.”

Y/N smiled, her eyes glinting with a fleeting emotion Agatha couldn’t quite place. For now, the girl was an enigma—a puzzle wrapped in sweetness and blushes. But Agatha would figure her out.

Agatha Harkness prided herself on reading people like open books, but Y/N was proving to be an unexpectedly complex chapter. The girl had a way of weaving herself seamlessly into Wanda’s narrative, her every action a perfect blend of naivety and charm. The neighbors adored her, each interaction reinforcing her role as the sweet newcomer.

Agatha wasn’t fooled, not entirely. There was something there, lurking beneath Y/N’s soft demeanor. Something that kept her watching.

The afternoon sun bathed Wanda’s backyard in golden light as she bustled about, her hands full of gardening tools. The scent of freshly clipped grass mingled with the sweet aroma of cookies baking in the oven. Agatha leaned against the fence, watching as Y/N knelt beside Wanda, carefully arranging a row of daisies in the freshly turned soil.

"You’re a natural at this!" Wanda exclaimed, her bright smile aimed at Y/N.

Y/N laughed softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "Oh, I don’t know about that," she said, her cheeks tinged with pink. "I’m just following your lead."

Agatha arched an eyebrow, sipping from the thermos of tea she’d brought over. The girl’s humility was textbook charming, her every move designed to blend in perfectly with Wanda’s carefully constructed suburban dream.

But there was more to it. Agatha could feel the faintest ripple in the Hex whenever Y/N was near. It wasn’t enough to break Wanda’s illusion, but it was there—a subtle distortion, like a melody slightly out of tune.

"Don’t sell yourself short, Y/N," Agatha called, her voice light and teasing. "You’ve got a knack for fitting right in, don’t you?"

Y/N looked up, her smile shy as she wiped her hands on her apron. "I just want to do my part," she said.

Wanda beamed at her, clearly pleased. "You’re more than doing your part," she said, placing a hand on Y/N’s shoulder. "You’re already a part of this little family."

Agatha’s smirk softened, though her thoughts remained sharp. Wanda’s maternal instincts were in full swing, and Y/N seemed to thrive under her attention. But was it genuine, or was the girl playing her own game?

Later that evening, Agatha found herself on her front porch, nursing a glass of wine as the stars blinked into view. The hum of the Hex was quieter here, its magic settling into a steady rhythm as the town went to sleep.

She was about to head inside when she heard the soft shuffle of footsteps. Y/N emerged from the shadows, her arms wrapped around herself as if warding off the chill.

"Agnes?" she called softly, her voice tinged with hesitation.

Agatha straightened, her brows lifting in surprise. "Y/N? What are you doing out here so late?"

Y/N hesitated at the foot of the porch steps, her green eyes wide and uncertain. "I… I didn’t want to bother Wanda," she said. "I just… I couldn’t sleep."

Agatha gestured for her to come closer, her curiosity piqued. "Well, come on up, then. No sense standing out there in the cold."

Y/N climbed the steps, her movements careful and deliberate. She perched on the edge of the porch swing, her fingers twisting in her lap.

"Trouble on your mind, sweetie?" Agatha asked, her tone casual as she leaned back in her chair.

Y/N shrugged, her gaze fixed on the ground. "I don’t know. I guess… it’s just a lot, you know? Starting over, trying to fit in…"

Her voice was soft, almost fragile, and Agatha felt a pang of something she couldn’t quite name. She studied the girl in the dim light, the faint shadows under her eyes, the tension in her shoulders.

"Fitting in isn’t all it’s cracked up to be," Agatha said finally, her voice tinged with dry humor. "Trust me, I’ve been trying for centuries."

Y/N looked up at her, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "You make it look easy."

Agatha chuckled, swirling her wine. "Oh, honey, if only you knew."

They sat in companionable silence for a while, the quiet night wrapping around them like a blanket. Agatha found herself relaxing, the usual edge of her thoughts softening as she watched Y/N.

The girl was good—she had to admit that. Whatever she was hiding, she played the innocent act perfectly. But Agatha wasn’t about to let her guard down. Not yet.

"So," Agatha said, breaking the silence. "What are you really running from, Y/N?"

Y/N blinked, her expression startled. "What do you mean?"

Agatha smirked, leaning forward slightly. "Oh, come on, sweetie. Nobody ends up in a place like Westview without a reason. Fresh start, sure, but fresh starts usually mean there’s something you’re leaving behind."

Y/N hesitated, her fingers tightening in her lap. For a moment, Agatha thought she might deflect, but then the girl sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly.

"I guess… I’ve always been looking for somewhere I belong," she said quietly. "Somewhere I can just… be."

Her voice was so earnest, so raw, that for a moment, Agatha believed her. But there was a flicker of something in Y/N’s eyes—a shadow, fleeting and elusive—that reminded Agatha to stay sharp.

"Well," Agatha said finally, her tone softening. "You’ve got a knack for making people like you. That’s half the battle right there."

Y/N smiled, the tension in her shoulders easing. "Thank you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Agatha watched her for a moment longer, her thoughts swirling. The girl was a mystery, no doubt about it. But if there was one thing Agatha loved, it was solving puzzles.

"Goodnight, Y/N," she said, standing and draining the last of her wine.

"Goodnight, Agnes," Y/N replied, her smile shy as she rose to leave.

As Agatha watched her disappear into the night, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was standing on the edge of something big. Something dangerous.

[fluentmoviequoter]

Wrong Start

Requested Here!

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!reader (with a twin)

Summary: You're arrested for a crime you didn't commit. After you point Officers Bradford and Chen in the right direction, Tim decides you got off on the wrong start and wants to make it up to you.

Warnings: fluff, brief angst, discussion of mass murder, estranged family

Word Count: 1.1k+ words

A knock on your door at midnight wakes you long before you hoped to, making you reach for your phone. Los Angeles is dangerous enough with a mass murderer still on the loose. Your neighbor has watched the story closely, and though you’re not overly interested in the reporters’ version of the crime, you know it pays to be vigilant. When you see two police officers standing at your front door, you grip the phone tighter and pull the door open.

“Good evening, officers,” you greet.

The male officer says your name, and you nod. You spare a glance at the woman beside him, and she grimaces nearly imperceptibly. It’s fast, but something in her eyes tells you this night will worsen.

“That’s me,” you tell him. “Is something wrong?”

“You’re under arrest,” he states. “Please step forward and turn to face the door. Slowly.”

Your brows furrow even as you step forward and begin to turn. “For what?”

“Murder,” the woman supplies. “Fourteen counts of felony murder, assault with a deadly weapon, and domestic terrorism.”

“Whoa, what?!” you exclaim, pulling away from the half-secured handcuffs.

“Don’t,” the man warns lowly, gripping your wrist and pulling you toward him. “Trust me, you don’t want to make this any worse than it already is.”

“But I didn’t kill anybody!” you argue. “You have the wrong person!”

“That’s not up to us to decide. You’ll get your day in court, but the warrant says you are the person we need to arrest, so stop resisting.”

You fall silent as the man reads you your Miranda rights, and for a brief moment, you’re struck with an unwelcome sense of attraction. The officer is undoubtedly handsome, but this is not the time to develop a crush. You haven’t killed anyone, and there is absolutely no reason they should be looking for anyone even remotely like you!

