#I think there are 10 left something like that

[reidsism]

➳ THE SOUND OF HEARTBREAK — S.R

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spencer reid x soft!bimbo!reader

in which, for all your love, you just can’t compare to the most beautiful girl in the world

wc: 13.5k (woah)

warnings: post maeve arc (so spoilers for 8×10 - 8×12), heavy angst, but so so much love and fluff before it! im picturing this taking place between s8 and s9 lol. also some of the bau aren’t like. super nice in this one soz :/

a/n: don’t stress abt the ending too much bc im already planning a part two (tbh a whole saga around these two icl). also yeah if u can’t tell, i don’t really like maeve im so sorry. i don’t think i do her any injustice here but this is like. me fixing stuff. sorta. kinda. not really. mostly just painfully. :,) also omg reblogs?! best part of my day fr

“Just as one day we will be separated by my death or yours. I know this must seem like a heaping up of obscurities to you. I can't say it in a more orderly and comprehensible way. I love you wildly, insanely, infinitely.” -Boris Pasternak, Doctor Zhivago.

The living room is quiet.

Spencer’s apartment is always quiet, peaceful, warm. How could it not be, surrounded by books you’d never heard of, shelves that reach the ceiling and lined edge-to-edge with copies of novels that are older than you, in languages you can’t begin to comprehend?

The chess table is still set up, mid-game, from where Spencer had been teaching you how to play the other day. He’d gotten a call from his boss that he had to come in, and Spencer had stared at the board for no more than a moment before saying you could continue once he was back, then he pressed a kiss to the space between your eyebrows—your glabella, as he had once mentioned—before rushing out the door.

It still feels strange, being in his apartment without him here. But he had called you from the jet on his way back, and asked if you’d be home when he got back. He sounded so sleepy, so sweet, you couldn’t help the murmur of assent from spilling from your lips.

He’d only given you a key a week ago, and you were beyond shocked when he had pressed it into your hand, the metal digging into your palm. This, between you, was still so new, so young. But he’d assured you that he trusted you, that he always wanted you around, that you having a key to his home wasn’t a matter of if, only when, and he’d prefer not to waste unnecessary time.

It’s late when the door opens.

Spencer is quiet when he enters, expecting to see you either curled up on his couch or lying asleep in his bed, but instead, you’re standing at one of his bookshelves, your hand outstretched to reach at the higher shelves.

He’s a bit surprised. The top three shelves on that unit are all foreign novels, ones he’s collected from his youth. Latin, German, Russian, Korean, and even a couple of thick Spanish texts that he used mostly to continue learning the language.

You’re silent, not even turning your head to acknowledge his presence, and Spencer wonders if you’ve even heard the door at all.

“Angel?” he prompts, causing your head to whip to the left so quickly he’s momentarily concerned you’ve given yourself whiplash. You tear yourself away from the shelf immediately, like the surface itself has burned you, and Spencer pauses. “You okay? You didn’t even hear me come in.”

You just nod, jerkily, tucking your lower lip between your teeth. “I was just looking,” you tilt your head to the shelf and shrug, pulling the sleeves of your sweater over your hands and crossing your arms over your chest. “Sorry.”

Spencer shakes his head, hanging up his messenger bag and coat on the hook by the door. “You don’t need to apologize,” he says, coming closer to you. “Are you curious about them? You can borrow a few, if you want.” He sits on the couch carefully, like he knows there’s something you’re not saying.

You shake your head with a sigh, glancing back over at his stacks of novels. “That’s alright, Spence.” He pats the cushion next to him and you seat yourself slowly onto the cool leather, crossing your legs under yourself. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’d get it anyway.”

Spencer furrows his brows. “I’m sure you would, actually. There’s no reason why you couldn’t, unless it was a language you don’t understand. But even then,” he tilts his head, scooching ever so slightly closer to you. “I can still read them to you.”

You sigh softly. “I know, honey. You know I love it when you read to me,” the corner of your lips twitch up, and it makes a slow grin pull at Spencer’s cheeks. “How was the case, anyway?”

Spencer shrugs. “Fine, as usual. It doesn’t matter anymore, anyway.” He rests his arm over the back of the couch, a silent beckon for you to curl into him like usual. “I’m home now. With you,” he presses the softest of kisses to your hairline. “Are you tired?”

You shake your head, “Not really. I’m sure you are, though. Want me to start the kettle?” Spencer can’t help the nod—he is tired. Exhausted, even. You just smile at him before standing and padding to the kitchen and turning on the stove, setting the metal kettle on the burner.

He hears the cabinets open and the sound of ceramic being placed on granite. You’re quietly humming to yourself, and Spencer closes his eyes. It’s nice, so domestic in a way he hadn’t expected. You peek your head around the corner for a moment. “Lavender or peppermint?”

He smiles, all warm and soft. “Lavender, please.”

You nod once, your head hiding behind the wall again before you peek back out. “Maybe take a shower, honey. It’ll help you relax, y’know,” you grin, teasing at him. “The tea’ll be done when you are.”

Spencer’s eyes crinkle as he chuckles, watching you turn back to the kitchen. He stands with a sigh before heading into his bedroom to grab pyjamas and a towel, then into the bathroom where he leaves the door open, just a crack.

You take the kettle off the burner before it has a chance to whistle, not wanting to disturb this quiet, peaceful comfort that has settled into the cozy warmth of your boyfriend’s apartment. You make his tea exactly how he likes it; black, with no less than four sugars.

You hear the water from the shower shut off just as you’re bringing the mugs to the coffee table—on coasters, cute little pastel ceramic ones shaped like fruit slices. You’d bought them at a flea market downtown years ago, and when you saw that he didn’t have any, despite all the coffee and tea he drinks, you didn’t hesitate to bring them over.

They might look slightly out of place in this warm, cozy place, but, well… Maybe you have that in common.

The bedroom door creaks open before you have the chance to spiral too far. Spencer emerges in a loose-fitting MIT tee and sweatpants. He meanders slowly to the couch before flopping down and grabbing his mug—his usual one, with “think like a proton, they’re always positive!” faded on the side. It’s starting to chip, but he got it for free at a physics convention in Anaheim back when he attended Caltech, and it’s been a memento since.

He smiles as he picks it up off the bright coaster before looking at you. He nods towards the bookshelf you were staring at earlier. “Can you grab that red one for me, angel?” he gestures to a large leather-bound hardcover on the second shelf.

You nod and reach up to grab it. It’s heavier than you’d expected, but you take it to the couch before curling into Spencer’s side.

This has become routine every night you spend here. You make tea, and Spencer reads to you on the couch until you’re either both passed out or too tired to continue, before heading to bed.

You get comfortable, pulling your knees to your chest as he covers you both with the plush throw blanket he keeps on the back of the couch. Spencer clears his throat before starting to read, flipping to some random page in the middle of the book. You don’t question it, just close your eyes and rest your head on his chest.

His voice is low, quiet as he begins to read. You’ve already begun to drift off by the time you start to register the words he’s saying. They’re not from anything he’s ever read to you before.

“I felt a mortal pity for the boy I was, and still more pity for the girl you were. My whole being was astonished and asked: If it’s so painful to love and absorb electricity, how much more painful it is to be a woman, to be the electricity, to inspire love. ‘Here at last I’ve spoken it out. It could make you lose your mind. And the whole of me is in it.’”

You sit up, peering at the pages that Spencer’s eyes are trained on. You can’t hold back the way your breath catches.

“Spence, what is this?” Your brows furrow as you sit up fully, removing yourself from the warmth of his embrace. You wrap the throw blanket around your shoulders tightly.

He glances up from the book. “Doctor Zhivago,” he says simply, as if that explains everything. At your slightly raised brows, he continues. “It’s a Russian romantic novel by poet and composer Boris Pasternak. It was first published in 1957, and—”

“No, I mean, what is that?” You shake your head, pointing at the page.

Spencer’s brow furrows. “The language? This is Cyrillic. It’s the Russian alphabet, and—”

You cut him off again. “I know what Cyrillic is, Spencer.” You can’t hide the bite in your voice. “I meant, what- how- why are you reading it in Russian?”

He shrugs, closing the cover softly. “I have both the original Russian and the English translation, but I prefer this version. The translation makes it clunky, it doesn’t get the tone quite right.”

You just blink at him. “I didn’t know you spoke Russian,” you whisper, curling deeper into the blanket. You hate this, the feeling of inadequacy that comes so frequently from being with a man like Dr. Spencer Reid.

He sets the book down on the coffee table. “I don't, actually. I can read it, though.” He glances sidelong at you. “Is that… a bad thing?”

You shake your head, finally looking at him. “No, of course not, honey. I just,” you sigh. “I don’t know. I feel like I can’t keep up with you sometimes.”

All the time.

Spencer purses his lips. “Well, I don’t need you to. Frankly, I don’t really want you to.”

And that gives you pause. “Really?”

He nods, reaching for you, and you allow him to cradle you in his lap again. “Really. This might come as a bit of a surprise, angel,” he grins, “but I do like you.”

Your face goes warm. You press your cheek into his chest. “I know.” It’s quiet, a murmur, a whisper.

Spencer presses a feather-light kiss to your head. It’s late and quiet and calm, and you’re so warm, cuddled into him and under this plush blanket, that it takes no time at all until you’re fast asleep.

The sun wakes you before you’re quite ready, the bright rays shining on your face.

You’re still curled into Spencer’s chest, his legs stretched out along the length of the couch, whereas you know it’ll hurt to stand after having your knees tucked up all night. The blanket is still wrapped around you, the warmth more suffocating than comforting now, but the weight of his arm slung around your waist is a welcome one.

You peer your head up to look at him, to take him in, in this peaceful state of relaxation. You love this part, when you wake before him and he doesn’t turn his face away when you admire him.

His face is smushed into the throw pillow, his hair wild and messy, thrown every which way like a halo around his head. He’s snoring so softly you can barely hear it, but you do, because there’s nothing about this man you can’t notice.

You try to ignore the tug in your chest. It almost hurts. He looks so peaceful and happy and loved, so relaxed in this sleepy state of the early morning. You almost feel guilty for the thoughts that run wild in your head. How is this real? How is he real? How the hell do you fit into this world—his world—full of chess and tea and comfort and Russian poetry and genius minds?

But then he stirs, and his arm instinctively tightens its hold on your waist, his large hand splaying out over your back. He stretches slightly and, before he even opens his eyes, there’s a smile on his lips.

“Morning, angel.”

Your heart stutters wildly in your chest. You almost feel like bursting into tears right there, collapsing into his chest and letting him comfort you in that way you know he will. But you swallow it back. Just smile at the dopey look on his face, his eyes still shut.

You press the softest of kisses to his cheek, and maybe it’s your mind, but you swear he looks confused for a moment, his brows pulling together as he inhales, his nose at your neck.

It’s your mind. It has to be; your feelings of inadequacy are making you paranoid. “How’d you sleep, baby?” you murmur, your lips brushing his cheek before you pull away.

Then he opens his eyes, his honey-brown irises taking you in so sweetly, scanning over your face as a soft smile overtakes his lips. “Best sleep I’ve gotten in a long while,” he grins, pressing a peck at your lips. “Do you want any coffee?”

You nod, allowing him to crawl out from under you and stand from the couch. He pads into the kitchen, leaving you with your mugs from last night and the red leather hardcover of Doctor Zhivago. You soften immediately. Spencer was reading you poetry. He’d never done that before, read anything romantic. Usually, he read something you were at least familiar with, the classics, stuff you somewhat remember reading in high school. But this warms your heart so much you swear it’ll melt right there in your chest, drip down your ribs like sticky-sweet honey.

You stand, stretching out your legs, and pick up the mugs before bringing them to the kitchen. Spencer’s standing at the counter, his back to you, his hands bracing the edge of the counter. You set the mugs down in the sink and wrap your arms around his waist, resting your cheek on his back. “You okay, honey?”

Spencer nods, placing his hands over yours where they lay on his front. “I’m fine, angel. You can leave the mugs, I’ll wash them. Did you want to shower?”

You hum, pulling away from the hug but maintaining your hold on his hand. “Sure. Did you wanna join me?” you grin, “y’know, save water, and all that?”

Spencer’s neck flushes red, and he swallows harshly. “Not right now, sweetheart. But go ahead, take your time.” He gives your palm a squeeze when you pout. “Your coffee will be done by the time you’re back, and I don’t have to go in to work. Not unless I get a call.” He smiles when your face brightens. “So we’ll have the day, okay?”

You nod, a grin wide across your lips before you’re bouncing off to his bedroom. He hears the shower turn on a moment later, and he sighs heavily as he turns on the sink to wash the mugs.

Spencer can’t stop the quirk of his lips as he stares at your mug for a moment—a cute, bright pink one, tapered at the top like an upside-down strawberry. He takes extra care as he washes it, making sure to get soapy water around all of the molded leaves and seeds.

He exhales as he sets it aside. Runs a damp hand down his face. He needs to collect himself, but god, it’s so hard when he swears she’s hovering over his shoulder.

Spencer’s reading silently on the couch, sipping at the last bit of coffee in his mug. You’re on the other end, scrolling absently on your phone as you set your strawberry mug onto an orange slice coaster. You glance over at him, and you soften. “Spence?”

He hums, looking up at you. You’re lost looking into his eyes. He’s wearing glasses today, his thick browline ones that frame his face just right, and you wonder why he wears contacts so often. Why he doesn’t let himself look like this more frequently. He looks stunning in spectacles. “Angel?”

You blink at his prompting. “I was just wondering,” you shrug, glancing over your shoulder at the chess table behind you. “Did you want to continue?”

Spencer lets a smile slowly overtake his cheeks. He nods, setting down his mug onto a pink grapefruit slice coaster. “If you want, sure.” At your assent, he stands, holding out a hand.

Your cheeks flush with warmth as he helps you stand from the couch. You follow him to the table before seating yourself in the same seat as a week ago, staring at the pieces in concentration.

He smiles. “Do you remember where we left off? You nod, and he moves his rook up two places.

Your hand hovers over your knight, then your queen, almost shaking with uncertainty. Spencer watches you, his eyes soft but calculating, patiently waiting for your next move. You rest your fingers over a pawn and move it up one space with resignation.

“You know, angel,” Spencer says softly, all gentle comfort. “It’s not about making the perfect move. It’s about thinking a few steps ahead, but also,” he moves his rook up and takes the pawn you’d just moved, setting it to the side. “Trusting your instincts. You’ve got this,” he smiles so warmly at you, so reassuring. You still feel the slightest twinge of frustration and embarrassment.

Chess doesn’t come naturally to you, but you’re determined to figure it out. For him.

You bite your lip, glancing over the board. You’re sure his comment about trusting your instincts has something to do with the way you’d hesitated, but you’re still so confused about what to do. You glance up at Spencer again, his eyes fixed on the board, his hands gently tapping at the edge of the table.

“What should I do with my queen?” you ask, a little hesitant. “I feel like she’s… I don’t know. Not doing much.” God, how do you stop feeling so stupid about this?

Spencer just smiles, that warm, gentle expression that makes you feel like you’re the only one in the room. “That’s okay, sweetheart. Remember, your queen can move in any direction. Horizontal, vertical, or diagonal, but only as long as nothing is blocking her path. She’s powerful. You have to decide how to use her.”

You nod slowly, trying to picture it in your head. “So… I can go anywhere? Like, here?” you ask, pointing to a spot near his king.

“Exactly,” he says, his voice steady, his gaze never leaving the board. “But you’ll want to think about what happens after you move her. Like, does it leave you open to being attacked? Does it bring you closer to checkmate?”

You inhale shakily, trying to digest it all as you nod, but it’s a lot to process. You take a deep breath. You can do this. You look down at the board, then back at him, his gaze still so patient. “What if I mess up?” you ask softly, unable to hide the shyness in your voice, your tone full of the nervous doubt you try to push down.

Spencer chuckles gently. “You won’t mess up, angel. Even if you do, it’s just part of learning. I’m not going anywhere,” he smiles. “You’re doing great.”

His words warm you more than the mug of coffee you’d just finished, and you feel that familiar flutter in your chest. You allow yourself a small, shy grin before focusing on the board again. You move your queen exactly as he described, cautiously placing her diagonally across the board.

Spencer’s eyes light up a little, and his smile widens. “See? That’s the right move. You’re getting it. You’re really good at this,” and oh, how your chest positively aches at the pride in his expression.

Your heart skips a beat at his compliment, like it always does, and you let out a soft giggle. “I’m not that good, Spence,” you reply, trying to play it off.

He shakes his head, and you can see the admiration in his eyes. “You’re more natural at this than you think, trust me. Just keep practicing.” You sit back, watching him move a piece, and then he looks up at you, tilting his head. “It’s all about finding balance—taking risks, but also knowing when to protect what matters. Just like life.”

You blink at him, a little stunned by the way his words feel. Just like life? Maybe that’s what this whole chess thing is about—finding a way to balance your moves, even when things feel a little uncertain. Even when you’re just learning.

And then Spencer laughs softly, snapping you out of your thoughts. “You look so lost in thought, angel. Am I being too deep or introspective?” He gently pushes his glasses up his nose from where they’ve begun to slip down the slope of it.

You shake your head quickly, your heart racing as his eyes meet yours. “No, no! Not at all! I’m just thinking about how much you know.” You move your knight in an L-shape, like he taught you, and if the twinkle in his eye is any indication, you’ve made a good move. “Like, it’s crazy. You make it all sound so easy.”

Spencer just shrugs modestly, then picks up his rook and moves it up. “It’s just about seeing the whole board. Everyone has their own way of learning. Yours just happens to be different.” His eyes soften as he looks at you, and you feel your heart tug. “And I think that’s what makes you special.”

You bite down on your lip, trying to focus on the game again, but his words are ringing in your ears, making everything feel like it’s a little too perfect. The fact that he’s teaching you, patiently guiding you through something new, something you want to learn for him, feels so intimate.

You try to steady your breath as you make your next move, feeling your fingers brush against his as you capture his bishop. It’s a brief touch, but it makes your heart race. You chance a peek at him, and oh. His smile is so impossibly bright. You clear your throat and continue, tucking his bishop onto the table beside the board.

You’ve got this.

It's mid-afternoon when you pipe up again. “Y’know, the weather’s really nice today, Spence.”

He looks up from his book, honey-brown eyes tracing your nose from where you’re curled under his arm. “Yeah, I saw. It’s supposed to be pretty temperate until next week; then the rain is supposed to hit.” He lifts his arm from your shoulders and tenderly traces his knuckle down your jaw. “Did you want to go out?”