At that thought, you stop on the sidewalk less than three feet from the police car. The handsome officer nudges you forward, but you feel like your shoes have been filled with cement.

“You are under arrest; do you understand that?” he asks.

“Why me?” you question.

“What do you mean?” the other officer – whose name tag you now see says Chen – inquires.

“Did you find fingerprints at the scene?” Neither of them answers, so you say, “DNA then.”

“It’s on the warrant, might as well tell her,” Officer Handsome but Grumpy rumbles.

“Yes, we found DNA at the scene of the murder,” she explains. “Yours.”

You exhale slowly. “I… I have a twin. Estranged, but we have the same DNA. How did you even connect it to me?”

“Short answer, trash is public property once it’s on the curb,” Officer Bradford explains.

“Okay, okay,” you mumble. Speaking up, you say, “I’ll go with you. But please look for my twin, I-I know I didn’t do it, so if you found my DNA…”

“Blaming a twin,” Bradford muses. “That’s a new one.”

“Tim,” Officer Chen whispers, cutting her eyes toward yours.

He hesitates, watching your eyes as you fight tears and stare at a crack in the sidewalk. Then he places you in the back of his cruiser and drives you to booking.

“She claims she has an estranged twin who had to have done it,” Tim tells Angela. “I don’t buy it.”

“That kind of devastation is hard to fake,” Lucy argues. “She seemed genuinely distressed that her sibling could have done this.”

“Or she was distressed that you didn’t seem to believe her,” Nyla offers. “I’ll look into her family, see what I can find. If she actually has a twin…”

“Let us know,” Lucy requests.

“Timothy Bradford,” Angela greets as he and Lucy return to the station. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“Pass,” Tim says.

“You can’t pass.”

“Pass.”

“Uh, Tim?” Lucy interrupts. “Who is that?”

“Looks like your murder suspect,” he tells Angela. “What changed?”

Lucy flinches as the handcuffed woman jerks back before attempting to kick a passing officer as she less-than-politely asks for his handcuff key.

“That,” Angela begins slowly, “is the twin.”

“I told you.”

Tim turns quickly, and his shoulders drop when he sees you standing behind him. You send him a small smile and wave with the folder in your hand.

“You did,” he concedes. “Sorry.”

You smile as Angela pulls Lucy away from Tim. “No hard feelings, you were just doing your job.”

Your twin begins yelling your name, and you pull your lower lip between your teeth as you look down. Tim lays his hand on your arm and directs you away from the bullpen. Out of your twin's sight, you laugh wetly and thank him.

“I guess this is better than being wrongly convicted, but it’s…” you begin before shrugging.

“It doesn’t make this part any easier,” Tim adds. “Finding out someone you love is responsible for something like this isn't easy. I’m sorry you had to get pulled into it.”

“You’re much nicer when you feel guilty,” you muse with a smile.

“You’re just as annoying,” he counters with a matching smile that lets you know he’s joking. Mostly.

“And to think, I was going to tell the jury that you were nice to me!”

“You don’t have to testify,” Tim reminds you. “You were estranged, you didn’t know.”

“No, but I’ve seen enough to believe it. It sucks, but it’s the least I can do. Family or not, justice needs to be served. Dozens of families have been changed forever because of one decision.”

“Well…” Tim looks around before he decides, “Never mind.”

“Well, what?” you press. “You already arrested me for fourteen murders, this isn’t the time to get nervous to talk to me.”

Tim’s eyes widen in surprise, and he says, “You don’t have to say yes.”

“I don’t know what I’m answering, though.”

“Will you go out with me?” he asks quickly.

You hesitate to answer, and Tim immediately begins backpedaling. You place your hand on his arm and shut him up immediately.

“I wasn’t going to say no, I just wasn’t expecting you to ask that. I thought I’d have to do it, and then get rejected,” you explain. “Are you serious?”

“As serious as I was when I arrested you.”

“That is not funny!” you exclaim with a laugh.

“Look, we got off to a really bad start-“

“The worst.”

“Sure, the worst start, but… you’re kind of great.”

“Kind of? I am amazing, and yes, I would love to go out with you.”

Tim nods, smiling as he offers his phone to give him your number.

“Promise not to arrest me again?” you request.

“Or?”

“I’m not going to threaten you, a few hours in a smelly cell was more than enough.”

“I’ll try to make it up to you.”

You smile and take several backward steps, then call, “First I’m arrested, then I’m annoying, and you’re expecting to make that up with one singular date night?”

“It’s a start.”

[anakinstwinklebunny]

PAIRING: popular!hockey player!anakin x nerd!reader

FLUFF ❦

You are going to kill him. Starting with his hands, then his stupidly-handsome face and this insufferable grin. The rest is just a matter of your anger and frustration. Why? Because ANAKIN SKYWALKER had been playing with you for weeks, claiming you as his new victim. Stealing your food, stealing your things, stealing your time, and probably - definitely - stealing kisses from you..

"You," you seethed, pointing an accusative finger at him, eyes narrowing at the thick novel he twirled lazily between his long-too-tempting fingers. "Give. It. Back."

Anakin's eyes snapped the moment he heard your voice, setting them right on your face. With that, he let his lips curl into this grin you found insufferable (let's highlight that) and hot. In all his cocky, utterly beautiful glory, he had the nerve to lean back in his chair, stretch his long legs out, before spreading them, and flipping through pages like he had all the time in the world.

"Mm," he hummed, pretending to skim a sentence. "Y’know, sunshine" he clicked his tongue "This is pretty interesting stuff. Who knew you were into—" he glanced at the cover, lips curling, "—grumpy historical philosophers?"

"You wouldn’t understand," you muttered, reaching for it— or just trying to, because he yanked it away at the last second, holding it just out of your reach.

Maker, you hated him. Despised him. (Did not, under any circumstances, thought about him at night, or in class, or in very specific daydreams that made your lower stomach do things.)

"Alright," he mused, tapping his chin. "I'll give them back… but only if you give me a kiss."

You blinked. "A what."

"A kiss," he repeated, completely unfazed, as if the request was normal..to him, of course. "Right here." He tapped his lips, smirking like he knew it would drive you crazy. "C’mon, sunshine, it's a fair trade."

Your face burned. Eyes deeply, shockingly gazed into his "Anakin, I swear to the Maker—"

"Ohhh, she’s threatening me now," he teased, blue eyes twinkling. He had the time of his life.. "What are you gonna do, huh? Report me?"

"Yes!"

"To who?" He laughed, tilting his head. "Mr. Kenobi? Because I just saw him leave for his lunch break. You could wait until he’s back, but…" He sighed dramatically, pressing his lips in fake-dissapointed, thin line "I don't think you have time, sweetheart."

You groaned, ready to throw the biggest tantrum right there in the hallway. Or throw the nearest chair at him, again, you weren't sure "You’re insufferable!"

"And yet, I think you still love me."

"No, I don’t."

"Liar."

You glared at him so hard, with such anger, hatred (not really), pure irritation at every cell in his body that decided to play with you, to tease you, to make your little comfortable world burn to the heels with madness. Yet, the problem was—Anakin wasn’t fazed at all. No, instead, his gaze softened, and his voice dropped into something more gentle, more reverent.

"You are so beautiful when you're mad, you know that?" he murmured, smirk fading into something softer, something fond, something that made your face burn as if it was on fire.

Because Anakin always did this. He always worshiped you, even in the most ridiculous moments, like he couldn't help but be absolutely, completely smitten by whatever you were doing. And it was weird, to be honest. After all, who were you, really? Just a nerdy girl with glasses, who spent most of her time reading books and playing games for kids...while, Anakin Skywalker, was the breathing perfection of this school. Talented hockey player, too handsome face, deep voice, A-student that didn't even learn (he had his ways)..every girl drooled on him, and yet, you were the one he chose..

"...Fine," you muttered, heat creeping up your neck.

"Fine what?"

"Fine I'll kiss you!" Anakin barely had time to process your angry response further before you grabbed his face and pressed the quickest, most barely-there kiss to his lips—just enough to make his breath hitch, to leave him stunned, to hopefully make him give your stuff back

When you finally pulled away, he blinked, looking shamelessly dazed. And that's to the God above, your book—once held hostage—was shoved back into your arms.

"...Damn," Anakin muttered, dreamingly gazing at your face "Should’ve asked for two."

You rolled your eyes, pushing past him. You did not want to be near Anakin Skywalker ever again...for today..at least for this hour.

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @haydensprettyprincess @skyguys-princess @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @babybell-cheese @anisluvrgirl @slutforfinnickodair @xhunnybeeex @fuckmyskywalker @gallerygourmet @ysrjune @anakinskwkler @cookybananas @emotionallybruisedx @diorvalentina @sevinax @throughparisallthroughrome @aniiuv @ritosparty @ninastyless @lily-strnlo @thesassypadawan @awhhayden @sydkneez @anisangeldust @l1ttle-misssunsh1ne @anakinca @rubiesarepretty @luluartpop @cloverina @nikiloveshayden

[songsofadelaide]

Soshiro wasn't a stickler for rules. However, he didn't like seeing officers flout rules, either. He always stood somewhere in between sticking to the rules while not being a strait-laced, by-the-book kind of leader.

With that being said, he really had no qualms about workplace relationships as long as they didn't get in the way of his officers' jobs.

Soshiro couldn't be completely against the whole thing. Not when you were around. If he were being honest, though, he would've been one of his Captain's biggest headaches if not for his great respect for her. Mina liked order, and she always took pride in an orderly Third Division. For her own Vice Captain to become the main source of mayhem would spell trouble for her.

Good thing he liked staying out of trouble. Save for a few exceptions. Involving you, his favourite Platoon Leader. Not that he'd ever outright admit it, too.

He did admit to how you piqued his interest the moment you decided to enlist in the Defense Force. You were a retired fencer, your papers bookmarked with a recommendation by the Japan Fencing Federation— but whatever skill with a sabre you have would prove useless, seeing the force's growing preference for automatic firearms. Fortunately, that wasn't the case for the Third Division. They'll always have room for blade masters, or at least that's what you've been told during the Presentation of Enlistment Certificate Ceremony.

And Soshiro liked how good you looked in your formal uniform. He'd never admit that outright, too, unless he wanted to be accused of favouritism for real. (Or worse: predatory behaviour by a senior officer.)

While you were mostly a reserved and unassuming person off the field, many of your colleagues called you a raging tempest in missions, the kind they'd get swept away in if they ever got in your way. You endeavoured to accomplish every task as swiftly and efficiently as possible— without breaking ranks, of course. Your tenacity was rewarded in the form of a promotion to Platoon Leader, an unexpected but welcomed opportunity. Soshiro seemed to agree with the Captain that you were a worthy investment and that other officers could stand to learn a thing or two from you.

You tried not to pay too much mind at the Vice Captain's growing interest in you, though you had to admit that it was pretty flattering. The second strongest person in the Third Division placed a lot of stock in your ability to get the job done. And though you've had your shortcomings, your accountability endeared yourself to him even more.

(So much so that Mina had to remind him of his position. She had no qualms about workplace relationships as long as they didn't get in the way of her officers' jobs. As long as order was maintained, too.)

Even you couldn't help your curiosity when you caught wind that this year's new recruits were an exceptional bunch— and that one happened to share tremendously intimate history with the Captain. It was a sizzling hot press release you couldn't help but sink your teeth into when Tae started talking your ears off about it.

You tried not to make that much noise as you both made your way back to your personal quarters that evening, but your topic was far too interesting to just stop and drop— it was about your usually pensive Captain...

"Do you think the Captain will start softening up?" You couldn't help but muse as you helped yourself to your canned coffee.

"Doubt it! This is Captain Ashiro we're talking about," your fellow Platoon Leader remarked. "Then again, she's still a woman..."

Pretty much, you thought to yourself. Woman or not, a person's relationships shape the way others view them. Officer Hibino's revelations about his shared childhood memories with Captain Ashiro painted her in a new light, unveiling her as a tender girl in her youth— more human than machine like everyone else thought her to be...

"I heard something interesting about you, too," Tae said, a glint of mischief in her eyes. "One of the rookies said they already knew you from before. When you were still a professional fencer."

There's only one, you sighed to yourself this time. "It must be Haruichi-kun. If you must know, Tae-chan, Izumo Tech sponsored my fencing journey, especially when I was just starting out."

"That's not all, too," she chuckled at your slight change of tone. "Last I heard, the kid might even have a crush on you."

"That is not true at all," you elbowed her and laughed at her statement. "That's probably the most absurd thing I've heard in my entire life. Haruichi-kun is—"

"Why do you think it's absurd? I think it's ridiculously truthful," came the voice of a man from behind you.

"Vice Captain! G-Good evening!" You squeaked and managed a salute as Soshiro made his approach. He didn't look like he was ready to retire for the night just yet, but was just hanging around.

"Kafka's tales have made the rounds, huh?"

"It's hard not to get roped into the gossip when it's so interesting," Tae said with a grin. "And with a Captain like ours who's so well-loved and well-respected, it's pretty tempting to hear what kind of person she was when she was just a kid."

"Yeah, she really went for her goals and succeeded," you nodded in agreement. "She's awe-inspiring."

"We're all aware of how amazing our Captain is," Soshiro stated with the same recognisable cheer in his voice. "But what's that thing about you and one of the rookies again?"

"Y-You mean about me and Haruichi-kun, Vice Captain? I-I mean Officer Izumo—"

The redhead standing right next to you could only purse her lips to prevent herself from laughing out loud, because by the gods, only she and a handful of other superior officers were aware of their Vice Captain's vested interest-turned-infatuation with you. And this was their Vice Captain getting all jealous and territorial with you.

"I'm just gonna go ahead and turn in for the night," Tae said as she nudged you before breaking out into a salute directed at Soshiro. "Good night, Vice Captain!"

"T-Tae-chan?!" You could only call out to your fellow Platoon Leader as she disappeared into the darkened hallway leading to your quarters. A little whimper of defeat left your lips as you turned back in the direction of your Vice Captain. "Vice Captain—"

"Are you two close?"

"Huh?"

"You and the rookie."

Close wasn't exactly the right word for you two. Haruichi was your main sponsor's son. You've met a lot of times before and have nothing but great respect for each other. A silly crush doesn't do him any justice. That rumour was made in poor taste and faith.

You shook your head at your superior. "We're familiar with each other, but not really as close as everyone thinks."