You shrug lamely, going shy and warm under his gentle gaze. “I don’t know, I guess, yeah. It’s really warm out.” Your eyes lock onto his. “I think we could go to the park or something?”

Spencer smiles, his hand gently gripping your chin as he presses a soft kiss to your lips. “That sounds great, sweetheart.” He stands, and pulls you up with him. He crouches to help you slip on your running shoes and ties the laces. You can’t tear your eyes from his lithe, slender fingers working the laces and, oh. Your heart beats wildly in your chest.

He stands and slings his messenger bag over his shoulder before grabbing his keys with one hand and yours with the other.

His fingers intertwine with yours, and you flush with warmth. He smiles at you as he leads you out of his apartment, locking the door with one hand before you head downstairs.

It’s warm and breezy, the air a perfect 75° outside, the wind just soft enough to sweep at your hair without messing it up. Spencer’s hand is still tangled with yours, and you can’t keep the smile off your face as he goes on some tangent about the differences between mallards and pintail ducks, because you’d just passed a pond and wondered why they looked so different.

You wish you were focusing, but god, you’re lost. So incredibly lost. Staring at his side profile, his brows raising and furrowing, his nose scrunching in that perfect way that makes you just want to bite it. He’s so animated, so enthusiastic about this, it’s a bit staggering.

You don't know when it happened, but now, looking up at him in this dreamy way, like he’s hardly real, like you’ve invented him to cover up the hurt from the meanness of those in your past, you’re sure of it.

You’re in love.

Somewhere between the way he reads to you and teaches you chess with all the patience in the world, between the way he remembers how you always take your coffee and kisses you first thing in the morning, between his warm linen sheets and the dusty scent of his books, you’ve fallen totally, completely in love.

And you don’t know why that invokes so much fear within you. Isn’t it a good thing, to fall in love with your boyfriend? To love him so wholly, so deeply, you aspire to learn the things he loves? To yearn for sameness, to relate to him, to keep up with his statistical rants about anything from the decline of leather-bound novels to the likelihood of walking past a serial killer without ever knowing it?

And then he looks down at you, notices the wistful, faraway look in your eyes as you just stare at him, and all he can do is laugh. He pulls you ever closer, pushes your hair back, and kisses your temple, and you positively melt. He’s so gentle with you, it almost hurts.

Then he’s tugging at your hand, and you look away from him for the first time since you arrived at the park. There’s a couple of tents set up along the path further ahead, and even though you groan through a laugh, Spencer looks so giddy, so excited, you can’t even think about ruining that. So you go along with him, his hand gently tugging at yours, before he stops at one tent towards the end.

Jewellry.

Spencer takes a while looking down at the display, before he picks up a simple gold necklace, a modest, tiny pink gemstone hanging off the chain. Spencer doesn’t hesitate before asking how much and pulling a twenty from his wallet.

You can’t tear your eyes from him. You feel like you haven’t so much as blinked in the last three minutes.

Spencer turns to you, the necklace hanging from his hand like it’s nothing more than a silly little trinket, and maybe it is. It’s probably some cheap, knockoff thing that’ll tarnish in a week, something that he paid far too much for, and you’re sure he knows that.

But he’s standing in front of you, holding it out with the sweetest, gentlest, most open expression you’ve ever seen on him.

And for that? The necklace might as well be twenty-four-carat gold and diamond-encrusted.

You blink at him, your brows furrowing upwards and eyes wide like a doe. “Do you want me to wear it?” you ask, sheepish and small and looking up at him like you’d give him the very earth itself if you could.

Spencer just smiles, all soft and warm and good. “I got it for you.” He shrugs, like this is nothing. Like it's casual and not like he’s holding your heart in his fist, like you trust him enough to not throttle it. “You can do whatever you want with it, angel.”

And, oh.

This is love. You’re certain of it. You’re so lost in the warmth of his eyes, the love pounding against your chest, that you don’t even notice the way he goes quiet, rigid, no longer looking at you, but through you. Like he heard something he wasn’t supposed to.

“Can you put it on me?”

Your soft voice breaks him from his trance, and immediately, the warmth returns to his gaze, his smile comes back so quickly it’s almost as if it never left. He nods, gently turning you around, and you pull your hair away from your neck.

Spencer is slow, reverent, as he drapes the chain around your neck. Careful as he clasps it. He even bends enough to press a soft, almost intangible kiss to your nape before stepping away.

And when you turn around, dropping your hair? Your palms go to his cheeks, clasping him like something precious between your hands, and you kiss him with all the love in the world.

All the love you’ve left unsaid.

You’re barely back inside his apartment when Spencer’s phone buzzes from its place in his bag.

You haven’t stopped toying with your necklace since he put it on you. The charm is almost glued to your fingers now; you’re unable to stop messing with it on your neck. It’s something so simple, but it feels like something more. Like something meaningful.

You’ve already seated yourself on his couch when he comes and plops beside you, a new, brighter grin on his face. “What was that, baby?” you ask softly, watching as he sets his phone face down on the coffee table.

“That was Garcia,” he smiles. “She invited us for drinks at Porter’s tonight.”

You blink. “She invited us, or she invited you?”

Spencer pauses, his hand momentarily ceasing its ministrations on your shoulder. “I mean, she invited me, and the team. But,” he sighs, turning to face you fully. “But, I think it would be nice. Introducing you to them.”

You inhale softly. “You sure? You don’t think it’s, like,” you glance down at your lap. “Too early?”

He shakes his head, his hand gently hooking under your chin to tilt your face up so he can look at you properly. “Angel, you already have a key to my place. I don’t think anything is ‘too early’ anymore.” His head tilts. “If you’re not ready to meet them, you know I wouldn’t force you to, right?” At your nod, he continues. “I would like for you to meet them. Really. They’re really important to me, and so are you. But if you don’t think you’re ready, or if you don’t want to, you don’t have to come. Or, I can stay home.”

Your eyes go wide, doelike and soft. Where on earth did this perfect man come from?

“Las Vegas,” he murmurs. You blink at him. He simply grins. “And I’m not perfect, sweetheart,” he turns bashful, his thumb gentle as it caresses your jaw.

“You’re so good,” you whisper, a whine in your voice. “Why- how are you so good?” You can’t help the tears that fill your waterline now, and Spencer immediately cradles you to his chest.

He shushes you softly. “I’m just normal, angel. I promise,” he chuckles. “I’m not doing anything that you don’t deserve.”

You sob impossibly harder.

“I would love to meet your friends, honey,” you pull away, your mascara smeared down your cheeks. Spencer’s hand comes up to cup your jaw, his thumb lightly brushing away the black smears from your skin like he’s doing something holy. Like he’s done it before, like he’d do it a thousand more times if you asked.

“You sure?” he whispers, careful, like if he speaks too loud this—you—might disappear. Like this is all some vivid dream he’s not quite convinced he deserves to wake up into.

You nod, just once. A little wobbly, but firm. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure, Spence.” Your fingers tug at the chain around your neck, the clasp digging gently into your skin. It stings, just a little. Just enough to feel real. To remind you, he gave it to you. Just today. That it means something. That Spencer is different.

“They’ll love you,” he smiles. He sounds so certain it almost breaks you in half. “I know they will.” You want to believe him. You want to let that live in your chest and take root. Because you’re not sure of much, really, but this? What you feel? It’s real. You know it’s real.

When he presses a kiss to your mascara-stained cheek, you close your eyes. Take it in. Take him in. He pulls away, looking at you warmly, openly, lovingly. “You can wear whatever you want. You don’t have to dress up,” he stands, his hand still warm where it’s clasped in yours. “We’re just going to a bar, and most of them are going straight from work.”

And maybe that’s exactly why you do want to dress up. You love Spencer. You want to make a good impression on his friends, his team, the people who keep him safe when he’s across the country chasing killers. Because you’re not just trying to impress them. You’re trying to seem enough.

In his bedroom, the light hangs low and golden and warm. Your dress hangs off your shoulders, and your hands tremble just slightly as you smooth it down again.

Spencer stands behind you, zipping you up with quiet hands and a look that could positively undo you. His touch settles at your hips, warm and grounding and real.

You study your reflection. “Is this okay, baby?” You catch his eyes in the mirror. Your voice is barely above a whisper, and you hate how small it sounds. How unsure. You can’t hide the way it trembles, the nerves that show through.

Spencer’s hands slide to your arms, trailing a path of fire before they cover your wrists, holding them steady. “Angel,” he whispers, turning you around gently. He looks at you like you’re an oasis in the middle of the driest of deserts. “You look beautiful.” He kisses you softly, tenderly. “I promise, they’re gonna love you. Please stop worrying.” His lips find that space between your eyebrows again, your glabella.

You know it means it. And that’s the worst part.

You’re still not used to someone holding you so closely, so gently, without an ounce of malice, of annoyance, of condescension.

You exhale shakily. You move your hands to the lapels of his blazer. Then to the knot of his tie. Then, finally resting them on his cheeks. Your eyes dart around his face, studying him like you haven’t already memorized the slope of his nose, the pink of his lips, the honey-brown warmth of his eyes.

Just in case. There’s a sinking in your gut you can’t explain. Let me remember you, it says, just in case.

“Thank you, honey.” You kiss him again, and when one of his hands finds the back of your head, you let him.

But then you sigh, pulling away. “If you ruin my hair, Dr. Reid, so help me,” you giggle, pressing a final kiss to his chin.

He chuckles softly. “I wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart,” he grins before heading to the living room and pulling his messenger bag over his shoulder.

You grab your purse and glance one last time at your reflection. Not to fix anything, no. Just to see yourself. To pretend you might resemble someone worth loving in a room full of people who love him.

When you step into the living room, Spencer’s already waiting by the door, his hands wringing at the strap of his bag, his smile still impossibly wide.

He links your fingers with his again like it’s second nature. Like this is just what you do. Like you belong with him.

You pretend—for just a moment—that you do.

You know you’re nervous when you hardly remember the metro ride. Conversations blurred around you until they were nothing but mist in the background. Just the steady warmth of Spencer’s hand in yours, his thumb moving in slow, absent circles on your skin, like he was tracing something only he could see. You remember the vibration under your feet and the way he held you when you stumbled as the train stopped.

By the time you step off the train and into the buzz of the city night, the air is cool, crisp. There’s a dewy scent of rain on the horizon.

You don’t even remember the walk to the bar until Porter’s flashes in bright red neon.

Your pulse is back in your throat, and suddenly it all feels too fast. Too real.

The gentle tug on your hand has your head snapping to your left. Spencer’s brows are furrowed, his lips pressed together. “Just take a breath, angel.” His voice is soft, warm. His thumb runs tenderly across your hand again. ��It’ll be fine. Like I said, they’ll love you. I promise,” and oh. Oh, he looks so earnest. So sure. You can’t help the nod, the shaky exhale, the way your shoulders straighten out.

You blink. Look over at him again, a small smile quirking at your painted lips. “Okay, baby. I’m ready.”

He grins like sunshine.

Porter’s is busy; not packed, but there are enough patrons to have the bartenders ignoring attempts at conversation.

Spencer grins widely as a group of six, all settled around a circular booth, waves him over. His hand stays locked with yours until you get closer—then, he places it on the small of your back.

Their smiles start to… well. They falter, a bit, when they notice it. His hand, warm and steady on your back. You expected to surprise them, sure, but… You figured that for FBI profilers, they’d be a little better at hiding their shock.

And that means they’re not hiding it. They’re not trying to. If you can see their confusion, their surprise, their—is it discomfort?—then it’s intentional.

And that’s what stings the most. That this sudden tension, the glances, the raised brows, all point to you not fitting in.

They’re not impressed.

Spencer hardly notices it, though. You think it must be because he’s been so excited, but… really, how doesn’t he notice it? It’s like all the oxygen in the room has been sucked out, leaving six pairs of eyes staring at you like you’re other, like you don’t belong.

The blonde with wide eyes smiles at you, but it’s the kind that feels practiced, calculating. You’ve seen it before, more times than you can even remember.

The man next to her—broad, confident, handsome—raises a brow, his glass of whiskey stopping by his lip. He tilts his head when his eyes lower, meeting Spencer’s hand on your back.

Then the third woman, dark hair, a sharp gaze, pursed lips. God, she looks like Spencer when he’s trying to solve a crossword. You hate it, being studied like a puzzle yet to be solved.

And then Spencer says their names, and suddenly, for a moment, it clicks. “This is JJ, Morgan, Blake, Hotch, Rossi, and Garica.” Names you’ve only ever heard in fond little stories, in memories over takeout containers and sleepy mornings in bed.

You take a breath, willing yourself to breathe again. Your eyes land steadily on Garcia—Penelope. She’s already standing to hug you, her arms outstretched and a grin on her face. Spencer had described her as glitter and joy personified, and you can’t disagree. You think you love her already. “Oh my god, you’re real!” you giggle, “I was so sure Spence made you up!”

Penelope laughs with you, her hug warm and inviting, and you can’t help melting into it. She smells nice; like coconut and vanilla and citrus. You squeeze her back before pulling away, and her eyes are crinkled behind her wide pink glasses. “Oh, honey, I’m so real! But who are you, gorgeous? The Good Doctor’s been hiding you away from us!”

You smile shyly up at Spencer, watching as his hand returns to your back. “Uh, guys,” he glances down at you, all softness, before looking back at them. “This is my girlfriend.”

He says your name with reverence, dripping in pure affection, and the mood shifts yet again. Even Garcia freezes from her place next to you.

You wave timidly at them. “Hi,” you smile. “Spencer’s told me loads about you guys. He really loves you all, I can tell.”

And… there’s silence. JJ, Morgan, and Blake blink in unison. Like they’re sizing you up. Surprised in the worst way.

Your fingers reach up to your necklace again, gently pulling at it, tucking the charm between your digits again and again. You smooth your dress, tug it down. Maybe it’s too short? You bite your lip, check your posture, standing up straight. You hold back a sigh. You want to be enough. For them. For him.

JJ smiles a little softer, now. Her eyes more forgiving, just a fraction. “It’s so nice to meet you,” she says. “What do you do?” she asks, scooching over on the bench. Spencer slides in first, then pats the space next to him. You squeeze onto the seat, and try to ignore the warm weight of his hand settling on your knee.

“I work in a flower shop,” you say softly. Blake’s eyes brighten a bit at that, and she unclasps her hands.

“You’re a florist?” she presses, taking a sip of her margarita.

You shrug. “I guess, that’s what my nametag says,” you laugh softly, folding your hands in your lap, fingers fidgeting beneath the table. “But I dunno if I’m like, a real florist. I just do the arrangements.”

Spencer squeezes your thigh gently. You do your best to ignore it.

Blake’s eyes dull again, just slightly. “So, how did you two meet?”

You feel underwater. Your hearing is muffled, you can barely hear the sweet story Spencer’s retelling, of when he walked into your flower shop and you giggled and handed him the store’s card with your number scribbled on the back.

You can’t tear your eyes away from the surface of the table. You try to control your breathing. Keep the tears at bay.

You’re being ridiculous. Absurd. Your insecurities are making you paranoid; you know it. This happens all the time.

But then Spencer’s lightly shaking your knee, his head tilted low enough to catch your gaze. His eyes are worried. You grin at him. “Sorry, what was that, honey?”

He furrows his brows. “I asked what you wanted to drink, angel.”

Your mouth opens, then closes again. “Um,” you bite your lip, looking around the table at everyone’s drinks. Your eyes land on Garcia’s. “Penelope?” you prompt, and her head snaps over to you.

“Yeah?” She looks happy, a little buzzed.

“What’re you drinking?” you ask, nodding at her glass.

She grins widely. “Oh, sweetness,” she stands, holding out a hand for you. “Only the most delicious frozen strawberry daiquiri you’ll ever have! Come on,” she wiggles her fingers at you. “I’m due for a refill anyway, let’s go!”

You blink at her before taking her hand; it’s soft, and she closes it around yours in a way that feels so warm, so comforting. You barely get off the bench before she’s practically dragging you towards the bar.

She orders two frozen strawberry daiquiris, giving the bartender a flirty wink and an “extra pink, thanks, babe!”, before turning to you. “Oh my god, I need to know,” she says, gripping your shoulders like a lifeline. “How long have you and Einstein been together?”

You blink. “Um,” you furrow your brows. “Like, two-ish months, I think?”

Her face blanches, and suddenly, everything feels too fast, too sudden, like it’s the wrong answer, even though it’s not. You swallow your paranoia. “Spencer could probably tell you, like, the actual day, if you ask him. He’s really good with that stuff,” you add on, your voice low, a shy, proud little smile curling at your lips. He really is good with that stuff. Remembering the important things. Even something as simple as your favourite takeout place or the way you take your tea.

She pouts at you, her eyes softening, like she’s trying to make sense of what she’s hearing. It’s almost like she’s worried for you, like she feels sorry for you, but you can’t quite figure out why. “Oh, honey,” she sighs, collecting you into a hug you’re too confused to return. “I’m so sorry.” Her arms are too tight, too warm around you. You just stand there, stiff and unsure why everything feels so off.

Your brows furrow. “What do you mean, sorry?” you frown, your stomach doing a nervous little flip. “Everything’s been great. Spencer’s, like, sunshine in human form,” you try to laugh, but it comes out quiet, timid.

She sighs heavily, like she’s carrying a too-heavy weight on her shoulders, and then looks at you like she’s afraid to ask. “But… you don’t think this is, like, really soon?” She furrows her brows softly. “He doesn’t think so?”

You shake your head, confusion knitting your brows. You pull away from her grasp gently, suddenly feeling exposed in a way you didn’t before. “Penelope, what do you mean? Why would it be too soon?” You cross your arms over your chest, vulnerability eating at you. “Like… like me meeting you guys? ‘Cause I was worried about that, ‘cause it felt like, really early. But Spence said it was okay, ‘cause… like, I already have a key to his place, and I’m there, like, all the time, so—”

Penelope’s gasp is so sharp, so dramatic, that she covers her mouth with both hands in complete shock. “Oh. My. God!” Her eyes are nearly as wide as the frames of her glasses. “No- You- What?! You have a key? To his apartment?”

You nod slowly, and for some reason, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re saying the wrong thing. “Yeah? He gave it to me, like, a week or so ago,” you add, hoping it doesn’t sound as bad as you’re starting to feel it is.

And Penelope? Oh. She shifts like ice in the Arctic. Cold and imposing. You don’t think she even catches it, but she’s looking at you like you’re the villain in a story you didn’t even know existed. “That’s… so soon, sweetness.” Her eyes soften only slightly, and there’s a sympathetic lilt to her voice that feels less inviting and more pitiful. “What about Maeve?”

And you pause. Blink at her a couple of times, unsure if you’re dreaming, the weight of her words pressing on your chest. She stares at you, awaiting an answer. One you don’t have. “I-” you hesitate, like the words are too heavy to lift from your throat. “Who’s Maeve?”

Penelope frowns, her nose going red as though she can’t bear to see you confused. “Oh, honey,” she sighs, pulling you into her arms again, like she’s trying to shield you from the pain of her words. “Maeve was,” she starts, then pauses. “I feel like Reid- Spencer, should be the one to tell you.” She shakes her head, her lips pressing into a thin line. She pulls away from the hug, her hands still lingering on your arms.

You keep a trembling hand on her wrist. “Clearly, he never told me anything. Who’s Maeve?” you ask again, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak. “Is he-... Is he seeing someone else?”

You don’t want to be the fool again. Not again, not with Spencer. You swore he was different.

Penelope shakes her head, her arms smoothing over your shoulders in a calming motion. It doesn’t work. “No, no. Not at all, honey,” she whispers softly. She’s so… soft with you now. Her hands caress your shoulders like a mother comforting a child, explaining something you can hardly understand. “Maeve was Spencer’s girlfriend. They dated for, like, almost a year,” Penelope adds quietly, like she’s treading carefully around a wound that’s still raw.

That gives you pause. A year? That’s… serious. You feel the weight of its importance, like you’re not measuring up somehow. But Spencer’s not required to tell you about all of his past relationships, right? You know you haven't told him about yours, either.

But then Penelope sighs. “She died four months ago.” And the world goes still. You freeze, like the air’s been sucked right oout of your lungs. “She was kidnapped by her stalker, and she got shot. Right,” she pauses, swallowing hard. Her voice cracks as she continues, like she’s holding back her own pain. “Right in front of Spencer.”

And it’s there. A slow death, you can feel it creeping up on you. Your heart starts to melt against your ribs like thick, sticky honey. It burns you from the inside out, like acid; hot and relentless. “So,” your voice trembles, barely above a whisper. “So… I’m what?” You look into Penelope’s eyes, searing desperately for something to hold on to, but all you see is a deep, profound sadness. “I’m, like, a rebound?”

You wait. Penelope is silent. Her lips part, like there’s something she wants to say, to comfort you, to tell you no, he really loves you, but… She doesn’t. And when you see the minuscule shake of her head, you break.

You shatter like glass, like crystal. Like you’re fragmented in tiny shards scattered across the sticky bar floor, and suddenly, Porter’s is too bright. Too loud. Too much.

The sob escapes you before you can stop it, crawling up your throat and across your tongue like bile. You cover your mouth with your hand, tears freely spilling down your cheeks relentlessly.

Penelope’s lip wobbles as she watches you push past her and run down the back hall, before hearing the slam of the ladies’ room door.

She stands there, still and frozen.

What did she just do…?

Her gaze slowly moves to the table. Nobody has turned around, nobody has noticed a thing. Spencer’s laughing at something JJ says, and the guilt gnaws at Penelope like a plague.

You stumble into the bathroom like a storm, leaning your back against the door like you can hardly hold yourself up on your own, your legs shaky and trembling like a fawn taking her first steps.

The bathroom lights are harsh, fluorescent, and unforgiving. You catch sight of yourself in the mirror and recoil like you’ve seen a ghost. Your mascara is smeared down your cheeks, bleeding down to your jaw, inked like grief itself has manifested onto your skin.

Your lipgloss is mostly gone—just a faint shimmer clinging to the dip of your cupid’s bow, like it’s trying to hold on for you.

You can’t help the way you begin to sway, dizzy as your knees nearly buckle in your heels. You grip the sink like it might hold you upright, like you’re not actively falling apart. But the second you meet your own eyes again, something inside you cracks.

You can’t look at yourself.

You can’t look at her—the girl stupid enough to think she was someone’s forever, not just a placeholder for a ghost.

You stumble into a stall and lock the door behind you, the click too loud in this stifling silence. You sit down hard on the toilet lid, burying your face in your hands as the sobs come back with a vengeance.

You feel like a fool. You’d really thought Spencer was different.

You wish he was here.

You wish he wasn’t.

Penelope shudders a breath, wobbling back to the table with two frozen strawberry daiquiris in hand. Her smile is long gone, her face pale and blotchy and tear-stained. Her eyes are red behind her glasses.

She sets the glasses down on the table like she doesn’t know what else to do with her hands.

JJ’s brows knit together. “Garcia?” She leans forward from her seat. “Are you okay?”

But Spencer’s looking over his shoulder, eyes darting around for you. He’s already standing when he notes your absence, like a string inside him has been pulled too tight, too restrictive, too wrong. “Garcia?” he asks, his voice shaky and low. “Where is she? What happened?”

Penelope’s lip wobbles. She wrings her fingers together, avoiding his eyes. “I didn’t mean to,” she whispers. “I swear, I didn’t mean to—I just, I thought she knew, I thought you told her, and I—Spencer, I’m so sorry—”

Spencer’s heart drops to his gut. His mouth goes dry. “Told her what?” Penelope doesn’t answer. He takes a step closer, his throat going tight, his voice sharper now. “Penelope, what did you say?”

Her silence says everything. Her guilt fills the blanks. She shakes her head weakly at him, her hands coming up, her mouth opening and closing like she doesn’t know what to say. She sniffles.

Spencer’s eyes go wide. “Penelope,” he breathes out, horrified. His irises dart around her face. “What did you say to her?”

Penelope’s mouth opens, closes, opens again. No words come out. Her face crumbles as she looks at the man in front of her. Her own words play back in her head, your reaction playing like a film sheet behind her eyes. She collapses next to Morgan on the bench, tucking herself into the booth. “Bathroom,” she mutters softly, like a confession. Like it hurts.

Her glasses come off in one swift, clumsy motion as she covers her face with both hands. She’s wiping her tears, covering her guilt, trying to hide from the shame of what she’s done.

Spencer’s gone before anyone can even fully comprehend what’s just happened.

He doesn’t walk, he runs, tearing through the bar like it’s life or death, like he might already be too late. His heart’s in his throat, hammering loud against his ribs, and he doesn’t care who sees, doesn’t care how crazy he must look.

He just needs to find you. Needs to explain, to defend, to apologize.

Maeve’s ghost hovers over his shoulder like a curse.

There’s an incessant banging at the door to the bathroom.

You think it must be him—who else would knock on the door to a public restroom?

You do all you can to ignore it; you cover your ears, tucking your face as far into your lap as you can. Try to block it out. Block him out.

But then the door opens, and frazzled footsteps rush into the bathroom until they stop in front of the locked door of your stall. You can see his brown oxfords standing in front of the door. “Angel,” he whispers, slightly out of breath. “Please open the door… please?”

You inhale shakily, holding your hands tighter over your ears. You don’t want to hear him, his excuses, his lies.

“Go away,” you murmur, tears coating your voice, your throat clenching tight. “I don’t want to see you.”

Spencer sighs, crouching in front of the door. “Sweetheart, let me in, please. I don’t know what Garcia told you,” he knows it’s a lie. “But you have to believe me. I want you. Only you. I swear it.”

You shake your head. “I don’t want to hear more lies, Spencer.” You swallow a sob. “I know about Maeve.”

Spencer’s heart stops in his chest. “It- It’s not what you think,” he tries, his voice thick with tears he feebly attempts to hold back. But then you sniffle harshly, from under the door he sees you stand, planting your heels on the tile. He stays crouching, swiping at his red-rimmed eyes.

You open the door just a crack, eyes catching sight of his lowered form. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice is quiet, pained, tight. Spencer raises his head, meets your eyes. You look ruined. Makeup smeared, eyes red and puffy, lips bitten red and swollen.

He hates that he’s made you look like this. He hates that he still thinks you look gorgeous. Like a tragedy, beautiful and broken and raw.

“I,” he hesitates, eyes never leaving yours. He swallows. “I’m sorry,” he sighs simply.

Your face crumples again, and Spencer’s brows knit tight. His eyes stay locked on the way you tuck your lip between your teeth to hold in a sob, like he’s never seen anything more beautiful than the way you fall apart. “You should’ve told me,” you whimper, sniffling. “It’s not fair, Spence.”

He flinches at the crack in your voice. He bows his head. “I know,” he murmurs. “I know I should’ve, I’m so sorry, angel.” He can’t help the way he leans forward, just enough to rest his forehead against the softness of your tummy.

Your hand cards through his hair like you don’t hate him, like you never could, and it breaks you even more. This was a betrayal. You can’t forget that, even if the softness of his curls feels like home between your fingers. “Was I just a rebound for you?”

Your question is broken, tearful, and your chest stutters with a breath. Spencer’s head lifts slowly from your middle. He swallows. “No,” he breathes out, the word like acid on his tongue. His eyes are slow to meet your gaze. “No, angel. Never.”

Your eyes close, a shaky exhale exiting your nose as you purse your lips. “Then why didn’t you tell me?” You remove your hand from his hair, crossing your arms over your chest.

You’re closing off. Spencer stands from his crouch, his left knee clicking as it extends. He wrings his hands to prevent himself from reaching out for you. “I should’ve.”

You just shake your head, lifting your chin to eye him steadily. “I asked why, Spencer. Why didn’t you tell me about her if I wasn’t a rebound, a replacement?”

He swallows, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. “I don’t know. I think I was still…” he shrugs meekly. “Hurting, I guess.”

Your arms fall to your sides. “I could’ve helped you.”

Spencer lowers his head, shaking it roughly. “No, you couldn’t.” His eyes squeeze shut. He swears there’s a cold spot on the centre of his back, like someone’s staring into him, through him. He tries desperately to ignore her presence. “I never really dealt with it, I just wanted to move on. And,” he raises his head again, his eyes pained as he looks at you. “I did. I started to. With you.”

He reaches out his arm, his shaky hand settling softly on your elbow. You sigh, setting your gaze to the floor, but you don’t pull away from him. Spencer thinks it’s a small win. He tests the waters by taking a small step closer, invading your space, and his heart thrums in his chest when you let him.

You can’t hold it back. You want to hate him. You want to hurt him, like he’s hurt you. You thought you’d finally found it, your forever, the man who would treat you like you’re something worthy of love, of respect, of kindness. Who doesn’t criticize your curiosity, but who lets it thrive, who answers your questions softly, with reverence in his voice, with love in the way he holds you.

You thought he was different. You really did. But you think it’s fitting, really. To still love him, even now, even after he’s shattered your heart in your chest, even after he’s killed you from the inside out.

You collapse into his chest, and Spencer doesn’t hesitate before wrapping his arms around you, holding you tightly, like he’s holding your very form together. Like if he so much as loosens his grip, you’ll break apart into tiny pieces on this dirty bathroom floor.

His lips go to your hair, his hand cradling the back of your head. He can feel the way the sobs wrack through your body, the way they shake against him, your form trembling as you fist the fabric of his cardigan, needing something to keep you grounded in reality—to keep you out of your head.

“I thought you were different,” you sob, broken and pained and whimpering into his shoulder. Spencer freezes. “I thought you wouldn’t hurt me. Not like them, not like before.”

He opens his mouth, but he can’t find the words. How does he respond to that? To your wailing of grief, of betrayal? Of admitting you’d believed in magic just to find out it was all sleight of hand? How does he acknowledge being the source of your pain, of hurting you so wholly that your knees buckle under the weight of it?

He doesn’t know. So he just holds you impossibly tighter, rocking your trembling form in his arms as he tries to find some way to fix this mess he’s caused.

You’re silent for too long. No longer sobbing, just quiet sniffling as you bury your head in Spencer’s chest, no doubt staining his cardigan with your makeup. He doesn’t care.

You pull back slightly, hands still fisted in the fabric. “I want to go home.” Your voice is quiet, raspy, like your throat itself is protesting you talking to him.

Spencer nods, petting your hair down softly. “Okay,” he whispers back. His gaze catches yours before you lower your eyes to his chest again, your hand instinctively going to wipe at the smudge of mascara. Your brow furrows, and your eyes fill with tears again as your thumb rubs at the stain, just to smear it around. Spencer gently wraps his hand around your wrist, and your eyes snap up to meet his. “It’s okay,” he nods softly. “Please don’t worry about it, angel.”

You sniffle again before pulling away, wrapping your arms around yourself. “I want to go home, Spence,” you murmur again. He nods, holding a hand out for you.

You don't take it, don't even look at it, averting your gaze to the floor again.

Spencer sighs, blinking away tears before he’s opening the door to the bathroom, and following you out.

He doesn’t touch you, even though his hand is hovering over your back, your head down as you stand by the front door. Spencer swallows roughly, grabbing his bag off the bench of the booth, avoiding the eyes of his team, who watch him silently.

Hotch’s eyes stay steady on the black stain on the front of Spencer’s cardigan, Garcia’s still got her hands on her face, and JJ is looking at you; small and feeble and shy, and still shaking with tears as you wait for Spencer. He holds the door open for you, whispers something to you as you both exit, and JJ heaves a sigh, taking a gulp of her drink. She and Blake share a look.

The back of the cab is quiet. Uncomfortable, stifling, suffocating silence. You’re seated on opposite ends of the backseat, Spencer’s eyes on you, your gaze out the window.

When the driver pulls up to Spencer’s apartment block, your brows furrow, your eyes going to Spencer, who’s already climbing out the door and opening yours. “I said home, Spencer,” you frown, ignoring his hand. “I don’t want to be here. I want to go home.”

Spencer flinches. “Please, angel. Just for tonight? So we can talk?”

You heave a sigh, glaring at him as you slap away his hand, stepping out of the yellow car and walking past him and into the building.

Spencer exhales, his hands wringing tightly on the strap of his messenger bag before following you up the stairs. You’ve already unlocked the door with your key and slumped onto his couch, sniffling as you lean down to take off your heels.

He doesn’t bother removing his bag from his shoulder, just closes and locks the door before rounding the couch and sitting on the coffee table, gently taking your foot and tucking it into his lap. His fingers undo the strap around your ankle, his hands slow as they pull off the offending shoe. He does the same for the other foot, then stands, picking up your heels as he heads back to the entrance to place them down beside his beat-up old converse.

Spencer hangs up his messenger bag, toes off his oxfords, and looks over at you.

You’re curled up on the couch, tucked into the corner, arms around your knees. Your gaze is fixed on one of his bookshelves, brows furrowed, lips pressed tightly together. Like you’re trying to understand something, trying to solve a puzzle he can’t see.

Spencer slowly makes his way over, sits cautiously beside you, his eyes following yours to the shelf. He doesn’t know if the book you’re staring at is the one his eyes are drawn to immediately, but he tears his gaze away like it’s burned him.

The Narrative of John Smith sits like a ghost on his shelf, its very presence mocking what Spencer’s tried so hard to build with you.

“I don’t know how to get over this,” you mutter softly.

Spencer looks up at you to find your eyes already on him. You shake your head gently, like the small motion of it is just too much. “I don’t know how to move on, now.”

He swallows, tucking his feet up under his legs. “I know.” His hands wring in his lap. “I don’t either. I just know that I want you.”

You scoff, avert your eyes. “If you did, you would’ve told me about her. Now you’ve just made me feel like an idiot,” you sigh. “Again.”

His lips turn, the corners of his mouth pulled into a pout. “Again?”

You sniffle again, shrugging. “I told you. I thought you were different. I thought,” you sigh, raising your head to stare at the ceiling. “I don’t know.”

Spencer tilts his head. “You say that a lot,” he notes. “‘I don’t know’. Like you’re afraid to say what you’re thinking. Like you’re expecting to be wrong, or dismissed. Or left,” he catches your eyes when your head snaps back to his. “And I hate that. I hate that someone taught you to apologize for existing, for being curious, for not knowing. And I…” he sighs, blinking at you, his expression soft and gentle and guilt-ridden. “I hate that I did that, too. To you.”

You swallow a sob, your eyes going wide.

Spencer scooches a little bit closer to you, just enough that your knees knock against his. “I should’ve told you about…” He tries to say her name. His tongue freezes, paralyzed.

“About Maeve,” you whisper. Spencer tries to hide his flinch, like hearing you say her name is wrong. Like the mixing of these two aspects of his life shouldn’t be happening.

He nods jerkily. “About Maeve,” he tries to ignore the way his voice catches on the word. “I’m sorry that I didn’t.”

You nod, tucking your lip between your teeth. “I know you are,” you glance sidelong at him. “I know.”

Spencer exhales shakily. “And I’m sorry Garcia told you.”

“I’m not.” Your voice is shockingly steady as you say it. You shrug when he looks at you. “If she didn’t, I don’t know how long it would’ve been before you did. Honestly, Spencer,” you turn to face him. “Would you have ever even told me?”

He wants to nod, to tell you he would’ve, but he swears he can see her brown hair in the corner of the room, stalking, watching, waiting. His mouth opens, but no words come out.

You wait. And then sigh heavily. “You’re not okay,” you murmur. “I can’t help you, you were right.”

And then you stand from the couch, head into his bedroom, and close the door.

Spencer hears rummaging, the sound of his drawers being opened and closed, then his shower starts, and he buries his face in his hands. Rubs his palms aggressively over his cheeks, pushing his hair away from his forehead.

He stands, peeling the cardigan off. He holds it out, his eyes locked on the black stain that’s, ironically enough, just over his heart. He exhales softly before putting it into the dirty laundry hamper in his bedroom. The bathroom door is closed, the sound of the shower muffled behind it.

He sighs. Drags his feet into the kitchen to start the kettle. His hands move on autopilot: setting the kettle onto the stove, the soft clanging of your mug and his being pulled out of the cupboard, just like always. He freezes when his fingers close around the handle of your pink strawberry mug. It looks like something Garcia would’ve picked out. Too bright, too bubbly, too you. His heart skips a beat.

You were right. God, you were right. He wouldn’t have said anything; not now, maybe not ever. He would’ve stayed silent, keeping you blissfully unaware. You would’ve never found out about Maeve had Garcia not told you anything. The guilt eats at him, gnawing on his chest like a disease, spreading through his ribs like rot.