"Is that so?" Soshiro said, not at all sounding convinced. "If I ask him, will he say the same thing?"

"I suppose," you replied to him with another small sigh of resignation. "I'm sorry, Vice Captain. It's not a nice rumour, if you ask me... I feel sorry for... the rookie for being embroiled in this mess."

"Don't apologise because of that," he said as he reached out for your hand. "If you're going to apologise, at least say sorry because I heard it and believed it."

You can confirm now that he wasn't there to reprimand you at all since his hold on you was both tender and solid. There was a storm in his wine-dark gaze— languid but brewing, and the way he looked at you made you want to dive right into the depths of his eyes.

"Hoshina likes you."

It was a thought you pushed at the very back of your mind ever since your Captain first let that slip when you took a bath together once. You thought she was joking at first, but she didn't take it back at all.

"But you didn't hear that from me."

And she even followed it up with, "don't let your personal feelings get in the way of your work"— like hell this revelation won't get in the way of your work!

You didn't want to think about it at all but here it was, staring you right in your face.

"Vice Captain, can we t—"

No, what were you thinking? The moment you say you want to talk about it will change everything. You'll blur the fine line between superior and subordinate. He'll cease being just your Vice Captain and become something else.

Something more.

"If you want to talk, let's do it somewhere more comfortable," he told you as you caught the twinkle of expectation in his eyes. You were likely playing into his hands now, so what else could you do but dance to his rhythm?

"Yes, of course. My personal quarters are nearby," you said, pointing in the direction of the dimly lit hallway that Tae disappeared into moments ago. "If... If it's all right with you..."

Soshiro didn't speak as he eyed your embarrassed face, but his mischievous, victorious cat-like smile did all the talking for him. It was he who opened the door and led you in, his hand warm on the small of your back even though you extended the invitation to him. And though you said you wanted to talk to him— to clear the air and rid yourself of this trepidation and hesitation that you felt— very few and far between words were exchanged that night.

You liked him too, after all. Now all those times your eyes met even though you were just about to look at him made sense. He's had eyes for you ever since.

You drank deep into his wine-coloured eyes while he helped himself to your warmth, the tempest that you were now in his arms as a single beam of sunlight he wanted to keep all to himself.

And keep you he did.

When word got out that the female rookies caught Vice Captain Hoshina leaving your room early the following morning, you already expected to be summoned to the Captain's office that very day.

But instead of being vexed about the situation and her Vice Captain's unusually poor judgment, Mina had a rather amused expression on her otherwise normally calm face as she sat across from you two.

"What happened to not flouting the rules, Hoshina?"

"Hey, it's not like I wanted to get caught!" Soshiro shot back at her, though there was very little he could do in the face of his Captain's evident thrill at his predicament.

"I can turn a blind eye to this, but the rumours are already out there," she continued. "I suppose I'll have to mete out some form of 'punishment' for you both. Just to make an example out of you."

"I-I'll accept whatever punishment you have in mind, C-Captain!" You exclaimed with a stiff and deep bow. You've never been reprimanded by the Captain ever since you first started out in the Third Division. For you to be sanctioned for the very first time... I've really done it this time!

"On second thought, I'll just have you two file this instead," Mina stated as she handed you a single sheet of paper with a header in bold letters that read Workplace Relationship Disclosure Form. "As a formality. It's also a written promise that you won't let your relationship get in the way of your jobs."

"That's it? Piece of cake!" Soshiro said with a smile as he read out the form. "We'll file it now and—"

"You'll file it at headquarters yourselves," she said with a small smile as she stood up from her desk. "Other than that, I hope you two managed to talk things out. You're dismissed."

"Headquarters?! Captain Ashiro! We'll do anything! Just don't make us go there! It's such a pain to get there!" He pleaded with the Captain this time. "We'll tell everyone if we have to! I mean that's not a bad idea, too, so they'll know that we're together! But we're just going to be normal about things, we swear!"

"Just how normal are you two going to be?" The Captain said with a small laugh, just like the one you heard from the rumours. "Just promise me you won't let this affect your work. I have great faith in you both, after all."

"Roger!" You exclaimed in unison, followed by your shared tender laughter.

"Good. Now do 30 laps each before training starts again this afternoon," Mina replied to your enthusiasm with another small smile. "I'm really not letting you guys off the hook that easily."

"Th-That's fine, Captain! We-We'll make a start now!" You stammered before she could change her mind about your choice of consequence, throwing her a salute before eventually jogging out of her office.

"Don't make her run your laps, Hoshina. She'll do it for you without even you asking."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Captain. As if I'd let her do all the heavy lifting herself."

"What do you plan on doing about the rumours?"

"Let them talk. It's even better for us. At least they know now who she belongs to."

[writing-mlm]

Hiii, can we please have more college!damian x male reader? Like a scenario where damian loves to draw reader but reader doesn't know this? Maybe friends to lovers? Idk your pick. The artist and his muse type of thing. Also, i LIVE for soft damian on this blog ong.

Forever my Muse

Summary: Damian has his finals coming up and he wants you to join-- at least that's his excuse to get you into the art venue. An artist needs their muse and for some reason, most of Damian's drawings include you in, naturally, he could fill museums with drawings of you. Pairing: Damian Wayne x Male reader WC: 5.8k

Dust-covered fingers were always something you had associated with Damian. Graphite, charcoal, pastels— anything he used to draw or even paint would inevitably stain his hands. It wasn’t intentional, and neither were the fingerprints he left on your stuff, or the paint you could never remove from your favorite sweater, but that didn’t stop him from apologizing. From buying you cleaning products and a new sweater; never mind it has never been worn in the year you’ve had it, Damian felt terribly sorry whenever he felt he’d stained something of yours. 

But never sorry enough to show you his drawings. 

You’d ask, you’d beg, but he would never give in. He’d show you when he was done, sure. You’d see the finished still-life drawings of whatever object had been in the line of sight, the paintings he’d done of his pets whenever he missed them, and the random sketches he did to loosen his wrist. But, damn, sometimes you wanted to see an unfinished drawing that wasn’t a warm-up. 

Even now, as the two of you are on the campus bus heading towards the music hall, he’s drawing. Sitting across from you on the bus, Damian easily adjusts himself to the movements of the bus as it jerks to a stop. He’s nice like that, you’ve never caught him off guard, he’s never fallen or stumbled in the time you’ve known him. 

Studying him, you wonder if he’s naturally so agile. You’ve seen him in your dorm's gym, during all-nighters you can sometimes see him running around campus, and once you had caught him doing one of those athletic challenges for some guy's video. He won. Of course. 

The bus comes to a complete stop and you look away, double-checking that it wasn’t your stop. It wasn’t. You knew that. But still. The need to check was far too great and you slipped back into a conversation with Damian. Only this time, you’re looking down at your phone to double-check the event and his eyes switch from staring at his sketch to staring at you. 

His eyes flicker between you and his drawing, erasing and adding lines where needed. He catches your eyes traveling up and he looks back down, working from memory as you start up a new conversation. 

Eventually, the bus reaches your stop and he carefully closes his book; he always worries he’d smudge his art, while he follows you out of the bus. 