His hands tremble as he sets it down on the counter beside his. The ceramic clinks too loudly in the silence. He rocks his head back and forth, like he can shake the memories out.

When he opens his eyes, he swears she’s there. Just there, at the edge of his vision, he catches a glimpse of her sweater. He pours the water from the kettle into your mug. It’s all he can do to stop himself from shouting at a ghost.

She haunts these walls—ones she’s never once stepped into. It drives him mad.

Spencer’s sitting on the couch with his hands in his lap and his head bowed when you re-enter the room.

He looks up as the couch dips beneath your weight. You settle in the opposite corner, as far as you can be while still sharing the same space. Spencer clears his throat, rubs his palms nervously over the tops of his thighs. “I made you tea,” he whispers.

You blink. Your strawberry mug sits neatly on an orange slice coaster. He reaches for his, and you see the grapefruit one under it. Your throat goes tight again.

You don’t want to cry again. You refuse to.

You sigh. “I didn’t really want any tea.” Your lips press together as you curl further into your corner. “But thanks anyway.”

Spencer flinches. It’s barely noticeable, just a twitch. But of course you catch it. There’s nothing about this man you don’t notice.

Or so you thought.

Because now he’s staring at you.

Or, not quite; he’s staring through you.

You swallow hard. How many times has this happened before without you noticing? Without knowing he was haunted? Broken? Grieving someone you never knew existed. Mourning the woman you replaced.

You avert your gaze again. You can’t keep looking at your boyfriend while he stares through you, at the woman he lost. “Spencer,” you say, quiet yet sharp. It snaps him out of his trance.

His eyes dart to the side of your face. His brows pull together, unsure, almost pleading. He swallows roughly. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, setting his mug down. “You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to,” he chews on his lip, shrugging. “I just… I thought you might want it. Like…” he trails off.

You know what he was going to say, anyway. Like every other night. Like routine. But if he thinks you’re about to cuddle up to him while he reads to you, he’s sorely mistaken.

But then you look at him. Just once. And he looks so broken, you can’t bring yourself to say it.

So you stand, slowly, achingly, like just leaving him there is enough to hurt. “I’m tired,” you mutter softly. Spencer’s eyes track your movement. He untucks a leg, like he’s about to follow you like some lost, desperate puppy. You hold up a hand. “I’d like to be alone for a bit. You brought me here,” you can’t help the narrowing of your eyes. “The least you could do is let me have that.”

Spencer gulps, sinks back into the couch with a jerky nod. “Of course,” he whispers. He doesn’t look away, not even when his bedroom door clicks shut behind you.

He turns back around, squeezing his eyes shut. He scrubs at his cheeks, as if trying to wipe the grief and guilt from his skin itself.

There’s rustling behind the door. Spencer pictures you crawling into his bed. He wonders if you’re cuddling his pillow, like you always do when he leaves for work in the morning.

Then he figures you’ve probably thrown it off the bed. The thought tugs harshly at his chest.

He sighs, pulling the throw blanket off the back of the couch and wraps it around his shoulders. He sits in silence, his mind running too loud, too fast, for even him to keep up.

There’s a chill to his left. He doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t want to face the visible manifestation of his guilt, his grief.

Spencer doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there. The tea cools in both mugs; the steam rising and fading, like breathing out a ghost. His apartment is too quiet. Too silent to have you just in the next room. Too quiet for a mind like his. It feels wrong. Suffocating. Smothering. His lungs ache like he’s drowning in it.

It’s been hours. Two cups of lavender tea, three hours lost in casefiles and novels and poetry, and none of it has helped him sleep. It hurts even more when he realizes it’s because you’re not there beside him.

Spencer stands with a quiet groan, dragging himself to his bookshelf. He stares at it, needing something else. Anything to get him to sleep, anything to quiet his thoughts, even if just for a moment.

He doesn’t mean for his eyes to go to it. Doesn’t even realize his hand’s already reaching, already pulling it off the shelf. His mind doesn’t catch up to reality until Spencer’s already sitting on the couch with The Narrative of John Smith open on his lap. Maeve’s handwriting stares back at him from the first page.

“Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone—we find it with another.”

The tears come before he even realizes he’s crying.

Spencer’s vision comes back slowly, like waking from a dream, walking out of a fog, seeing past the haze. He blinks, looking down at the book in his hands. He sets it down on the coffee table—careful, like it burns to so much as hold it.

He gulps. Two books sit side-by-side. Two mugs, four coasters.

He sighs, lying back on the couch. He listens, but the bedroom stays silent.

You wake early. So early that not even the sun is up, the birds aren’t even singing, and the stars are still twinkling in the darkness. You lie on your back, staring at the ceiling in silence. It’s so quiet here, the only sound is the crickets chirping softly outside the window.

You sit up, heaving your legs over the side of his bed with a heavy sigh. This room… you’ll miss it. It’s warm, comfortable. Smells like old books and clean linen and him.

Spencer.

Just the thought of him has you holding back tears again.

You shake your head, trying to push away your impending grief, and stand slowly. You open the drawer he’s dedicated to you, your hands trembling as you dress yourself. You avoid your reflection as you take the rest of your clothing out of the drawer and shove it into your bag. You grab your toothbrush and your makeup bag.

And you take one mismatched set of socks from his drawer.

You’re slow, quiet, as you creak open the bedroom door, your bag slung over your shoulder. You peek over to the couch. Spencer’s stretched out, long limbs draping over the armrest. His brow is pinched, mouth slightly agape, but he’s asleep.

You exhale a sigh of relief. Your eyes catch sight of the coasters—your coasters. Bright, vibrant, fruit slice circles of ceramic. They still look out of place. Still don’t belong here.

You can’t bring yourself to take them with you. They brighten up this warm, cozy space, this place that they just don’t fit in. You’ve related to them since you brought them over.

Oh well.

Spencer can decide what to do with them. You try to ignore the stinging in your chest when you imagine him throwing them out.

With a reluctant turn, you silently slip on your shoes, tug on your jacket, and sling your purse over your shoulder beside your bag.

You don’t leave a note. You wouldn’t know what to say.

You exhale as you crack the front door open quietly, allowing yourself just one last glance around the apartment.

You’ll miss it.

You close the door gently behind you, careful not to let it click. Your hands shake as you lock it, fingers trembling as you remove the key from your keyring. You slide it under the door. It catches on the floorboard for a second, then disappears into his apartment. Like it never belonged to you in the first place.

Your fingers go to the tiny pink gemstone on your neck. You tug at it gently. Rest your fingertips over the chain in something not unlike reverence, before lowering your hand.

You straighten your shoulders. You don’t look back.

Spencer wakes sluggishly. Like his body’s not quite his, his limbs tired and heavy. When he finally manages to sit up, he blinks the sleep out of his eyes. The door to his bedroom is open; he can see his bed made neatly. Too neatly.

He glances to the kitchen, expecting to see you standing at the counter, humming, pouring coffee into your favourite mug and smiling over at him, like you always do, every morning. But it’s empty.

Spencer’s brow furrows, knitting together tightly. He calls your name, soft, then louder. His voice shakes.

He rises slowly, like lost in a dream, his gaze drifting to the door.

Your shoes are gone, leaving his beat-up old converse and scuffed oxfords alone by the door. Your jacket’s not hung up beside his on the hooks. Your purse is missing from where you always hung it in front of his messenger bag.

Spencer rounds the couch, his hands trembling, panic rearing its ugly head, fear clawing at his chest. “Angel?” he tries again, his voice softer now. “Sweetheart, please… please answer me,” he whimpers, his throat going tight.

His gaze drifts down to the floor, like he’s hoping, just for a moment, that he’s wrong. That his peripheral was lying to him.

It shines, like some cruel joke, where it rests on the hardwood, the first rays of dawn catching it.

The spare key. The one he gave you. The one he thought meant home.

It gleams from the floor, tossed carelessly, just in front of the front door, like you’d locked it and slid it under the threshold when you’d left.

Left.

He doesn’t even know when you left. Doesn’t know if it was hours ago or mere minutes, but the air still feels thick with your absence.

Spencer stumbles, almost collapsing to the floor beside that key. The key to his home. To his heart. The key you’d left behind.

He staggers back to the couch, eyes hollow, locking onto the coffee table. Your coasters. And your mug. Just… sitting there.

You’d left them.

He swallows his sobs, choking on the grief that’s clawing its way up his throat. They look so bright. Too bright. Out of place here, in the dim silence of his apartment. You were, too. You brought a brightness to this warm, cozy place. One he didn’t know he needed until you’d taken it away. Like the sun setting, sinking slowly beneath the horizon, leaving nothing but a cold darkness in its wake. An emptiness he can’t escape.

Spencer reaches for the book left beside them. Flips it open to page 639 like muscle memory.

The Cyrillic stares back at him. He can hardly make it out through the tears clouding his vision. His voice cracks as he forces the quote out—the one he had meant to read to you just last night—his memory carrying him.

“I can't say it in a more orderly and comprehensible way. I love you wildly, insanely, infinitely.”

He breaks down into a lump of broken sobs on his couch, clutching the red leather-bound novel to his chest like it’s the only thing holding him together.

This is it. Doctor Zhivago, bright fruit slice coasters, and a strawberry mug. It’s all he has left of you, when he never thought he’d have to face the reality of life without you again.

Your absence chokes him like a vice.

The air turns frigid; Spencer feels like he’s wrapped in a sudden chill, like the warmth that was in his chest is being stolen from his soul itself.

He won’t open his eyes—refuses to. He won’t face this ghost that haunts him, keeps him broken, that pushed you away. He can’t look at her brown hair and warm sweater and blood on her cheek.

He just hugs the novel closer to his chest and mourns once more, wailing his grief into the air like pain personified is being ripped from his chest, leaving him hollow, empty, alone.

[ghostedgwen]

can we have the marauders protecting reader who got drunk during a party and was being taken away by some boys or something? sorry if it's triggering!

note : oh my god, this ask had me rolling on my bed thinking of how I am gonna go about this - thank you so much for trusting me with this request! warning/s : themes of s/a, sensitive content, nothing graphic but heavy implications are there, the marauders are very angry - and protective, mentions of alcohol and parties

You don’t mean to get drunk. It’s not like you came to the party with bad intentions or a heartbreak to drink through - just a need to loosen the weight of the week off your shoulders.

The Hufflepuff common room is filled with golden light, music echoing off the stone, and warm, laughing voices that blend together into something safe.

Marlene handed you a drink, kissed your cheek, and said, “Have fun, yeah?” before disappearing off with Mary toward the exit. You hadn’t minded.

She invited you earlier but you weren't sure if you wanted to attend, you were reviewing your answers to the N.E.W.T.s exam that just took place - but figured it would be better to go party a bit than worry over it.

You arrived around 10 in the evening when the party had started around 7, and Marlene is off to guide a drunk Mary back to the common room where Lily will surely chastise them for getting drunk on a school night.

She was very much against you going, you supposed she was right to.

You remember dancing. Spinning in slow circles with a drink in your hand, head tilted back, lips curved into something that could pass for joy.

The burn of the alcohol made your skin feel warmer. Your arms looser. Your thoughts fuzzy around the edges. You remember boys - older ones = leaning over you at some point. Hufflepuffs you think, and at least one Ravenclaw, judging by the bronze-and-blue bracelet he had on.

They seemed kind at first. Too kind, maybe, but you didn’t notice. Not when they laughed at your jokes or kept filling your cup or told you you looked pretty, which felt rare enough these days to let your guard slip.

You only notice something’s wrong when they start steering you toward the back of the common room - where the hallway narrows and bends toward the dormitories.

“Wait,” you murmur, blinking slow. “I don’t - the exit is that way - ”

“You’re pissed,” one of them chuckles, his hand firm on your lower back. “You’ll just get lost. We’ve got a spare bed upstairs. You can lie down.”

“Or not,” another one says under his breath. You catch the tone before the words.

You freeze. “No - I need to go back.”

The laughter sharpens. You try to step back and bump into someone’s chest. Hands close around your elbows. They’re not hurting you, not exactly - but they’re not letting go. Not listening. There’s too many of them, and your limbs are too slow, and your head feels too full.

You open your mouth to say something else - anything else - when a voice cuts through the corridor like a blade.

The Marauders have taken up residence near the far wall - Sirius perched on the arm of a chair, James cross-legged on the floor with a butterbeer, Remus half-listening to a conversation about Quidditch stats, Peter already dozing lightly against a pile of pillows.

It’s been a good night, by all accounts. A perfect way to send off their N.E.W.T.s exams that they slaved over for months.

At least, until Sirius stills beside them.

His eyes narrow, expression twisting slightly as he tilts his head, watching something across the room. “Isn’t that ____?” he says finally, nudging James with the toe of his boot. “The other Gyiffindor - the one that’s always with Marlene and Mary.”

James looks up, squinting through the firelight. “Merlin, I forget she exists sometimes. Since when was she here?”

“I don’t know. But that’s definitely her.” Sirius’s voice is low now, distracted. “Thought she left already. with Marls.”

Remus follows their line of sight - to a dim corner of the common room, where you’re half-supported by a group of boys from other houses. One of them has his hand curls around your waist, another murmurs something close to your ear that makes you flinch slightly before laughing it off.

James frowns. “She looks. . .drunk, absolutely pissed.”

“She looks done,” Remus says quietly, and something sharp enters his voice.

There’s a beat of hesitation. The kind that stretches taut.

Sirius then surprises his friends when he hops off the chair.

James glances at him. “What's wrong, Pads?”

“We should go get her.”

Peter stirs beside them. “Wait - is she alright?”

“No,” Remus says - uncharacteristically looking like he's about to break something, already on his feet. “She’s not.”

The four of them move, a pack without needing to speak. James starts walking first - not running, not causing a scene. Just moving fast enough that anyone watching would sense something was wrong.

By the time they round the corner, they’ve already watched you try to turn back. Already seen you brushed off. Already watched someone guide you further, not toward the exit - toward the dorms.

That’s all they need to see. And then:

“Let her go.” James' voice broke into your struggle with the other boys.

It’s not loud. But it doesn’t need to be.

The boys pause. The one behind you lets go, not out of guilt - more out of instinct, like he'd been caught wrist deep in the proverbial cookie jar. Something in the tone makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

You turn your head - the corridor seems brighter now - and see four figures at the end of the hallway.

James Potter is at the front, wand in hand, shoulders squared like someone raised to command attention. Sirius Black flanks his left, wild-eyed and sharp-jawed, hands clenched into fists. Peter Pettigrew hovers behind, uncertain but alert. But it’s Remus Lupin who moves forward first - and he is furious.

You’ve never seen Remus angry before. Not really. You’ve sat in class beside him once or twice, heard him answer questions in that low, steady voice, seen him nod politely in hallways. But this - this is a different person.

He walks up without hesitation and steps between you and the nearest boy. “I said, let her go.”

“She’s fine,” the Ravenclaw mutters. “We were just helping her back. She can’t walk on her own - ”

Remus cuts him off. “She’s not going anywhere with you.”

James moves in now, calm but firm. “Back off,” he says, voice levelled like a Prefect giving a final warning - the fact remains that he's currently Head Boy. “We’ve got her.”

“You don’t even know her,” one of them scoffs. “This is none of your business.”

“Wrong,” Remus snaps. “I'm a Prefect and James here is Head Boy, the welfare of fellow students is our business.”

There’s a flicker of movement - Sirius stepping forward now, lips curled in something that isn’t quite a smile. “Go ahead. Try saying that again.”

You feel like you’re swaying. Your knees are buckling under you, head too heavy to hold upright. You reach for the wall, but someone steadies you - James. His arm slips around your back gently, guiding you away from the others.

“Let’s not hex them here,” he mutters to Remus, who is still glaring at the boy who spoke up, like he’s imagining a dozen creative curses. “She’s our priority. We can duel them another day.”

Remus doesn’t respond. But he doesn’t lunge forward, either.

You’re shaking. You don’t know why. No one hurt you. They didn’t even say anything cruel. But something about it - the way you’d been cornered, touched, steered like you were furniture - rattles something deep in your chest.

Your eyes are burning. Your throat’s tight. You didn’t think this sort of thing would happen to you.

“I didn’t know,” you whisper, not sure who you’re talking to. “I didn’t think - ”

“Don’t,” James says quietly, steadying you again. “You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

Remus still hasn’t looked away from the boys, but he speaks - his voice low, furious, directed to them more than you. “You knew what you were doing. Every step of the way. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

One of the boys sneers towards your direction. “She’s the one who got drunk.”

“Yeah,” Remus breathes. “And you’re the ones who thought that gave you permission.”

James grips your shoulder more tightly. “We’re done here. Let’s get her back to the tower.”

They turn you around carefully, shielding you with their bodies. Sirius walks slightly behind - silent, but furious in the way his eyes stay locked on the boys until you’re safely out of sight.

You don’t say anything as they lead you through the corridors. You’re afraid if you speak, the tears you’ve been holding back will come flooding out.

And something about their silence - angry, awkward, but oddly gentle - makes you feel safer than you’ve felt in hours.

end. masterlist

choosing to end it here as I don't know where else to take this - feel free to send me more requests <3

[lelfleur]

10 things I hate about you ⋆˚꩜｡ hockey player! gojo x alt! reader

pt. 1/2

pairing ｡𖦹°‧ college au - hockey player! gojo x reader

summary : getting accepted into one of the ivy league universities was supposed to be you getting the best education you could get, not the centerpiece of a bet created by none other than the hockey team, the players challenge satoru that he can't make you fall for him in 10 days in which he allows his pride take over to go out of his way to take on the bet thinking it would be easy. what he didn't expect was to fall for you instead, but after you find out his ulterior motives, your trust in him shatters and so does his heart. now with the truth out, he is now more determined than ever to get you back, but this time, he isn't playing games.

warnings/tags .ᐟ.ᐟ fluff, angst, brief smut, college au, this fic is based on the film '10 things I hate about you', partial angst with readers father regarding sickness, reader is low income.

wc . 10k

a/n ꪆৎ this is a rewrite of one of my old fics, so you might recognize some scenes that I reused. remembered I wrote it after rewatching 10 things I hate about you. if you see any typos, ignore them. out of sight out of mind. song for this fic : no one noticed by the marias.

transferring from a community college to one of the top 10 universities was a huge step for you. you weren't even sure how you did it. but those two years of attending your local community college that wasn't even ten minutes away from your house paid off. one that made you feel ashamed in going since it felt like a detour from your actual goals.

growing up, you promised your family members that they'd see you majoring in the best schools and in becoming something they would be proud of to call a daughter. thats why you studied so hard in grade school, getting the best grades not allowing them to go below an 85%. but after your mother left shortly after your father got diagnosed with cancer. your dreams had to take a backseat to allow you to become the backbone of your family that consisted of you, your father, and your two younger brothers.

money came in short with your minimum paying job and it just wasn't enough to pay off any college funds. your brother who just turned sixteen always helped you out with groceries and bills now that your father retired from his job, after you forced him to, making sure he was taken care of at all times. hospital bills were also pricey, sometimes your insurance wouldn't cover all the costs and they had to be paid directly from your personal money.

so after applying to yale and actually receiving an acceptance letter in the mail a week after had you trembling in both excitement and fear. you were happy you could finally get the education you've been longing for, but on the other hand you wouldn't want to leave all the responsibility to your brother. he disagreed and encouraged your dreams instead when you sat him down to talk.

"y/n you've always been wanting to go to university. im sixteen now, im not the ten year old you know anymore, I am more than willing to take care after dad and matt."

you let out a sigh as you averted your gaze back down to the letter in your hands. the bold lettering called out your name and you tried to resist. but you couldn't.

"anything happens, you call me immediately." you firmly ordered. the pink haired boy chuckled, the corner of his lips lifted up as well as the corners of his eyes wrinkled before nodding. "got it."

thats how you found yourself packing the last bit of your shirts. no matter how hard you tried to, you just couldn't help the bit of tears that spilled from your eyes. you paused, letting out a shaky breath before feeling a pair of arms wrap around your waist. you looked down to see the soft face of your brother, Matt.

"sissy dont cry. me papa and yuji will be okay!" he promised.

you knelt down to wrap your arms around him as well, holding onto the warmth you were going to leave behind in a few hours. then, another pair wrapped around you both, a much stronger set of arms, then another, your fathers, who was weaker than before but still full of love. before you knew it, your whole family was cuddling together in the comfort of your own room.

no words were exchanged for a few minutes.

"ill miss those blueberry pancakes you make" your father whispered, making everyone giggle. you raised your head up, propping it on top of matt.

"ill leave the recipe for you guys."

your father placed a small delicate peck on your forehead.

airports were your least favorite method of transportation. you couldn't handle hearing the incoherent voice in the speakers call out the plane that was about to board in twenty minutes, or the panicked looks on peoples faces when they realize they booked the wrong flight, or the people just in general, so many people. the whole process was messy and annoying.

your family walked you to where the escalators headed up to your gate. with a sigh, you turned to face them watching as they held back tears. "ill miss you guys." a beat passed. then another. and you found yourself in another family hug.

it was still weird with the missing pair of warm arms that belonged to your mother. but looking back, maybe they weren't warm at all. they were always cold and empty whenever you hugged her. you reminded yourself that she left willingly. you quickly pushed those negative thoughts behind, not wanting to think about her when you had the next best four years of your life right ahead of you.

"call me if you need anything." you said with your voice more steady.

your father nodded before everyone let go at the sound of the speakers calling out your gate number. with one final look and a last goodbye, you stood on the escalators holding back tears of your own.

if the process of checking into the airport wasn't annoying enough, the next five hours boarding the plane itself would be. the man snoring next to you couldn't be any louder, the baby crying behind you wouldn't shut up, and the women gossiping in front of you was the only source of entertainment you could get.

but it all came to this. yale. the beautiful sight of the university's campus. you took it all in, seeing how students walked in with luggages or boxes of their own with the assistance of their parents or friends.

the sun casted a glow on the building itself making it appear straight out of a movie. you stood there for a moment, continuing to take it all in before your main character moment was interrupted by someone bumping into you.

he had white hair that resembled snow itself. he stumbled a bit before regaining his balance. the boys behind him that you figured were his friends laughed at the sight.

"oh uh sorry." he quickly apologized, glancing your way smiling like he meant the entire opposite of his apology before playfully nudging his friend as they continued making their way into the building. you blinked, continuing to watch as he disappeared. he was oddly.. beautiful.

after picking up a few papers form the directory, you followed the directions on the map to where the dormitories were located. you found out that you would be sharing your dorm with a roommate, you didn't mind as you saw this as an opportunity to make your very first friend.

and you were right because the second you twisted the door knob, not fully getting to turn it around before it swung open on its own, introducing a rather tall girl with the prettiest aesthetic and the sweetest smile plastered on her face that comforted you in ways you didn't know you needed.

"hi! I'm miwa!" the girl said in which you returned her greeting with your name. she moved to the side allowing you to step in. you took in the large room. it looks like she already has claimed her part of the room on the left side. band and show posters plastered all over her walls neatly with stuffed animals lying peacefully on her bed. it reminded you fondly of matt recalling how he has millions of plushies on his bed.

"need some help with that?" she pointed at your suitcases. you hesitated at first not wanting to bother her but it wouldn't hurt, right? "yes please." you chuckled which made her grin.

"great, roommate bonding begins now!"

hours pass by full of cleaning and organizing and chatter between you and the blue haired girl. you found out that she's been here for the past two years and you explained to her that you were a transfer. somewhere in between hanging fairy lights and folding blankets, she let it slip that she's crushing on a boy that is on the hockey team.

"didn't know they had a hockey team here." you said as you placed the last piece of clothing in the closet provided by the school. miwa gasped dramatically. "okay now I need to take you out to watch a game sometime!"

she flopped down onto your bed next to you. "its like an essential yale culture."

"deal. i'd like to see how good looking this boy you claim is the most handsome boy in all of yale to exist really is."

"he is!"

the first day of school wasn't until next week, yet you could already feel the nerves setting in as well as the homesickness. you pulled out your phone, dimming the brightness now that miwa was asleep and all the lights were turned off. pressing on yujis contact you sent him a message.

you || 9:04 P.M

everything alright?

yuji || 9:10 P.M

everything's great

you let out a sigh of relief at his words.

the first day was full of chaos, at least for you. you woke up a bit late after your alarm failed to do its job, you lost your map that showed the entire campus, and on top of that you had no idea what to wear.

after brushing your teeth and washing your face, you quickly slipped on a pair of pants and a cute top before rushing out of your dorm all while brushing your hair. you made it on time thankfully, but you surely learned your lesson to set your alarm to full volume.

your classes finally came to an end and you dragged your tired body that was aching from carrying all the syllabus and textbooks in your bag towards your dorm. miwa was already there scrolling through her phone.

"oh hey!," she flinched as she took a closer look at you. "you look rough"

you placed your bag down on the floor before flopping on your bed. "I am rough" you said with a grumble. she moved from her bed towards yours. "hey lighten up, tomorrow will be better. its the second day of school and the first hockey game"

"already?"

"yeah. since its the same previous team as last year versus some other school. coach said he wanted to kick off this season early for some reason. im not complaining, I get to see kokichi!"

"oh right your man" you teased which made her chubby pale cheeks turn a light pink shade before she bolted towards her closet pulling out two tops. "okay so which one says 'hey cute hockey player over there! wanna go out with me?'"

you burst out laughing before pointing at the one on the right hand. "that one, definitely that one."

you were never the type of person to enjoy sports. your brothers and dad enjoyed them though. they always connected both the couches together and gathered a bunch of blankets and snacks whenever a big game came up. now you are here witnessing one happen right in front of you, not on a screen.

you pulled out your phone to snap a picture to send to the family group chat. one you created after you had to delete the previous one with your mother in it. you angled the phone carefully, snapping a picture of the players already spread out ready to kick off the game.

you stared at your screen for a second before sending the message to the group chat. the second you sent it, the announcer's voice came to the speakers and the crowd erupted.

"there he is!" miwa squealed as she pointed at the dark haired boy, kokichi. he was rather attractive and you could see why she liked him. they definitely would make a cute couple. he was walking with a friend who had white hair. your eyes squinted as you looked a bit closer.

it was the same boy who bumped into you a week ago. his white locks were messy and he had a grin plastered over his face. it seemed that he was popular with the girls because they went wild at the sight of him.

you were interrupted from your thoughts when miwa's elbow made contact with your shoulder. "look, he waved at me!"

your eyes traced back to kokichi. "yeah, I saw." but your eyes kept wandering back to the boy with white hair. number ten. you watched as he placed his helmet on and slid across the rink to get into position.

a buzzer sounded across the arena, putting the game to a start and sending the crowd into a loud roar. you sat a bit straighter as you tried to keep track of the hockey puck. all the players were a blur of white and blue as they slid through the ice rink.

number 10 was sharp.

he was focused and quick, weaving through the other players. he stole the puck clean with a swift movement of his stick, gliding towards the opposite teams net. the air was thick with anticipation and it seemed that the entire arena was holding it's breath, and you didn't realize that you were holding yours as well.

then he hit it straight into the back of the cage with a satisfying clank.

applause echoed and so did the screams of the players' name.

satoru.

he rushed to his teammates doing a small celebration before continuing the game. maybe hockey wasn't too bad.

the game ended as soon as the buzzer could be heard, with your school winning. people made their way towards the exit or down to the rink. the hockey cheerleaders, glittering with their tiny ass skirts, made their way to their boyfriends who were players.

but most of them?

they went to satoru, congratulating him like he had just saved the world itself from an apocalypse. his hands reached to take off his gear, forehead dripping with a thin layer of sweat.

"im gonna go talk to kokichi." miwa said as she stood up from the bleacher already feeling the nerves settling down her stomach. you nodded, following her. she wrapped her arms around the boy, a hug in which he returned as well.

"thanks for coming." he said in a low voice placing his lips on hers practically melting the poor girl setting her rosacea on fire. you stood there a bit awkward not realizing that a pair of eyes was placed on your figure.

"hey, is she new?" a player asked his friends, pointing directly at you.

the other boy shrugged. "I guess, never seen her before." he turned to satoru who was busy untying the shoelaces of his skates, whistling at him. "yo satoru! remember when you were whining about not having any other girl to crack?"

satoru's eyebrows furrowed in confusion for a bit before he approached his friend. "yeah, what about it?" the guy grinned, jerking his chin toward the bleachers.

"what about her?"

he could barely see you due to his poor eyesight now that he had taken off his contacts. he saw you with a girl he knew was in a situationship with kokichi, his friend. "who the hell is that?"

"she's new. go after her."

satoru grumbled. "she looks like a total loner." his friend shrugged, untying his long black hair. "you like a challenge though, don't you?" he tossed his stick into his bag. "ten days. thats the bet"

"woah we're making this a bet?" satoru raised his eyebrow. there was a beat of silence, long enough to make him think this through. it's been a while since he's been laid, not wanting to continue the life of being a frat boy and a 'play boy.' he really just wanted to focus on his studies and hockey as well, if he found a girl somewhere throughout that then he'd settle down.

he grabbed his water bottle, taking a sip from it. "ten days." he repeated, mostly to himself. "suguru I don't know-"

"you backing out?" suguru questioned, wanting to stir something.

no matter how much he wanted to resist, he just couldn't because no matter how much he swore that he stopped doing that shit, he missed it just a bit. "fine, ten days."

his jaw was tightened watching as his friend smirked. the group chuckled a bit, like it was just another 'harmless' game. satoru glanced at you.

pretty.

you and miwa made your way to the exit after the little make-out session with her now new boyfriend. she kept squealing about how she couldn't believe she finally got together with him. you were incredibly happy for the both of them.

"he kissed me! like he actually kissed me! I thought I was going to pass out!"

satoru debated, standing still for a moment. you were a step away from leaving, your arm wrapped around your friends, chattering about whatever. part of him wanted to plan this through, something smoother than just..

"fuck it." he mumbled.

his legs moved before his brain ordered them to. "hey-" he called out, jogging a bit to fully reach you. you turned slowly, miwa did too with her eyebrows furrowed. he realized that maybe this wasn't the best option. his lips parted a bit before continuing.

"uh.." he scratched the back of his neck. "you dropped something."

you stared at him in confusion. "no I didn't.." you looked down to confirm that you in fact, didn't drop any item.

"right uhm, that was supposed to be my opening line" he cursed at himself, but it made you chuckle. satoru was dorky, you thought. he had an uneven smile before he looked back at you.

"im satoru"

"I know" you felt like everyone in this damn school knew who he was. "oh im y/n." you quickly introduced yourself after the small pause. for some reason, satoru didn't feel like this was the beginning of a bet he agreed to, but a beginning for something he wasn't ready for.

"go out with me."

miwa snapped her head so fast towards you, you could have sworn you heard a crack. you blinked at satoru, unsure if you heard him right.

"what?"

"go out with me, please." he repeated confident just like the first time. you weren't entirely convinced. "is this a joke?" satoru froze. of course this was a joke. he always played around with random girls so why did it make him feel guilty this time.

"no. I want you, pretty." he smiled softly, showing off his pearly whites that could have any girl soaking her panties in under 10 seconds.

you could feel miwa vibrating next to you, begging you to say yes, or at least something. "I think i'll pass." you mumbled, not unkindly just firm enough to make your point, staring at him for a bit before turning your heel to leave with miwa who now had a disappointed look on her face.

"whyyy?" she whined.

a grunt left satoru's lips. "I can take you out somewhere, anywhere! real nice places sweetheart!"

"like the 7/11 in broadway?" you shot back. he froze before chuckling a genuine laugh, shaking his head. "even better!"

the corner of your lips tugged up a smile as you giggled with miwa at his advances as you both left.

"well look at you missy, pulling mr captain of the hockey team."

"im just that good." you continued to hold your smile, not letting it drop.

and neither did he.

every night at eight, you'd have a video call with your family, just to make sure everything was alright back at home.

"he had an appointment today." yuji said while he was washing the dirty plates, handing them to matt to dry. you used to always put the dishes away back to their original places, but you were no longer there to do your job and that hurt you a bit.

it stung seeing how they had to adapt to live without you and you recalled how you all had to do the same when your mother left. you watched how matt didn't hand it to anyone, he just placed them down.

"and the results?" you asked, your voice quiet and steady but ready for any news you didn't want to hear. not yet.

"not out yet, but im sure nothing has changed since last time he got checked up."

yuji turned off the sink, handing the smaller kid the last dish before drying his hands with a towel. "how's yale treating you? saw the picture you sent."

you hummed looking back at how the day went. "it's going great I guess. our school won the game by the way, oh and a boy wants to take me out."

"you agreed?" yuji has always been the overprotective type, despite you being older.

you answered by shaking your head. "no, he's sketchy."

"how come?" now he was completely alert. a boy is hitting on his sister hundreds of miles away from home? not on his watch. you shrugged.

"he has a whole fangirl club or something."

matts voice could be heard from afar. "he's a red flag!" his words made you chuckle. "you been teaching him new vocabulary?"

yuji rolled his eyes. "its the kids at his school. but seriously, trust your gut. if you don't feel like something is right about that gut, don't take his offer."

you nodded, pressing the sleeve of your sweater up to your nose taking in the scent of old memories. it hasnt been washed since you left home and that nostalgic smell lingered.

one that you desperately wanted to go back to.

satoru could've sworn he left dissecting frogs back in high school, but here he was again, poking around at the laid back amphibians internal organs. "no way am I doing this shit." with a mutter, he placed the tweezers down gagging, shaking his hands in disgust before pulling out his cigarette box, sliding one out placing it in between his pretty pink lips, far too pretty for a man. "smoking in class? you'll set the smoke alarm off." suguru scooted closer to his friend.

"better than doing a bbl on a frog." satoru grumbled, looking away not being able to stare at the gross mess that was right in front of him. "that girl from yesterday.." he narrowed his eyes in thought, trying to remember your name. "y/n" he mumbled after it finally reached him.

"she didn't want to go out with me." he continued. the black haired boy scoffed, not comprehending the words that were coming out of the school's playboy. " you're satoru fucking gojo, this should be easy as hell for you!"

"look man, I dont do this shit anymore."

suguru rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he looked at the frog's corpse. "I'll pay you." satoru grunted bringing the lighter up to his cigarette, huffing it slowly before blowing it towards suguru, in which he looked down at the smoking boy unimpressed.

"I have enough money, I don't need your pocket change."

suguru paused in deep thought. "you're right, heard she's only into pretty guys anyways." satoru brought a hand up to his chest as if he was truly hurt, because he was.

“are you telling me im not a pretty guy?” he took out the cigarette from his mouth, before crushing it down against the table, which left a nasty dent on the cheap laminate. "why do you want me to play with her?"

suguru brought his pierced tongue out to lick his dry lips. "I guess I just miss the old you. seriously satoru, I'll pay you. 300 bucks if you take her out on a date," he scooted closer to his friend. "500 if you get in her panties. and 1000 if you manage to make her your date to hoco."

as if divine intervention occurred, the door creaked open, pausing the chatter between the two boys. there you were. wearing a well put together outfit that just made satoru's hormones run crazy, as you made your way to your desk. the sight of you made gojo straighten his posture suddenly hyper aware of every detail of himself. quickly running a hand through his hair and gulping, his adams apple bobbing.

he turned to look at suguru who was already giving him a pointed look.

"bet."

another thing that you like about yale's campus is that its not too far away from shopping areas. you found a nearby barnes and noble not even a few blocks away from the school. it soon became your go to stop where you would buy books and cd's. you weren't able to fit any of your beloved music or novels when you were packing, so you started a new collection that was placed neatly back at your dorm.

you entered, the bell placed on top of the door notifying any workers of your entrance quickly making your way to the music disc section, straight shelves full of cd's. you're surprised to see many new arrivals.

some were year old music, and some were rare old ones from the 2000's. you reached out to grab a few, a soft smile plastered on your face as you scanned the labels. so deep into it, you didn't notice the bell chiming again.

'debut' by bjork was being held by your hand right now, having an inner battle with yourself whether to be financially responsible for today. you placed the cd back when you remembered that the hospital bill from your fathers last visit would soon come back. and you were not looking forward to seeing the multiple zeros behind whatever number was in front of it.

"excuse me, have you seen any cd of bjork?" the smooth voice behind you asked. "oh yeah-" you answered, turning to look back at the voice.

halfway through your sentence, you took a good look at who was behind you. satoru. "oh, it's you." your eyes narrowed as they focused on him. the boy slid his glasses on the crown of his head. you didn't know he even wore those. satoru seemed to have noticed your observation.

"lost my contacts."