It’s the end of the semester, ergo, it’s finals week. And for one of your music finals, everyone was to prepare a song and perform it. Truthfully, Damian doesn’t understand why you’d picked him to accompany you. He knows he’s not the best comfort, his demeanor often being the reason people don’t stick around too long. 

But, you reassured him. Telling him that his presence was more than enough for you. Knowing that he was somewhere in the crowd calms you down more than you ever cared to admit. 

The walk to the music hall isn’t short, but you can see the large building in the distance. The size is daunting on you as you see the crowd forming at the entrance. People aren’t allowed inside yet, but performers and their guests can head inside before anyone else. 

“I’m nervous,” You admit, wiping your hands on your shirt. “What if I fail?” You mutter, your eyes desperately searching to find solace in his green eyes. 

“You’ll do as you’ve always done,” He nods, looking ahead as you approach the building. “Exceptionally.” His sketchbook bumps against your folder of sheet music and you sigh through your nose, trying to calm down. 

“I’m so gonna choke,” Seeing your reflection in the glass, you feel as if you’d forgotten everything you learned. Every lesson, every mistake you fixed and learned from, the late-night practice performances with your friends. The song you’d composed nearly slips from your mind as you see yourself, walking in that suit and tie you’d worn several years ago. All of it left your mind and you felt like a beginner again. What even was a solfège?

“I'm trained in CPR.” He opens the door for you and gently encourages you inside, his fingers grazing your back. “You weren’t nearly as nervous for your accounting finals.” He notes, falling back into step with you. 

That’s another thing. Maybe that’s why you were so stressed. Double majoring was hellish. Twice the finals, quadruple the headaches. 

“Those were tests,” You scowl, showing the security your campus ID. “I’m going to be performing a live concert in front of nearly a thousand people. I cannot fuck this up, Damian. This is going to be posted for everyone to watch, too,” You ramble on. 

“Which you’ve done before, no?” He presses the elevator button and your heart hammers. You swear you’re going to pass out. He notices, of course, he does, and digs in his bag to find the fidget cube he keeps in there. 

“I have— thank you,” Taking the cube, he nods. “It’s just… I don’t know. Tests suck.” Rolling your thumb along the metal ball on one side of the cube, you stare at the numbers as they slowly tick down to the first floor. 

“That’s true,” He steps inside the elevator and you follow suit. “But you’ve made it thus far, you can go further.” He squeezes your shoulder as the doors close. There’s a silence in the elevator as it goes up to the second floor where you see your teacher waiting at the door to the waiting room, talking to a pair of students. 

“I can,” You affirm, dipping your head down as you smile. 

“You will.” 

—

You’re fifth in line to perform, watching a singer, dancer, another other pianist, and an opera singer go on before you go on did absolutely jack shit to help you. As you’re announced, you step onto the stage and try your best not to accept that there were thousands of eyes on you. Instead, you smile and wave as you walk across that large stage. Desperately looking for Damian in the sea of people. 

He’s in the front, right in front of where you could see when you glance up from the piano, you find out as you’re standing next to the piano seat. 

Damian’s eyes don’t leave yours, making eye contact with you as you fiddle with the buttons of your coat. He motions for you to stop and then does a breathe in breathe out motion with the same hand. Nodding, you blink away from him and hold your hands behind your back. Focusing on your breathing, you listen to the teacher as you’re done being introduced. 

The applause settles as you bow in, take a seat, and flip the page where your music sheet is. Slowly, you start. As a general music major, you weren’t restricted to just playing the piano. As emphasized by the microphone taped to your cheek. 

You aren’t the strongest singer by any means, you’re good for singing in the shower or on drives but you doubt you’d actually make a career off of your voice. What you hope will carry you is the piano, as you press each key your eyes flicker to Damian. He’s attentive, a smile on his face as you perform. 

Testing the waters, you glance at the people around him and they seem… pleased. Happy. Moved, even. You grin and return to staring at the sheet music. All of the notes flood back to you as you reach the last bit of the song, your eyes closing as your voice reaches a peak, holding a note. Then it’s just the piano, your voice echoing in everyone’s mind as the notes get slower and slower until you end it. 

Applause fills the hall and you stand up, taking a bow. Standing there, even if only for a moment, you can’t imagine why you’d been so nervous.

Collecting your sheet music, you exit the stage and hand the mic to the stage tech before leaving. 

When you’re nearing the exit, you spot Damian holding a bouquet of flowers. 

“When did you have the time to get these?” You laugh as he hands them to you. His eyes merely twinkle, refusing to give up one of his many secrets. “Thank you, they’re dope.” 

“You did it,” Damian reminds you as the two of you exit the building. 

“I did! Ugh!” Grabbing his shoulder with your free hand, you give him a little shake. “Thank you so much, you’re honestly the best. Was it good?” Falling into step with him, Damian doesn’t bother to fix his shirt. It’s hardly even moved, but you know he was detail-oriented in stuff like that. Hell, he hates it when he messes with his clothes. 

“It was mesmerizing.” He promises. “I do believe the woman behind me was crying.” Grinning, you stand at the bus stop, suddenly buzzing with excitement. Wanting to do it again, you start to imagine creating your own side business. Wedding musician, you can see it now. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” He avoids looking at you as he’s speaking. A rare occurrence on his part. But he does his best to look at you after building the courage. “I have an art showing next week. I understand the notice is short and you’re—“

“Send me the details.” You grin. His shoulders drop and he nods, clearly more relaxed. “I hope the attire is fancy. I got this fancy turtleneck I’ve been wanting to wear and slacks from my high school graduation just waiting to be worn!” 

—

With all of your finals out of the way, you finally had time to start removing the items from your dorm. One by one you removed posters and trinkets scattered across your end of the room. Pack your clothes into boxes, and save for enough outfits to get you through your two weeks left on campus. 

Damian was held up from finishing his art showing, unable to see you in person but he was more than happy with a Facetime call. With both your laptops placed in a space away from disturbing you, the two of you worked on your tasks. 

“I do need to be at the showing two hours early,” He tells you as you’re dragging the anti-suicide chairs to the closet, trying to see the top shelf. “But I’ll have arrangements to bring you to the venue.” 

“And my outfit is okay?” You ask, the chair wobbling as you stand on it. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. But hey, you’re not the one who installed a closet tall enough that only Shaq could see the top. “Because I can always swap out the turtle neck for a green button down— the silk one that Maddison made,” Always gave a fashion designer friend. She had used you as a model for of her projects a couple of months ago and with your measurements being unique to you, let you have it after she’d gotten her grade. 

“The button-down would be better suited,” He nods, leaning close to his painting before adding a tiny stroke. “The turtleneck is a little… on the nose.” Leaning back, he checks his reference picture before frowning. It goes away quickly as he picks up a bit of white and dabs it onto a dry brush. 

“I was afraid it was,” You laugh, grabbing a first aid kit from the shelf. Listening to him lightly brush the paint over the canvas, you toss the kit onto the bed and grab what little items are scattered up there. “Holy shit! Do you remember when that frat dude lost his frat ring?” 

“Unfortunately,” Damian glances at his screen, watching as you haphazardly get down from the chair. Nearly tripping, he wonders how you've made it this far in life without breaking a bone. 

“I think I did take it! Look!” Showing the screen, Damian looks almost impressed as you hold up a fraternity ring. It’s a shiny gold, likely fake but engraved with the initials of the Frat house. The two of you remember the guy had been going around to every single campus building with a missing ring poster. 