"are you stalking me?" you asked defensively which just made him laugh. his body got closer to yours as he skimmed through the cd's.

"you not getting that bjork one?" he asked tilting his head as his long pale fingers slid the music disc right out of its place. the plastic creaked the second he held it.

"uh its a bit expensive.." the words came out in a mumble, almost embarrassed to admit you couldn't afford a fifty dollar cd. you shifted your weight onto your right leg, looking anywhere but him.

he looked at you before looking down at the case. "guess I'll get it."

you blinked. "didn't know you liked her."

"I dont. but I like you, so I'll get it for you, baby. anything else you want?"

you head snapped towards him, watching how he didn't even let you answer as he placed the bjork case that contained the disc you've been wanting for a while into a shopping basket. you were so shocked you didn't even realize the term of endearment.

"its fifty.." you reminded him.

"be a sweetheart and dont mention the prices, I dont care one bit about it." your eyes dropped to the basket, lips parting to say anything but nothing came out. nothing but a, "can I get the post one..?"

you couldn't find how much one has ever spent at barnes and nobles, but you were pretty sure you may have broken whatever record there was. satoru didn't mind, just like he said.

when the cashier asked how he'd like his receipt he declined it. when he saw the total on the screen in bold green letters, he ignored it. and when he handed you the bags full of books, cd's, and figures, some that you didn't even ask for. he just noticed you staring at them for a little too long and he'd just grab it and place it in the basket, he had a smile plastered right on those pink lips.

"I think I deserve a kiss for all of this.."

its the least you could do, right? besides he didn't tell you where he wanted the kiss. so you stepped up on your tippy toes a bit to place your lips on his cheek.

"thank you. seriously thank you." his smirk softened to a smile, returning the kiss but on your forehead making your breathing stutter.

"any time," he mumbled kissing your nose before backing up. "oh here, give me your phone"

your hand pulls out your phone from your back pocket, handing it to him. "what for?"

"im putting my number in.." his fingers typed quickly, the dumb smirk on his face not leaving, before slipping it back into your hands.

'my sugar daddy'

you visibly cringed at the name he chose. "you've got to be kidding me." you said with pure disbelief. he nodded, proud of his decision. "I did buy you all this didn't I?" he tucked a strand of loose hair behind your ear, leaning down to whisper into it.

"ill send you a picture to set up as my contact photo. perhaps a nude?"

"perhaps not."

miwa's eyes widened when she saw you stumble into the shared dorm with heavy bags on each hand. "woah.. didn't know it was black friday." she half joked, getting up from her bed to help you out. you exhaled in relief when the weight was taken from your poor limp arms. "and I didn't pay a single penny."

she averted her gaze from the bags up to you. "who did pay for them? your sugar daddy?" your face burned at that damn name. "you're not wrong. it was satoru." you held up your phone, opening this contact name you knew would have miwa laughing.

she squinted, looking at it before she burst into giggles.

"hes so extra." you set the bags down on the desk, taking one thing out at a time. miwa wiped the tears that spilled from her eyes. "how'd this happen?"

you dragged a hand down your face, shrugging. "he saw me at the store and offered to buy me whatever. but I swear I didn't ask for all of this."

"he likes you."

you paused for a second. "does he now?"

it was a dumb question. who else would buy a random person they have no interest in hundreds of dollars worth of barnes and noble? no one, except him of course.

you retold the same ridiculous events to yuji, who still wasn't pleased at the idea of you getting hit on not even a month into school. his arms were crossed over his chest as he was lazily sitting on his desk chair, same as you.

"return everything."

you scoffed. "no way! even if I did I wouldn't be able to, he didn't ask for a receipt."

"he shouldn't be buying you shit. didn't you tell me yesterday how your gut was telling you something was off?"you moved from your desk to your bed, sighing as your back hit the mattress. "well maybe I was wrong about him."

satoru felt proud of being able to treat you like a princess, buying you all sorts of things, showering you with everything you wanted. he remembered how you hesitated on buying that cd. it bothered him a bit.

'did she have a problem with money?'

his phone rang with a message from suguru.

'party tonight at the frat, you coming?"

of course he was, he hasn't missed a single function since he joined yale. his fingers typed out, "Omw!" but before he could send it, he stopped, and then deleted it. why was he thinking about you right now?

why is he declining a party?

"im not in the mood tonight."

he stared at the screen for a moment, realizing that he actually sent that. a calloused hand rubbed his cheekbone, exhaling before he received another notification, this time not from any of his friends but from spotify.

'the marias are performing near you! click to see ticket prices and shows available!'

the marias? where had he heard that name.. his mind instantly flashed to you. you were holding the marias disc, the one he bought you along with all the other cd's. it was as if his body was moving without him knowing because a second later, he was buying two tickets.

your first day was an unconfirmed barnes and noble date. but your second day, the concert, would be an actual date.

he clicked the 'pay now' button without hesitation.

you weren't expecting to see a screen showing the digital receipts slip right into your line of sight while you were halfway through placing some textbooks in your locker. the bold blue letters read, 'THE MARIAS'

"hi pretty.. got these for you and me." your eyes widened at the familiar voice. the white haired individual really had a habit of sneaking up behind you didn't he? "you.. you got-" you stammered, blinking at the sight of the tickets, then back at him.

"got these for you and me." he repeated himself, both his voice and gaze softening. not sure to be flattered or continue being suspicious, you slowly reached for his phone, taking it from his pale hand to make sure what you were seeing was real.

not only did he buy you both tickets to a music artist you liked, but he also got the best seats. "you got the marias tickets.." you said mostly to yourself. his smirk was still there, but it showed no sign of being cocky.

"mhm, thought you'd like it."

"satoru.. you already spent so much on me yesterday.." how come a boy you barely knew was dropping a thousand on you each day. "I told you I like you. this can be our first date." he gently grabbed back his phone.

you swallowed, your mind trying to wrap itself around the unexpected layers of satoru you’d been seeing over the last few days. and you wondered if you were the first one to see this version of him.

"one date." you said firmly as you lifted up your finger, finally agreeing to his advances. his charm was different.. it was bold, yes, but real. "don't push your luck, im only accepting because its bjork."

"there will be more than one date, pretty." there was short pauses between his words allowing each syllable to sink in. like he meant it.

you had no idea why you were allowing him to score another point at this game he was forcing you to play. "at least let me pay for the gas.. or for the food." you offered but satoru only scrunched his face up shaking his head.

"don't do that."

he had some extra cash on him. 300. just like suguru promised when he said he'd pay satoru 300 if he managed to take you out on a date.

"just wear something pretty for me, and easy to remove."

you rolled your eyes. "im not sure about that second part, you're pushing your luck here sir."

"mm no not sir baby, its sugar dadd-"

your hand shot out to cover his mouth, cutting him off before he even had the chance to finish. he was shocked for a bit before he licked a long stripe against your hand moaning.

you recoiled immediately, gagging with a mix of shock and disgust. he chuckled at your discomfort and the sight of you wiping your hand on his chest.

"you like that baby?"

"no!" you shot back, closing your locker before rushing to the bathroom to properly clean your hand.

"ill see you later my love!" he called out.

miwa helped you get ready for the concert date after school. she straightened your hair pin straight while you both talked about what could happen later. your phone vibrated with a notification from 'sugar daddy'

"you still wearing something easy to remove right?"

you stared at the message. any past thoughts of him not being that bad quickly vanished. obviously, you weren't going to give him the satisfaction of your reply, so you left him on read. guess that hurt his feelings because a few minutes later he texted again.

"im joking baby :("

"still haven't changed that contact name?" miwa asked, finishing up the last strand for the final section. you grumbled a little 'shut it'

"im kind of nervous.." you admitted. this was going to be your first date after all.

miwa stopped, her hands hovering in mid air, before she turned your chair to face each other. her expression softened, a mix of understanding and excitement. "hey, it’s okay to be nervous. besides you kind of already know him.."

"briefly." you couldn't help but sigh, your eyes following her figure as she chose an outfit from her side of the closet to lend you.

"he wanted something easy to remove right?"

"dont."

you both met up to where you agreed, which was just outside the girls dormitories. the second he saw you, his heart fluttered.

you looked, no, you are gorgeous.

"...hey" a smile crept up on his face. he was dressed casual while you went all out thanks to miwa.

"hi" you smiled softly.

"you're so beautiful.." you'd be lying if you said you weren't flustered. even if you tried lying, the dark tint of pink on your cheeks would say otherwise. "thank you"

with a chuckle, he led you to his car. a model of the year, typical for a rich ass boy like him. being the gentleman he was, he opened the passenger door for you before closing it as you settled yourself down.

he made his way over to the drivers seat. "can't believe I finally landed a date with you" he mumbled before reaching over to hold your hand in his.

why was he acting like this? it was just a bet.. right?

you stared down at your hands that were now intertwined. you'd expect his to be cold from how pale they were and the amount of time he spends playing hockey in the cold rink.

your eyes lifted to his face, he was focused on the road now, a quiet little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, like just having you next to him was enough.

"im going to be honest, i don't know any of this bands songs."

your breath caught in your throat. "you bought the tickets without knowing how they were?"

he shook his head. "I bought the tickets because I knew you knew who they were." his hand squeezed yours, keeping his eyes on the road. "have I told you how absolutely sexy you are? I mean look at this.." his hand moved from yours to tug at your skirt, making you gasp.

"feel good, baby?" he continued squeezing your thigh, biting his lower lip as he felt the warmth of your skin.

he slapped it playfully, moving his hand onto the steering wheel leaving you flustered.

"pervert.."

the concert was beautiful. the music reached your heart it made you tear up, of course some songs hit close to home. gojo couldn't help but admire you from time to time. watching as your pretty mouth sang along to the unknown lyrics.

"lets take a picture pretty." he said out of nowhere. "a picture?" he nodded before pulling out his phone, wrapping his arm around your waist and pressing his cheek against yours, snapping a few pictures of you and him throughout the night, mostly of you. you did the same, filling up your gallery with endless pictures and videos.

he pressed his lips on your temple before pulling away to continue enjoying the performance.

as the night came to an end, he drove you safely back home, both of you discussing the songs you enjoyed being performed the most.

"I think I enjoyed back to me the most"

"no way! paranoia was clearly the most enjoyable."

he rolled his eyes. "yeah well I think what I enjoyed the most was seeing you sing. you're gorgeous baby."

"you already told me that like twenty times."

"and ill continue to tell you for the rest of my life and beyond that." his words made your stomach twist. not in a bad way. definitely not. you watched how the dim light lit up his face making him look even more handsome than he already was.

"want to go to the ice rink?" he asked.

'right now? I dont think im wearing the appropriate clothing for skating.."

satoru grinned, pulling up to the building where the arena was in. "good thing I came prepared then." he reached towards the backseat, pulling out a duffel bag.

"you can thank your friend miwa."

you stared down at the clothes, which belonged to you, now on your lap. light pink thighs and a sweater as well as leg warmers. "you guys planned this?"

"she helped me out. I wanted to make this the best first date."

it was late, so the place was quieter than usual, dimly lit, making the place peaceful. the cold air nipped at your cheeks as you both stepped inside, and you tried your best not to show how nervous you were.

"ive never skated before." you admit.

"good thing your man is a hockey player." he finished tying up his laces before getting down on one knee to tie yours. he said it so casually. 'your man'

satoru looked up at you all while he continued fumbling around with the laces on your skates. "I really hope we have that romcom moment where you slip on the ice and fall right into my arms."

"what type of movies are you watching?" you giggled, feeling the heat creep up to your neck.

he finished the second skate, placing it on the ground before gripping your thighs. "like I said.. romcoms." he murmured, bringing you closer to his face. he darted his tongue out to lick the inside of your thigh.

a gasp left your lips. "h-hey.."

he didn't stop there.

he was starved. his lips traveled all throughout your inner thighs, nipping once in a while. "pretty.."

a shaky hand pushed his head away, watching as a string of saliva connected his lips with you. "so uhm.. you gonna teach me how to skate..?"

the fog of tension shattered the moment you placed your hand on his forehead, pushing him away. he licked his lips before chuckling. "yeah, come on."

the second you stepped onto the ice, you were already struggling. it was more slippery than you'd expect it to be, but satoru's large hands, placed on your waist, kept you steady.

"lean on me."

you held onto his arms, following his step wobbling once in a while.

"I got you doll."

twenty minutes was all you needed to learn how to maintain your balance on the ice. you excitedly followed satoru, holding his hand as you both made rounds around the rink, your skates gliding smoothly. he glanced at you, smiling as he watched you. "look at you... natural born skater" just as he said that, you bumped into his shoulder.

"natural born liar."

he chuckled seeing how your eyes showed signs of being tired. he wrapped his hands around your waist, lifting you up with ease. "lets get you out of here. kind of sad we didn't have that cute moment."

"what cute moment?" you wrapped your arms around him before he placed you down the carpet when he got you both out the ice rink. "the one where you fall right into my arms and we kiss."

you rolled your eyes. "maybe next time."

he raised an eyebrow, kneeling down again to take off your shoes. "so is that a confirmation that we will have another date?"

"mhm." you hummed quietly and before you knew it, you were leaning into a kiss with no control over your body, like it was possessed by a curse or something.

he hesitated for a second, deciding not to kiss you back. it was just a bet.

"lets go."

you stared at him in hurt and betrayal. this is what he wanted wasn't it? you felt your heart sink deeper as the seconds passed. you didn't allow him to put your shoes on, doing it yourself instead.

"baby.."

"dont." your voice wasn't firm, it was soft. barely even a whisper to be honest. "you're just messing with me aren't you?" he looked startled, like he had gotten caught with his hand down the cookie jar, because he did.

"no..no you're not something to play around with."

you were mad. furious even. "feels like it."

opening the door after gathering your clothes, you left without a goodnight. or a kiss. once you were out of view, satoru dragged his hands down his face groaning. he's grown attached to you without knowing it in the span of three days. and he's hurt you by denying your kiss.

he rushed after you.

"let me walk you."

"its fine. my dorm isn't that far."

"damn it y/n." he pressed his lips against yours, cupping your jaw. the kiss was full of frustration and it was desperate. his other hand found your hip, bringing you closer to him. he wanted to deepen the kiss, but he noticed you weren't kissing back.

he pulled away before smashing his lips against yours again, hoping that you'd kiss back this time but you didn't.

"I'll see you later.." you mumbled out.

he watched you walk away quickly in the direction of your dorm. now it was his heart who was sinking. he didn't remember any of his last 'bets' hurting this much.

so why does it feel like you were ripping out his heart right now?

when you reached your dorm, ready to get any call from your brothers, you already planned not to mention anything. not the concert date with satoru and definitely not how yuji was right about him. you couldn't let him have that 'I told you so' moment.

your phone vibrated at the back of your pocket as soon as you dropped your bag onto the floor. miwa was staying over at her boyfriends tonight, giving you and satoru any privacy if things went to a more heated direction.

it did. sorta.

with a sigh, you slid your thumb across the screen, answering the call from yuji.

"took you a while."

you forced a laugh. "sorry, you woke me up." you allowed your body to rest, flopping down on your messy bed with a 'thump', the back of your head sinking into the pillows.

"I'm just calling you to let you know that a hospital bill might reach you."

you quirked an eyebrow, staring at the ceiling. "its going to be sent out to me? all the way to yale?" yuji let out a small 'mhm', casual like he was commenting on the weather.

"yeah, from dad's last check up."

"oh," you rubbed your face, feeling a different kind of tired. "thats right."

"its just from his prescriptions and shit.. I would've paid it myself but.." his voice trailed off.

"no, no dont worry about it. not like i'm already drowning in student loans or whatever"

"of course not." you could hear him chuckle from the other side of the phone.

after the call ended, you let the silence settle. you received your mail usually by the end of the week in your small issued mailbox that was located in the front of the school. most of the time it was just flyers for clubs you had no intention of joining. but soon, a hospital bill that you desperately wanted to leave behind home, where it belongs, will appear right inside the small box.

after dreading to see the ridiculous amount you had to pay for oral chemotherapy medication, your mind circled back to satoru, a finger brushed against your lips, reliving the moment he placed his against yours in a kiss you wanted to return, but didn't.

you felt like it wasn't real.

why would he hesitate in the first place? your hand dropped back down against the mattress, gripping the bed sheets to brace yourself from any tears that might come out.

miwa dragged you to watch kokichi practice in the ice rink. the memories from last night hit you like a wave every other minute you sat on the bleachers. the same spot you were rejected.

you were annoyed.

no. pissed. pissed at how he dodged your kiss like it meant nothing and honestly you have every right to be. because why is he hesitant to kiss you when he’s the one that was so desperate. is this some sort of sick joke?

you didn't want to mention it to miwa or anyone. you were too embarrassed and the poor girl was happy she even had the opportunity to help out satoru with last nights date. you couldn't take that away from her. when she asked how it went you spared the details and just gave a brief summary.

"it was fun, he took me to the concert, we sang. then the ice rink, thanks by the way, and he taught me how to skate."

"thats so cute!" her face lit up.

you both continued to see the hockey players glide across the arena. but someone was missing. number 10. your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a microphone starting.

“can't take my eyes of off you..” a voice murmured into the microphone, a voice you instantly recognized. satoru. you blinked once. and then again-unsure if you were hearing correctly or if the loud ass volume you listen to your music in was finally catching up to you.

you squinted your eyes to see the white haired boy stand right in the middle of the rink, the whole team joining him as well. his body stepped forward, then another, until he broke into a dance. you let out a few chuckles of disbelief as you watched him make a fool of himself.

“i love you baby!” you wanted to crawl into a corner and die from embarrassment. “and if it’s quite alright, i need you baby..” his finger pointed right at you. a few people around you chuckled as well, one yelling, "go verona!"

you brought your hands up to you face covering it in embarrassment as a flush appeared. he was so off key now, yelling out the lyrics as he did little tricks around the ice, nearly slipping but catching himself with a dramatic spin. he made a bee line towards the top of the bleachers. you wanted to escape but he was quick, wrapping an arm around your waist.

“oh pretty baby..” he panted as the chorus died down. he placed the microphone down, grabbing your cheeks without a warning with both hands planting a long and sweet kiss on your plump lips. this time, you kissed back without hesitation from either of you.

"satoru.." you managed to say before he continued his desperate kisses, sliding his tongue into your mouth leaving no room for the words that were swirling in your head. miwa was ecstatic, clapping with others, who were surprised that the ex-playboy was acting straight out of a 2000's movie.

"shut up.. let me just kiss you." his fingers threaded through your hair.

and kisses continued all the way to his dorm, no sign of stopping any time soon as he pushed you down his bed.

"im sorry about yesterday.. let me make it up to you."

"I think you did already with your little performance."

he chuckled, shaking his head. "nah, you need more than a song."

satoru wears everything on his face. like everything. you could tell what he was feeling with just a glimpse at his blushed face that turned from his usual pale color to a deep red. his mouth was open when he sank into you.

he smirked when he watched you struggle to take him. the small moans you let out made him twitch. "you look so fucking good. taking my cock like this." he wrapped your legs around his bare waist before his large hand found your neck, wrapping lightly around it.

"sa..satoru.." you whimpered.

"mmf- yeah that feels good. so.. tight and wet f'me. should've done this yesterday." he rolled his hips against yours gently. satoru has never been this gentle during sex towards anyone. he slid in and out of you slowly, making sure you felt every single one of his veins.

"oh fuck.. not going to last long inside this warm fucking pussy."

he licked your lips before shoving his tongue down your throat. satoru pulled away, forcing your jaw to open to spit right into your mouth.

"swallow."

you obeyed, swallowing his shared spit, opening your mouth to show him.

"good girl."

you screamed, gripping his shoulders when he slipped almost all the way out before slamming all the way in. he was loving this, almost forgetting the amount of money he would receive for getting into your panties.

it wasn't until you both finished, and his arms were wrapped around you in a comfortable position to cuddle, placing loving kisses on your forehead, that he finally remembered that this was all a bet. was.

he was scared that maybe he didn't want this to be just a game. his breath stilled, his fingers still tracing random shapes on your back as he pulled back slightly, taking a close look at your peaceful expression.

he didn't want it to end.

he took a look at his calendar that was placed on his nightstand. he counted the days knowing he didn't have that much left with you.

"love?"

you hummed, opening your eyes, your expression soft, when he called out to you.

"i'm playing tomorrow.. then we're having a sort of 'hoco' type of thing at the frat.. come with me?"

you nodded, placing your head on his chest listening to the way his heart beat at a steady pace. "course.." you murmured, he did tire you out after all. his body relaxed at your answer. there were still so many things left unsaid, so much you both needed to figure out. but he was okay with just having you this close to him right now.

you didn't call your family that night. your phone was put on do not disturb, laying on top of the nightstand. satoru's arms were still wrapped tightly around you.

but across the country, yuji grew worried, because not only were hospital bills going to reach you, but terrible news as well.

he paced back and forth outside the hospital room, the one where your father was currently staying, checking his phone every second to see if you have seen his messages or calls.

nothing from you.

he tried to come up with a reason. you were probably studying, or just busy in general. he wanted to cry because the feeling of being the one now responsible for everything was finally sinking in. he didn't know why your father collapsed. he didn't know if your aunt was on her way to pick up matt from school. and he didn't know when the hell you would answer your phone.

"answer.. please." he prayed.

the next day when you woke up to the sound of shuffling, you were met with several forehead kisses.

"sorry baby, have to go straight to the rink." your eyes fluttered open slowly, eyes adjusting to the morning light. you remembered the game today, and the party as well.

"practice hard.." your morning voice came out groggy, in which he let out a soft laugh.

"ill see you later baby." with that he left.

you looked around, still groggy, seeing the clock on his wall. eleven o clock.

your eyes widened. shit. you were late for class. you threw the blanket off of you, quickly putting on the same clothes from yesterday. when you reached for your panties, you noticed they were ripped. the sudden pain you felt on your stomach was a reminder of your poor decisions from last night.

you slipped on your skirt, praying you wouldn't flash anyone by the time you got to your dorm. after grabbing your bag, you reached for your phone before bolting out of his room.

when you made your way to class, you felt a deep feeling in your gut telling you, no, yelling, that something wasn't okay.

the cold air of the rink hit you the moment you stepped through the doors, crisp and biting against your skin. the faint sound of blades carving across ice echoed through the space, mixed with low shouts and the occasional laughter of teammates mid practice.

miwa was buzzing beside you, excited to see her boyfriend play, and for the party he asked her out to. you caught sight of satoru not that far away talking with a boy with gauges.

"I'll be back: you said to her.

"okay! I'll go grab us some seats then!"

you watched as the blue haired girl quickly made her way up the bleachers, snatching a good spot for the both of you. you approached satoru, ready to scare him as you snuck behind him.

"dude, I'm telling you I fucked her already, pay up." he grumbled.

your entire world stopped for a second. were you hearing correctly? the other boy laughed. "thought you didn't want to take this bet?" his hand reached for his pocket, pulling out his wallet to slip out a few hundred dollar bills.

it all suddenly clicked.

"it's whatever. honestly, she's everything i've wanted in a girl." the boy you thought you could trust accepted the bills into his hand. how could you have thought that this actually meant something. that you actually meant something to satoru.

"are you fucking kidding me?" you stared at him, feeling so many emotions all at once. anger, betrayal, and even denial. your mind was processing what you just heard. you wanted to hear it wasn't real, that he wasn't only after you because of a bet and that he actually likes you. but you knew you were better than that, you couldn't help but connect all the dots. the way he just randomly went up to you? the way he spent so much money on you?

it wasn't fate. it was orchestrated. and you felt stupid for now realizing.

there was horror written all over gojos face. "no baby.. baby listen to me." but you refused, shaking your head. you refused because the following words were going to be the confirmation that you dreaded to hear. without another word, you turned away pushing though the crowd. "y/n!" he shouted, but you didn't turn back. as you made your way down the hall, his hand wrapped around your wrist, "please, PLEASE listen to me!" in which you yanked back.

"it was all a bet huh? and for what? I knew I shouldn't have trusted yo-" you were interrupted by his lips molding against yours. no matter how much you wanted to melt into it, you didn't. your hands landed on his chest, pushing him off you before wiping your lips. the boy stood there, stunned, as his sad blue eyes watched you walk out.

how could he do this to you? after you accepted his dates. after you let him use your body for pleasure. after everything?you felt horrible for leaving miwa alone, but you didn't want to ruin her day. her boyfriend was playing hockey, with satoru.

it was when you pulled out your phone, ready to block him, when you saw the several missed calls from yuji and from your fathers doctor. your heart sank even more. you quickly found a secluded spot.

satoru wanted to follow after you, desperate to fix things. but he couldn't, not with a game he needed to play. but in all honesty he was done playing.

yuji was screaming at you through the phone. his voice was raw. one you haven't heard in years.

"I called you twenty fucking times y/n! all of last night, where the hell were you?!"

you were hyperventilating. the situation sinking in, the one with gojo and the one where your dad was on the brink of death. "with.. with this guy.."

silence.

"with a guy?" he spat. “you were with some guy while dad was- y/n, he’s in critical condition. they had to resuscitate him last night. and im over here wondering that something important was going on with you only to find out you were busy sucking some guy off. was it the guy you told me about?"

"..yeah..but it didn't end well."

"I dont fucking care about that right now. honestly im glad, let this be a lesson. we thought we were gonna lose him. and you were out playing house with some asshole?”

you didn't answer, too busy trying to even breathe. "im sorry... im sorry." yuji didn’t respond right away.

"i already paid half of the shit," his sharp voice continued. "if you could send some money over that would be great. and those bills, have you paid them yet?"

you swallowed hard, tears stinging the backs of your eyes. “o, I… I haven’t had time, yuji,”

“you haven’t had time?” he repeated like the words physically hurt him. there was a long pause. when Yuji spoke again, his voice had softened.

".. just please pay his medication.. my job isn't paying that well."

"I will.." you said quietly. "where is matt?"

"he's with aunt teresa. i'll call you if anything happens again, please answer next time."

you sniffled, wiping your runny nose. "okay. I love you."

click.

the call ended with him not saying those words back. you still had your phone up to your ear, wishing that magically yuji would say it back.

you felt so unwanted

unloved.

you could feel your eyes stinging even more and your throat closing up on you. you felt like you were losing everyone, your father slipping away in a hospital bed miles from here, your brother who had always been your anchor, your voice of reason, now too exhausted to carry you, and satoru.

satoru.

that night your phone was blowing up. call after call, text after text- all from him.

satoru : y/n please.

satoru : call me, return my calls lets talk pretty.

satoru : it was a bet, but believe me when I tell you that I truly love you.

satoru : I love you. say it back baby. please I need you. can't lose you, im sorry love please don't leave..

you remembered when you planned to block him before the call with yuji, your finger hovered over the red block button. but you simply put your phone on dnd and headed to sleep recalling the horrible events of tonight. tear stains were placed on your cheeks, mascara ruined, just like how your life felt.

miwa had tried, she really did. she tried her best to comfort you, but she understood you needed space. the sweet girl provided you with extra blankets as well as water, she even rubbed off the remaining makeup on you.

satoru hasn't felt this horrible since he accidentally flushed down his sisters goldfish back in first grade. but it wasn't the same.

the goldfish didn't hate him. you did.

and he hated himself for how he made you feel. he hated himself for doing this to you. but god was he grateful to have taken on that bet. not for the money, but for you. because of the bet, he met such a wonderful girl who he was completely smitten for. too bad that the girl now hates his guts.

the weather matched how gojo felt. he looked like hell.

his usual outfits was replaced by a simple white t-shirt with sweatpants. the confident boy was now just a regular burnt out college student who looks like he missed out on eight hours of sleep to study for his physics final. he hasn't eaten since yesterday, deciding his body didn't deserve to be rewarded with food.

he made his way to the small mailroom provided for students. his face lit up when he saw you there, not looking so good like him.

"baby."

his voice startled you, making you drop your mail, watching as they scattered all throughout the tile floor.

you crouched down to gather your mail, avoiding his eyes, heart pounding in your chest from too many things at once, his voice, your brother’s call, the reminder of your father, the unbearable guilt, and now him standing here, looking like someone you didn’t know how to love right now.

satoru knelt beside you, brushing your fingers by accident as he helped you collect the envelopes. the moment your skin touched, a sharp breath escaped his lips.

thats when saw it. a bunch of letters from kaiser permamente.

"what's this..?"

you froze, hand curling tighter around the envelope like you could hide it, like you could make it disappear if you just willed it hard enough. but he had already seen.

you stood quickly, clutching the papers to your chest. “it’s nothing.”

“sweetheart…” His tone shifted, serious now. “that’s a hospital.”

"i know, i can read." you shot back.

satoru rose to his feet slowly, eyes still locked on you, his earlier exhaustion now sharpened with concern. “y/n?” His voice cracked. “is everything okay?”

you didn't know how it came to this. but you were hugging him tightly, crying into his chest like he wasn't part of the reason why you were going through it.

.

.

.

ending a/n : I hope you guys enjoyed reading the first half of 10 things I hate about you !!

[kiyomitakada]

hi everyone so ages ago i translated watari's diary from the movie tie-in material L File No. 15 (sourced from this post by @mikami) but i just realized i never posted it here?? of all places??? so here you go! i recommend reading this translation along with the screenshots from that post since there are pictures that i did not bother actually including.

(spoilers for the live action films!)

---

QUILLISH WAMMY'S DIARY

The following diary was included in the discovered files. It is thought to have been written by Quillish Wammy (who is said to have gone by "Watari" while acting as L's intermediary), but as with the previous files, it contains information of dubious veracity.

May 7, 1973

Recently, I find myself thinking idle thoughts.

The metal I invented, which is superconducting under 28.7°C, is now used in 87% of electrical cables worldwide. It has brought me great wealth. Too much to know what to do with, I feel. No matter how much money I accumulate, there is no way to buy a human life, so I can't imagine any interesting way I could spend it.

May 12, 1973

Today, I had a revelation.

My talents mainly skew towards the sciences, and there are many things I can do with them, but also many things I cannot. But what if I use my wealth and my enthusiasm to raise new talents? Then there will certainly be one or two who can achieve things I cannot. Extremely interesting. To what extent can humans cultivate their talents? This is what I should dedicate the rest of my life to finding out.

I will gather children with talent and intelligence from all over the world — the brain develops very quickly from ages 9 to 13, so children around that age range should work best — and educate them thoroughly. Eventually, I believe, they will be able to change the world. Perhaps I will call the institution Wammy's House.

[Notes on the children]

F: Strong sense of justice, and quick to action — which is why he can make mistakes.

R: Has recently shown interest in astronomy. Has fallen asleep while looking through a telescope before, and thus contracted a cold. Twice.

K: Talented in multiple fields. Has perfectly understood almost everything I teach. I have not yet determined which area she is most skilled in — very exciting.

*1 (T/N: shaky translation): Many researchers have reason to believe members of Wammy's House are referred to by single letters of the alphabet. However, there is no consensus as to what extent these nicknames were used. Some suggest only Quillish Wammy and the person themselves recognized the nickname.

February 23, 1987

Today, I have learned a lesson. Sometimes an overly nurtured talent goes beyond the will of the person who nurtured it. [T/N: I genuinely can't tell if he's talking about the kid raising their talent or Watari raising the kid] K has left Wammy's House of her own volition. This is the first time something like this has happened since I founded Wammy's House. I feel a strong sense of loss.

---

[Notes on the children, 2]

D: Mainly talented in physics. Frequently smashes radio-controlled models, possibly to conduct their own experiments. The degree of destruction is being monitored.

P: Often found with their nose buried in a novel. I think I will try teaching them psychology once they are a little older. It would be nice if they showed some interest in profiling.

L: Invests in stocks. Clearly talented, but so far an unknown variable.

July 10, 1994

Currently, out of all the children, L holds most of my interest.

While he does show interest in existing fields of study, he is even more enthusiastic about using his own methods (adjacent to statistics) to make deductions. Right now, he is spending the most time on criminal investigations. He is working against actual human beings, which is why the cases are so complex and difficult to unravel… He seems immensely fascinated by this.

L, when in pursuit of an objective, is able to immediately determine the necessary information. L. You are my hope.

August 13, 2005

L has selected FBI agent Naomi Misora for the Los Angeles B.B. Murder Cases. It seems he did so in recognition of her bravery and deductive abilities. L dislikes unnecessary physical exertion, since he wants to keep his mind functioning as quickly as possible. Thus, he has to rely on others to act as his agents on the scene. Naomi is reliable.

[A photo of Naomi, along with the text:]

Naomi Misora FBI Investigator Achieved investigator status unusually quickly Specialty: Marksmanship Intelligent and passionate

---

February 26, 2006

I was present at an ICPO conference today. The focus was exclusively on the "Kira case." Criminals all over the world are dying of simultaneous heart attacks. Some members of the public might call this "judgment," but it is murder. L is very intrigued by this new type of crime.

*2: The Kira case, as detailed in the other files, refers to the phenomenon where criminals globally die of simultaneous heart attacks. Rumors flew around the Internet claiming that "'Kira' is our savior and carries out justice," and the name was attached to the phenomenon even though this was not actually proven yet. Since the case affected the entire world and was growing in momentum rapidly, the ICPO's response was necessarily rushed.

March 2, 2006

It seems Naomi Misora and Raye Iwamatsu are now engaged. They are planning to hold the ceremony in Japan. Naomi says she is retiring from the FBI. That took me by surprise.

I am unsure how L feels about Naomi's decision, but he has chosen her for his plan to make contact with Kira. Raye will be the driver. I'm sure Naomi will carry out the plan perfectly. Yes, L's choice is correct. But making a bride approach a murderer… making her groom drive her there…

L. That calmness in you is what I hoped for, what I raised. Still. Is hesitation not an option for you?

March 10, 2006

It's been raining since morning. It's coming down in sheets. I haven't seen such weather for a long time.

L believes there is a 97% probability Kira is in Japan, so we are headed there. Even so… Why did L say something like that? He never says things so sentimental, so unsettling… Could it be that he can see something I can't even imagine lurking in the future of this case? L, why did you say, "I might not be able to come back?" You are only in charge of directing the investigation. There's no reason to think you will come face to face with danger.

The lesson I learned from K is once again swirling in my head. Sometimes an overly nurtured talent will go somewhere I cannot follow…

L. Tell me you weren't thinking straight. Please. Tell me it was just the rain.

---

April 1, 2006

The twelve FBI agents who L ordered to tail the families and associates of the Japanese police have all died simultaneously of heart attacks. …Including Raye Iwamatsu… It was a shock, considering the pattern up to now, that Kira would kill so many human beings who weren't criminals. I think L wasn't able to predict it either.

I tried expressing my condolences to Naomi Misora over the phone, but I couldn't reach her. I am worried.

April 2, 2006

L met the Japanese investigators in person. Starting from now, he will work together with them to advance the investigation. L has never shown his real face to anyone before now. I can feel his anxiety about this case radiating off this decision. Or perhaps it's impatience?

L asked them to call him Ryuzaki.

[Notes on the Japanese investigators]

Soichiro Yagami: Chief of the task force assigned to the "Kira case." Overflowing with a particularly Japanese sense of justice. Trustworthy.

Ukita

Aizawa

Sanami: The only woman on the investigation team. A little too kind.

Mogi

Matsuda: A hot-headed young man. Slightly too presumptuous.

---

April 11, 2006

L is fixated on Light Yagami. He says that the probability of Light being Kira is only around 1% to 3%, but from his behavior, I can't help but think it must be higher. But although I suppose Light is decently intelligent, he's nothing more than a regular college student. To even consider the possibility of him being a mass murderer, there has to be some additional factor — an inconceivable one.

What is it?

Are we fighting against something entirely new?

[A photo of Light, along with the text:]

Light Yagami Student majoring in law at To-Oh University. A prodigy — he has already passed the bar exam. Hates to lose; focuses on winning in everything. His father is the chief of the task force, Soichiro Yagami.

[Memo so I don't forget my orders]

An emergency order from L. Written below so I don't make a single mistake.

Macarons (DALLOMIU) x 12 boxes

Marshmallows (MEIGI-YA) x 12 bags

Donuts (Donkin Donuts) x 12 bags

Black tea (F and N) x 12 cans

Potato chips (Golbee) (specifically BBQ flavor) x 2 bags

[T/N: The potato chips are the type Light eats in The Chip Scene — they're consomme in the original Japanese (both manga and diary) but BBQ in the Viz translation, which I'm going with.]

*3: The Donkin Donuts company shut down all its stores in Japan in 1998. Therefore, this memo conflicts with the range of time in which L and Quillish Wammy were thought to be in Japan. Whether this is a mistake on Wammy's part or an indication that the diary is of unreliable origin is still a topic of discussion.