“What a thief,” He chides, setting his brush down and taking a physical step back from the painting. Harsh glares scan over brush strokes, ripping apart his painting bit by bit before he nods to himself. His glare morphs into a soft sort of gaze and he signs the back of it. 

“Is that your final painting for the semester?” You ask, the ring forgotten about as it’s tossed in a box of trinkets and you’ve moved on to ordering food. Probably Panda Express. Or maybe Chipotle…. really it’s whatever is closer and cheaper. 

“Hopefully,” He sighs through his nose, his paint box clicking shut. “I’ve been drawing and painting these past couple of days. My canvases take up an entire section of the art studio. I’m sure my professor cannot wait for them to dry and get glossed. Which I should probably start doing.” 

“How does that taste?” Setting your phone down, Damian’s face goes sour as he looks at you. “Personally, I think the gloss would taste tarty.” You add. “Or maybe like the frosting for Toaster Strudel.” Picking your phone back up, you continue your order. 

“Neither is correct.” He blinks. “It’s a toxin and filled with chemicals, it most likely tastes as good as acetone does, Hab—“ He pauses, and you look at him wondering what the issue is. “Habits of tasting chemicals shouldn’t be one you pick up.” He finishes his sentence with a bit of force. 

“I just love chemicals. Violin resin is my favorite.” Making a chomping noise Damian huffs. As you’re finishing up your order, you look at him. He’s halfway across campus and judging by the rack of canvases he wheeled over, he won’t be back until well into the night. Eh, it doesn’t hurt to ask. “I’m ordering some food, do you want something?” 

“No, thank you, though.” He shakes his head. “I have food from the court in case I get hungry.” He quickly adds. Humming, you place the order and scan over your room. The only things that need to get packed are things you’re still using. Now it’s just a matter of organizing the boxes and bins so you can still move around your room. 

“After the glossing, what’re you doing?”

“I have to write short summaries for each painting. No less than one hundred words,” He explains as he’s putting on a pair of latex gloves. 

“So, a breeze?” He laughs and nods. 

“I’m afraid I’ll go over the word limit,” He admits, sparing you a glance as you’re lugging a box to a corner of your room. “My paintings harbor a lot of my emotions and they’re far from short.”

“Real as fuck.”

— 

On the day of his art exhibition, you spend extra time in the bathroom. Making sure your hair is neat, and presentable, fixing your outfit, making sure you don’t stink. Anything and everything you could check over, you did. 

This nervous feeling was different from your pre-show nerves. Especially since you don’t even know why you’re nervous. Probably because you’d never actually gotten to see his paintings, at least the ones he was showing. He’d been ultra allusive about those, citing the exhibition would be the best place to view them. But even he was nervous and that’s a lot considering he’s Damian fucking Wayne. 

He texted you two minutes ago saying that the car was going to arrive within the next ten minutes and you rushed out to the front of the dorms. No need to lock the door behind you, since your roommate was busy sleeping and would stay in there until you came back. Plucking at your shirt, you watch a sleek black car pull up in front of you, and Damian texts you that the car is there. 

The ride is long, far too long for your liking anyway. But considering it’s in the middle of the city, it’s not unwarranted. 

The art… museum? What should you call it? The space where the exhibition was being held was a well-known art gallery— that’s the word! The gallery was well respected, talked about within art circles, and incredibly high-brow. Thank fuck you didn’t go with that turtleneck. 

There’s a woman in front of the gallery, greeting everyone who enters. She sees you and there’s a flash of recognition across her face. 

“It’s great to finally meet Damian’s muse,” She smiles as she shakes your hand. 

“His what?” You ask but Damian pulls you inside. 

“How was the ride?” He asks, his eyes darting between his professor and you. 

“Good but what did she mean?” You ask, looking around to see the other people around. Like your performance, it was open to the public and with Bruce Wayne’s son being in attendance, many people had showed up. Including his family. “Bruce Wayne is here?” Your head whips to Damian as you spot him in the crowd. 

“He is my father…” He trails. “Would you like to meet him?”

“Fuck no!” You gasp. “The knowledge of his wealth is burying me as we speak— but this is about you,” Turning to him, you smile. “Where’s your paintings? Those don’t look like your style,” Eyes flicker across the paintings and you can’t see Damian’s strokes, his colors or his lighting in any of them. A sort of pride swells within him, knowing that you’ve looked— studied his art enough to know that the ones around you weren’t his. 

“It has its own section,” He tells you, guiding you through groups of people and halls. “It’s going to be revealed in around half an hour. My professor insisted,” He stops at a section of the gallery covered by a curtain and two security guards. You never knew it was that serious, but damn. 

“Mr Fancy. Why don’t you catch up with your family? I’ll look around?” In truth, you were going to the nearest bathroom and making sure you didn't look stupid. 

“I’m more than certain they’d be more pleased if you accompanied me.” He shakes his head as you raise your eyebrows. “If that’s something you’d be comfortable with, of course.” 

“Sure,” Once more, he guides you past people until he spots his father and brother talking in a corner. 

“Father, Richard.” He calls as the two of you approach. “This is (Y/n).” Richard’s lips twitch as he fights back a smile, the smile only furthered curbed by his brother's glare. 

“Hello,” Waving at the two men, they reach to shake your hand instead. Bruce has a firm grip, probably tighter than it really needed to be but Richard is more than welcoming. He’s more than excited to meet you, although you can’t imagine why. 

“My other siblings are still in Gotham,” Damian explains, physically taking Dick’s hand from yours with a pointed look. “Although I’m surprised you didn’t bring Cassandra, father.”

“She’s here,” He shakes his head, glancing around for the mop of black hair. “In the bathroom, probably.” 

“Is that her?” You ask, looking at the woman in the corner. She’s standing there, downing a glass of champagne before returning to a conversation with a man. She looks like how Damian had described her, although he downplayed how intimidating she seemed. 

“Oh boy,” Dick huffs. “Let me go help her,” Excusing himself, you’re left with Damian and his father. The two of them talking with their eyes. 

“So, Damian’s told me you’re a double major,” Bruce breaks the silence and their weird eye conversation. He talks about you? Glancing at Damian, he’s making a point to look anywhere but you. That’s sorta cute— totally not in a romantic way, totally. 

“I am,” You nod, wishing a man with drinks would walk past you. “Accounting and a performing arts major.” He hums and there’s another beat of awkward silence. 

“From what he tells me, you’re excelling at both. That’s incredibly hard. Do you have any job prospects lined up for when you graduate?” He asks and you shake your head. 

“Not yet,” You admit, picking at your hands. “Since I'm not sure where I’d like to settle after I graduate it’s difficult finding places.” Bruce nods, quickly making sure Dick and Cassandra are okay. 

“Well, if your grades continue to stay or improve, Wayne Enterprises is always looking for accountants, especially one so esteemed.” He smiles at you, that sort of small smile that makes you feel more relaxed in his presence. A fatherly smile. 

“Yeah, praise from Damian is a lot.” Dick grins, leaning his weight on his younger brother. Cassandra agrees, leaning against the wall Bruce was standing in front of. “And he talks about you a ton!” 

“That’s enough.” Damian huffs, pushing himself away from Dick who frowns. “Let’s look at some of the artwork,” 

“You talk to your family about me?” You grin as he’s hauling you away from his family. He looks at you, clearly licking the inside of his mouth before he blinks and gives one strong nod. 

“Of course I do, it would be a shame to hide someone so talented.” He explains and then looks forward, his eyes swimming across the faces around him. “I do believe in your talents and my father is someone who can help them flourish; it would seem awfully cruel if I didn’t at least try.” You go to speak; to thank him but his attention is pulled away by the director of the show. 

“It’s time!” She gleams, ushering the two of you after her. 

There are already people gathered in front of his top secret exhibit, cameras and people wearing PRESS lanyards like the front and sides. Much like a moth drawn to a flame, they find Damian walking and try to hound him, only to be stopped by his family. They’re far more intimidating now but Damian pulls your attention from them and towards him. 

The two of you are in front of the whole crowd, the two guards holding one piece of the curtain and waiting for a cue to open them. 

“We welcome everyone to Damian Wayne’s very first art show,” The director says, her hand ghosting over his shoulder. He takes that as a sign to step forward, barely leaving your side as he explains his art. 

“Through My Eyes is a collection of various pieces I’ve created over the course of two years,” He explains. “The music that accompanies the art are pieces composed by my muse.” His eyes find yours as the curtains are pulled aside and for the first time, you notice the way he looks at you. The way his eyes never seem to want to leave yours, how he takes you in the same way he takes in the art around him. 

Then you hear it. More specifically you hear yourself. 

You hear the piece you’d played during your final, hearing your voice fill the spaces where people aren’t talking. Each key, and each note floods your ears as you turn to see his art. 

It’s you.

All of it. Each painting, each frame has something of you in it. 

“Holy shit.” You breathe, moving to the closest one. It’s a painting of you, wearing clothes you’d only seen in shows like Merlin, holding onto a statue of an angel. It’s almost impossible to not know where the inspiration had come from. After convincing Damian to go exploring with you and some friends, you’d come across a newly abandoned church with a large angel statue. On a dare, you pretended to dance with it. 

Sure, you’d seen the picture before but it was nothing compared to the painting. It looked amazing, you had never looked better. Your features were captured in the best way possible, you’d been posed in a way that made it seem as if you were guiding the angel in a dance. 

The description catches your eye next. 

One Last Dance wasn’t the first drawing of Muse, but it was the first drawing of him that I truly loved. He’d resparked a passion for painting for me. The painting had been on my mind for two weeks before I finally started to work on it, having it become my only focus for the two days that I worked on it became the norm for the next two years of my life. 

Muse doesn’t personally care for the Renaissance era, but it seemed fitting for such a painting. The feeling of dressing Muse in modern clothes didn’t ruin the drawing but it didn’t make sense, in my head their dance is accompanied by the sounds of the wings and their feet gliding across the floor. Just outside is probably a mob, unbelievable of a true angel. Muse would probably say that he was dancing to the sounds of Sleep Token and outside was a bunch of ‘angel fuckers’, but who knows. 

D.W

The next painting was smaller than the first, but it’s a close-up of your face. Your eyes are wide and you’re desperately pulling at your eyelids as a light twinkles inside of it. 

Blinding Gaze came about when Muse had gone to the eye doctor, fearing he was going blind. Turns out he was just extremely stressed to the point of temporary blindness. When we spoke about it, he joked that he was developing powers from that time he drank a sports drink mixed with a crushed-up Tylenol and he could shoot lasers from his eyes. While Blinding Gaze doesn’t follow his original plan of lasers, I imagine developing eye lights could be frightening. 

Blinding Gaze isn’t body horror, although I had intended it to be but I couldn’t bring myself to put Muse into that position. Even if it was completely fake. I did eventually remake the painting how I truly envisioned it, but I still prefer my Muse to the remake. 

Drifting to the next painting, you see yourself, dressed in your favorite smudged hoodie, dancing amongst the crowd. The people are drowned out in the colors of the background, nearly blending in meanwhile you’re ever so present. The light shone down on you in a way that made you seem like the main character in some movie, all eyes meant to be on you. 

A Night To Remember was undoubtedly one of the best moments of college thus far. Muse had been invited to a friend's party and insisted I come instead of remaining in the art room, drowning myself in oils and pastels. Although I’ve put his words in a more friendly manner. I hadn’t wanted to go, the noises and being pressed against unfamiliar faces was hardly something I ever enjoyed. But for Muse, I’d do anything he’d asked of me. 

Glued to him for the night, I found myself unreasonably drawn to him. I do not remember the song, in truth, I don’t remember much from that night aside from him. The way he danced, how he looked at me. How he looked in the room. I resented not bringing my sketchbook, but I would’ve been more out of place than I originally had been. 

Smoothening your shirt, you take a nervous glance around you. You’re unsure about how you feel, it’s a lot. You’ve never truly thought about Damian in such a light before, at least not to your knowledge. Sure, you’ve written compositions about him and sure, if you read between the lines in some songs they’re definitely about him. You and Him. 

Perhaps, without realizing it, you had made him your muse just as he had made you his. 

“I want you to see this one,” Damian says as he walks up behind you, finally free of people asking him questions. The music loops as he does and you count that there’s five songs on the set playlist. Each and every song was one you had created. Your song from the previous week plays again as you stare at him, smiling. 

“I’m your muse?” You softly ask, unable to remove yourself from the spot until you have gotten your words out. Damian dips his head down for a moment and wipes his nose. “You’re nervous,” The small tease makes his eyes roll and he clears his throat, the red settling from his tanned ears. 

“I want you to see this one,” He repeats and grabs your hand, gently guiding you past the people surrounding the room. They look at the two of you, watching as you walk up to a large painting in the center of the room. Clearly a last-minute addition but it seemed to be the focus. 

“Woah,” Is all you can say when you see the painting of you during your final. It’s painted in the same style as your favorite art era. The romantic era where colors were soft, even if they were dark. The painting itself had you in the center, a sea of people at the bottom and there are several ghostly figures of yourself, dancing across the stage leaving streaks of yourself at the top. The floor of the stage was covered in candles. 

“How long did this take you?” You ask, eyes darting between details and finding new ones each time you look. 

“Two days,” He shrugs. Slowly, you look at him and he looks back at you, confused. “I couldn’t sleep until I finished the painting. The way you looked during your final.” He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “It’s truly beautiful— you’re truly beautiful,” He adds, looking at you. 

“When you paint me like that I definitely am,” You laugh, looking back at the painting. 

“I only painted you through my lens. Perhaps your eyes aren’t as good as you think they are because the paintings truly do not live up to their references. You’re captivating and the way you’ve consumed my thoughts is honestly intoxicating.” His eyes twinkle as you look at each other. You don’t know what to say, honestly. You can stroke your ego a little, you could crack a joke, or you could bear yourself completely to him. But definitely not in a room filled with people. 

“Ah,” Dick breaks the silence. “You know he used to be a junior poet?” Grumbling, Damian looks over at Richard as he’s staring at the painting, sipping sparkling champagne from a flute glass while holding a cracker with cheese and jelly. Gross. Probably, you’ve never had it before. 

“I do believe I asked for a moment alone,” Damian gives a half-snarky grin and Dick shrugs. 

“A whole lotta people here, doubt you’d be alone.” With a sweeping motion, he gestures to the crowd around you. It’s not elbow-to-elbow crowded but you can hear at least seven conversations happening around you. 

“I suppose you’re correct,” He nods, following his brother's line of thinking. “Fresh air?” He asks you and you nod. 

There’s a park in front of the exhibit and it’s mostly empty, save for two kids and their parents but they’re clearly about to leave. Damian heads towards the benches but you pull him to the swings. There are three but one of them is tossed over the bar and you don’t feel like fixing it. 

Sitting with your back to the exhibit, you look over the trees and the playground. The sandpit with someone’s lost doll sitting down, a bucket behind it. 

“What did you think?” He spoke up after a minute had passed. The entire time he watched as you gently rocked back and forth on the swings, tempting yourself to actually swing. 

“You’re amazingly talented,” You hum, turning your head to meet his gaze. “Although, I already knew that. You’re like Michelangelo with everything you pick up.” Glancing at him, you smile when you see his hands. “You still haven’t cleaned the charcoal from your nails.” 

“No,” He blinks, his eyes staying closed for a beat longer than a blink. “Not of my skill level, (Y/n). Of the drawings. That you’re Muse.” He looks down at his fingertips and starts to pick at the bits of charcoal. “That you’re my muse.”

Softly you sigh before looking back to the trees. 

“What is there to think about? You’re my muse, I'm yours.” 

“You’ve written songs about me?” He asks and you sheepishly nod, refusing to look at him. “Which? If you don’t mind me asking,”

“Birds of a feather, I wanna be yours, and Golden hour. There’s more but they’re too embarrassing to admit,” Hearing him take a deep breath, you pick at your fingernails and slowly stop swinging.

“What now?” You ask, finally looking at him. He shrugs and starts to slowly swing. He thinks for a moment before he checks his phone. 

“When are you free? I can make reservations to—“

“Applebees or Red Lobster,” You cut him off and he looks at you, confused. “Applebees is once every so often, birthdays or celebrations. But Red Lobster? That’s graduation or date.” 

“You could’ve gone for a five-star restaurant, you know that, right?” He laughs and you shrug. 

“I heard they’re pretty shit. And I want to fuck up a seafood boil. Oh wait,” Blinking, you try to remember the Red Lobster menu. “Never mind, I don’t think they have vegetarian options. We could do Olive Garden or whatever vegetarian places you like. I’m not picky,” 

“And I am?” He teases and you roll your eyes. “Friday, at five. I’ll pick you up and we’ll go to Olive Garden. And then to the movies to watch that new horror movie you’ve been wanting to watch.”

“That sounds perfect,” You nod and nudge your swing into his. 

“Can I admit something?” He slowly asks. “Forgive me if I’m being too forward but…” Watching as he licks his lip, you stop swinging. “May I kiss you?” 

“Yes.” You nod. Trying not to seem too eager, the both of you stand up and you watch as he raises his hands to cup your face. His fingers are warm, gliding across your skin as you hook one arm around his waist while the other holds his shoulder. “Do you want to lead?” You whisper as he looks at you, unmoving. His eyes dart down to your lips and he nods before closing the distance. 

His hands drag a little down your face, his pinky curving under your jaw before moving up into your hair. Slowly the kiss breaks and he dips back down for one quick kiss. 

“He’s been waiting months to do that,” Dick announces and Damian groans. You snicker and look behind Damian. Dick isn’t even looking, looking off into the distance before he’s sure that you’re done kissing before looking at the two of you. 

“Must he ruin everything?” He whispers to you before facing his brother. “I understand you have no concept of privacy, but this warrants that.” Dick frowns at the rudeness before he shrugs and points his thumb towards the venue. 

“They’re asking for you, thought I should come and get you before they spot you.” He explains through a sigh. “Would hate for our little demon’s kiss to end up on the front page. But, yeah,” He sighs and looks over at you. He stares at your face for a moment before he chuckles. 

“Take him to the bathroom, you got dust on his face.”

“It’s charcoal.”

[chiwhorei]

daddy!Jiraiya asking his sexy but sexually naive daughter to help him do research for his next book by bathing with him at his personal hot spring... pretty please with a pervy sage on top! ;)

Pʀᴏᴏғ ᴏғ Cᴏɴᴄᴇᴘᴛ

╰┈➤ Notes: love DADDY RIAYA SO MUCH I’M GONNA PISS

╰┈➤ Tags: shortform, drabble, incest, dumbification, dubcon, DDLG, daddy’s girlfriend, Daddy!Jiraiya x fem!reader ૮꒰ྀི∩˃ ᵕ ˂∩꒱ྀི১

Jiraiya loves how inexperienced and naïve his little girl is, completely unaware of the filth and sinew that plagues this mortal world. Even now as a young adult, you’ve not yet even kissed a boy. You’ve kissed your daddy, of course, but he says that doesn’t count!

He reads parts of his stories to you, he tells you that you’re his biggest inspiration and pinches the big smile on your cheeks

You always fluster so sweet when Jiraiya calls you his muse. “Really Daddy?” You’ll ask with soft, wanton eyes. And he’ll coo you and tell you that you’re so much more too. That you’re the dedication on every book’s first page, that you’re Daddy’s proof of concept.

“I wouldn’t know anything about love if it weren’t for you, Princess.”

Daddy needs you, you’re integral to his work, so when he asks you to follow him out to the hot spring and spend some alone time with him, you don’t think anything of it. He tells you he’s got an idea for his next book, but wants to do some ‘workshopping’ with the plot.

“Two lovers find themselves at a little inn out in the sticks, it’s secluded, and quiet, and there’s no one around for miles.” You preen at his words, his fingers helping you out of your fluffy robe and attaching to your bare skin, “Doesn’t that sound romantic?”

He tells you that boyfriends are supposed to treat their girlfriends like Daddy treats you. “Does that mean you’re my boyfriend, Daddy?” Your voice is so pure and clueless, Jiraiya could melt and evaporate into the steam surrounding you.

“Oh my sweet girl,” Daddy pulls you into his lap, you can feel something long and thick against your stomach, “of course I am.”

The water and the heat between your two bodies is making you dizzy, and your head falls into Daddy’s neck. Jiraiya strokes your back with his fingers, stopping right before the curve of your ass. His touch makes you squirm, and the light contact becomes a guiding hand— pushing you down to grind on Daddy’s cock.

“Do you want me to show you what else boyfriends do?” Daddy whispers in your ear, and you whimper an answer that only kind of sounds like a “y- yes please”

When Jiraiya’s fingers dip down under the water and pinch at your poor little clit, you can’t hold in the loud, confused whining. Daddy hushes into your hair, whispering sweet words of encouragement to start moving your hips however feels good. Your movements are clumsy and tepid, but your daddy is a patient man, he can afford all the time left in the world to teach you all kinds of new things.

And he’ll dedicate his next book to the sweet little girl from the hot spring.

。✯ ＼｜／。✯ ＼ ｜ ／✯ 。✯ ＼ ｜ ／✯ 。✯ ＼｜／✯ 。

❥ ᴄʜɪᴡʜᴏʀᴇɪ.2023©️ ᴀʟʟ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢs ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ. Dᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴏʀ ʀᴇᴘᴏsᴛ.