April 15, 2006

I think the incomprehensibility of what happened today will stay with me for the rest of my life. Naomi Misora shot herself. It was after she told L, "I'll use my own life to prove that Light Yagami is Kira." But Naomi wasn't able to prove anything.

She must have, in her own way, found something confirming her theory. Considering her actions up to now, she wouldn't have made such a declaration without some kind of proof. But she took Light's girlfriend hostage at the museum. She killed her. And then she took her own life. Why would she do such a thing?

It wasn't like her. No matter how I think about it, it wasn't like her. She looked almost… confused, right before her death. Not like Naomi at all.

[Photo of Shiori, a movie-only character!]

Shiori Akino Student majoring in law at To-Oh University. Dating Light Yagami. Possesses a strong sense of justice and articulates her ideals clearly. Postscript: Was shot and killed by Naomi Misora at the Oumei Museum of Art.

*4: Naomi Misora's murder of Shiori Akino and subsequent suicide is the greatest mystery of this case. As Quillish Wammy wrote here, the question "Why did Naomi kill Shiori?" is still entirely unexplained; some have even proposed that it had no connection to the Kira case at all. Also, in regards to Shiori, it bears mentioning that some believe she was dating Light Yagami while others believe they were simply classmates.

---

April 18, 2006

The construction of the Kira Response Building is complete. We will be moving the investigation headquarters there.

[Memo with cutouts so I don't forget]

[T/N: As you can see in the Tumblr screenshots, this page of the diary is entirely filled with cutouts from advertisements showing different parts of L's outfit.]

[picture of jeans]: The feeling of a new working style, a dominating sense of existence — Loose silhouette, straight frame. Its special characteristic is the five pockets it boasts on the front. Two of the pockets are integrated into the seams on the sides for a working-style taste. There is an adjuster in the back so you can adjust the size slightly.

[T/N: I tried for ages to figure out if this meant 5 or 7 pockets total, and then I decided accurate translation of an advertisement for jeans in the tie-in material for a movie spinoff for a 2000s manga wasn't worth this effort.] [No offense, L.]

[picture of sneakers]: A strong impact! Each step brimming with confidence — These shoes are made with the ripstop fabric used in military wear. It won't tear, no matter how much you wear the shoes out. Additionally, the camo pattern is piece-dyed with black and deliberately scuffed, giving it a tasteful finished look.

[picture of white sweater]: It looks good in any season: a must buy item — Silhouette is loose enough to hide the lines of your body. The neckline is also loose, so wearing it is a delightfully relaxed experience. The white color has outstanding compatibility with denim.

[picture of Hyottoko mask] Hyottoko mask

[doodle of white bag]

[picture of a chessboard] CHESS: The definitive version of the battle of minds

---

April 29, 2006

An individual calling themselves "the Second Kira" has sent video tapes to TV stations. Their patterns are clearly different from those of the Kira who has acted up to now. According to L's theory, while the previous Kira needed a face and a name for the murder, this Kira only needs to see someone's face to kill them.

Also, Light Yagami is now part of the task force. Light can't forgive Kira for taking his girlfriend's life. He's burning with determination to solve the case. He really is a smart teenager.

I wonder which L feels more for him: sympathy or competitiveness. Even I can't tell.

*5: In this time period, there were several unexplainable events, documented by the news and TV broadcasts in Japan at the time. For example, several police officers died of sudden heart attacks near the doorstep of the TV station that was broadcasting a message from the person claiming to be "the Second Kira" (including a detective whose name appeared in the earlier "Notes on the Japanese investigators"). It is thought that L's theory that "this Kira only needs to see someone's face [...]," as documented by Quillish Wammy above, was based on this incident.

May 11, 2006

Misa Amane has been arrested under suspicion of being the Second Kira. She is in confinement. The Japanese investigators seem somewhat opposed to this method. L is feeling cornered. It makes me anxious.

[Photo of Misa Amane, smiling in a sleeveless skull-and-crossbones shirt]

Misa Amane Idol There was an advertisement on the bus for fashion magazines with her on their covers. She seems to be a rather well-known figure in Japan.

Postscript: I have acquired Misa's photo albums, CDs, and DVDs as evidence. I passed them to L. L has not informed me of any new data from this analysis, but he has been playing the CD.

---

June 2, 2006

L announced to the investigators that "as of now, I have concluded that Light Yagami and Misa Amane are not Kira."

Light will still stay in the Kira Response Building to help with the investigation. L has accepted this. Could it be that L has recognized that someone else is on his level for the first time? I am happy for him, but also have complicated feelings about this. Is it possible that Light has become L's first-ever friend?

June 9, 2006

The Kira murders continue. L has been chewing his nails more often lately.

L, you should already know this: you do not need to carry the burden of all the world's crimes on your shoulders.

June 26, 2006

Light Yagami's theory may be our breakthrough in the case. His line of investigation has turned up a name: a Sakura TV newscaster, Kiyomi Takada.

[Photo of Kiyomi Takada, smiling placidly on a news channel, hands folded together]

Kiyomi Takada Newscaster for Sakura TV

She became the current face of the news channel EVENING SPOT after her predecessor Saeko Nishiyama's sudden death in a car accident. She quickly began hosting segments supporting Kira. She lives alone in a condo within the city.

---

June 30, 2006

You could say my scientific skills have started to rust, but as an inventor who tries to always think things through logically, I am feeling bewildered. There are "Shinigami," gods of death, who exist in this world. The Shinigami each carry a notebook, which is called a "Death Note." And the human whose name is written in the Death Note will die.

What on Earth? We've been up against Shinigami this whole time?

L was shocked. Unusual for him. But when I saw that surprise on his face, I actually felt relieved. At least Wammy's House — my creation — has not taken the capability for shock away from him.

Death Note: How to Use (Rules) — a partial excerpt

[T/N: Translations mostly copied from the Death Note wiki, with minor edits]

The human whose name is written in this note shall die.

If the cause of death is written within the next 40 seconds (in human-realm units) of writing the person's name, it will happen.

If the cause of death is not specified, the human will simply die of a heart attack.

After writing the cause of death, details of the death should be written in the next 6 minutes and 40 seconds.

If the time of death is written within 40 seconds after writing the cause of death — even if the cause of death is a heart attack — the time of death can be manipulated, and the death can go into effect even less than 40 seconds after writing the name.

The note will not take effect unless the writer has the person's face in their mind when writing his/her name. Therefore, people sharing the same name will not be affected.

The owner of the note can shorten their own life by using the note.

Even someone who does not own the note can use it by writing a name and thinking of a face, with the same effect as if they were the owner of the note.

After a name is written in the note, it cannot be changed.

The time of death written in the note must be within 23 days (in human-realm units).

July 3, 2006

Misa Amane has been released from the Kira Response Building.

July 4, 2006

The strange situation of a Shinigami coming in and out of the Kira Response Building has continued. I can't help but feel restless seeing a huge, white silhouette wandering about. This Shinigami is not cooperating with us, but isn't trying to hinder us either, it seems.

There have been multiple persistent calls for L to assist with the investigation into Princess Joan's overturned yacht. But L seems uninterested in any other cases right now. I have filed the investigation requests where he won't see them.

---

July 7, 2006

[This entry was translated here by @lunalit-river. I'll copy it over, but please show some love to the original post!]

L.

Was this the outcome of giving you the opportunity to learn? Was it arrogant of me to think that I had given you everything you needed? A genius without parents or relatives, without food or education, a genius who may have had a miserable past. Was I wrong?

L wrote his name in the Death Note.

Was this all for victory? Was this all for justice?

To fight something supernatural like the Death Note, it is true that we must arm ourselves with something that is also beyond human understanding.

It is highly possible that Light Yagami will write L's name in the Death Note. In theory, L must write his name in the Death Note first to prevent Light from doing so.

But don't human emotions have a tendency to refuse to accept the truth and instead hope to twist logic and theory?

L. Don't you ever place your emotions prior to your goals?

L. I never meant for things to end this way. Your talent has surpassed mine, and now you are consuming yourself. But I…

Today I learned F's death. Am I about to lose you, too? I have never felt so powerless as I do now.

L. I am confused. When I established Wammy's House, I might not have anticipated this.

I learned a lot from being with you, L, just as parents learn a lot from their children.

L. Just one sentence is enough. Please tell me you want to live.

L. L…

July 7, 2006

L Lawliet Heart failure Dies 23 days from now, peacefully, in his sleep

---

July 10, 2006

This is the end of the case, isn't it? Everything has been arranged. I will bring Misa to headquarters, and as long as Soichiro Yagami and the other Japanese investigators do as L says, everything should go perfectly. Tonight, the Kira case will be solved.

I have learned from L, who moves towards his goal still, indifferent in the face of death. I too will not waver.

L still has 20 days left. I'll spend them with him. Not because of everything I gave him in his lifetime, but because of everything I deprived him of. I can devote all my time to him now.

L, what do you want to do? You can play silly games, if you want. You can go make friends. If you don't mind my old age, I would gladly be your friend. Or your

Do you want to see sights you've never seen before? Do you want to feel breezes you've never felt? [T/N: He switches to polite speech just for this paragraph. Back to regular now.]

Get up from that way you always sit; let's go outside. Everything I took from you — the small, the inconsequential, the boring things — and the beautiful, dear ones too: let's go find them together. It's okay if you don't have any conclusions to draw. I just want you to have fun. To love the world in front of you. To savor it.

L. That's right. Just like a father and son on holiday.

I've been writing in this diary for forty years. I think I will stop in twenty days. I can't imagine anything I would want to write about, anything I should write about, would happen after that.

Alright. I'd better go and bring Misa over.

This is where the diary ends. The Kira case has been dormant ever since the last entry here.

[grayandthyme]

Something like Easy | 1

masterlist | next chapter

pairing: pre-outbreak!joel miller x teacher!reader

synopsis: in a small Texas town in early 2002, a young English teacher is barely keeping it together. her car is barely drivable, her students are restless, and her lesson plans are falling flat. though, a shitty car leads to an unexpected carpool arrangement with her next-door neighbor, Joel Miller, a single father with a quiet drawl and a soft spot for his daughter.

warnings/tags: each chapter will have separate tags.

no use of y/n, reader is referred to as 'ma'am' on occasion, domestic fluff, slow burn, tension, maternal fluff, bonding over sarah, dialogue heavy.

w/c 8.3k

2002

Coffee pot. Turn it on. Turn on the damn coffee pot. Shit—grab the other bag. Lipstick. Where’s the lipstick? Did you brush your hair? What were you going to pack for lunch—too late now. Way too late. Shit. Coffee. Just turn on the coffee pot.

You were late. Not just a little late—thirty solid minutes behind. You should’ve left long ago. You should’ve been in the classroom by now, setting up, printing handouts, doing everything you promised yourself you’d stay on top of. But the alarm had gone off at five, and your hand found the snooze button. Again. And again…. Six, maybe seven times.

You tore through the house like a storm, leaving disarray in your wake—papers, bags, a half-eaten granola bar. Coffee splashed into a tumbler. Fingers dragged through tangled hair. You shoved open the car door, tossed everything inside, slid into the seat, and went to start it.

Brrsshk.

Start it.

Brrsshk.

Start it... ?

Brrssshk.

The engine tried. It coughed. It gave up. No ignition. Just that hollow, broken sound.

No. No, no, no. The car can’t be dead. Not today. Did you leave a light on? Is it the battery? Or the engine? It's practically an antique—twenty years old, if not older.

Fucking antique.

You slammed your palms against the steering wheel, more theatrics than solution, but it was something. Something to relieve the stress coiled in your stomach.

It wasn’t even eight o’clock. And everything had already come undone.

"Trouble?”

The voice was low, rough around the edges—one of those gravel-laced laughs that came from somewhere deep in the chest. You glanced toward the next driveway over.

“Been a hell of a morning,” you said, eyes landing on your neighbor—and his daughter.

Sarah. She’d been in your class since the semester started, the quiet one who always raised her hand and turned things in early. You recognized her face the moment roll was called back in January.

The girl next door. Her dad was around your age, blue-collar, kind, and easy to be around. The kind of man who knew his way around town and made it a point to invite you over whenever there was too much food. Nothing complicated.

Just… neighborly. Yes, neighborly.

“Good morning, ma’am!” Sarah called out, already halfway into the passenger seat of the truck.

“Morning, Sarah,” you replied, offering a quick smile—one that lingered just a little longer when it shifted to her father.

“Well,” he said, arms crossed and shoulder propped casually against the truck, “… since you’re both headed to the same place, I can give you a ride. Tight squeeze, but it’s better than being stranded.”

There was something calm about the way he said it. No pressure. No teasing. Just an open door when you needed one.

“I’d really appreciate that, Mr. Miller,” you said, exhaling a laugh that scraped out more nervous than light. “If I don’t show up soon, I think they might just about fire me.”

It took a moment to gather your things, every motion feeling slower than it should. The weight of the morning still clung to you. But when you climbed into the truck, the world felt just a little more manageable.

The fit was snug. His truck—an old Chevrolet C/K 10, dark blue and time-worn—smelled faintly of wood and sun-warmed fabric. It was dirty enough to show the dust of long days and dirt roads, but not enough to be neglected.

You sat in the middle—knees brushing lightly against his, careful not to crowd Sarah. The cab was quiet but not tense, broken by the hum of the road and the occasional rattle of something loose behind the seat. Screwdrivers, maybe. A toolbox.

“Are we going to go over the reading chapters today?” Sarah asked, turning from the window, her voice gentle and curious.

“Chapters five and six,” you replied, straightening the collar of your shirt, which still felt slightly wrong after the rushed morning. “Did they bore you?”

It wasn’t the question of a teacher, not really. Just a sincere check-in—human to human.

“I liked it,” she said, smiling. “I like the bird."

Her gaze drifted back out the window, toward the wide fields stitched with fences and the occasional slow-moving cow. You liked that about the countryside. Never saw cows when you were a kid.

Joel’s voice chimed in, warm and casual. “You guys are readin’ a book?”

His left hand rested on top of the steering wheel. The right tapped absentminded rhythms against his thigh.

“Jonathan Livingston Seagull,” you said, returning the smile. “It’s good for students to read allegorical satire. Helps them start asking questions they didn’t know they had.”

He let out a short breath of a laugh. “Never heard of it. Never read it. And, don't ask me what a fuckin' allegorical is.”

You glanced over. “You’d probably like it more now than you would’ve in school.”

“Back in school,” he said with a smirk, “I wasn’t much for readin’. Could barely sit still long enough to get through a page.”

“Most people can’t. Not really,” you said. “It’s a skill you grow into—if life lets you.”

There was a pause, not awkward, just thoughtful. But no one was in a rush to dive in, the morning still clinging to your consciousness.

The road stretched out ahead, light and cracked, under a sky washed pale by morning sun. A few questions bounced between father and daughter, easy and familiar, their rhythm well-worn. You listened more than you spoke, content in the quiet, in the soft country drawl of their conversation and the hum of the road beneath you.

It was peaceful.

You didn’t feel like a guest. You didn’t feel like a burden. And for a morning that had begun in chaos, that was saying something.

The school crept up on the horizon—its brick walls catching the morning sun, buses already lined along the curb. In a blink, the truck eased to a stop at the front.

“Hey,” you said, your hand pausing on the door handle. “I really appreciate this. A lot.”

Joel turned toward you, eyes meeting yours with a brief, searching look—like he was trying to read something unspoken in your face. Then he smiled, easy.

“My kid can’t learn if you’re not there to teach,” he said.

Touché.

He cleared his throat, almost like he hadn’t meant to say the next part. “What time do you get off? I’m usually back around three to pick Sarah up.”

“Three forty-five. I’ve got bus duty,” you said with a faint shrug. You glanced toward Sarah, who was a few steps ahead, idly rolling a small rock under her sneaker, waiting.

“How about dinner as a thank you?” The words came out lighter than you expected, almost airy—your fingers fidgeting at the strap of your work bag.

Was that your heart picking up a little?

Get a grip, girl, oh my god.

Joel’s brows lifted slightly, surprised—not put off, just maybe not used to being on the receiving end of offers like that.

“You cook?” he asked, a teasing note there, but gentle.

“Only on days when my car dies,” you deadpanned, smiling.

He let out a low laugh, hand brushing over the back of his neck. “Alright then. Deal.”

Sarah glanced back at you both with a curious tilt of her head, then turned toward the school doors.

You stepped back onto the sidewalk, the truck rumbling into motion behind you. And for a second, you let yourself watch it pull away—feeling just a little more awake than you had an hour ago.

The school day wasn’t bad. In fact, it moved with a kind of ease—fluid, almost gentle. Most of your students stayed on task, heads down in their books, pens scribbling half-heartedly in the margins. The lessons were simple: annotation, discussion, light analysis. Theories floated through the classroom like soft echoes, some half-baked, others surprisingly sharp. It was steady. Predictable.

At lunch, you slipped into the cafeteria like a teenager sneaking out of class, leaning across the counter to charm an extra salad out of the lunch lady. It wasn’t great—but it filled the space, the kind of space that had been gnawed open earlier that morning by a dead car and a voice that wouldn't leave your head. The space that was only filled by rushed coffee, and no breakfast.

That voice.

Rough around the edges, like a match dragging across gritted paper. Those dark brown eyes, heavy-lidded and knowing. And his arms—tendons of muscle flexing casually beneath a worn t-shirt.

Distracting.

But he was a parent. Your student’s father, specifically.

That made it all feel dangerous in a way that wasn’t thrilling. Like walking a little too close to the edge of a cliff, one you’d promised yourself you’d never climb too high on.

Still, the thought lingered, and it crept in between stacks of ungraded essays and half-finished lesson plans.

By the time dismissal rolled around, you were decaying. Bus duty was its usual slow, aching pace—standing beneath the heavy Texas sun, watching yellow buses puff clouds of smog into the air. Your sundress, collared and ironed just hours ago, now clung to your skin like a second, far less glamorous skin.

You adjusted your sunglasses and scanned the parking lot, squinting through the thick, warm air. A familiar blue truck rolled into view, crawling forward beneath the glare.

And there he was.

Joel Miller, one arm hanging out the window, looked just as effortlessly composed as he had this morning.

You hated that. And also… didn’t. Maybe.

He pulled up slowly, the engine humming low. Sarah hopped out from the group of kids, waving once before trotting toward the truck.

“Still standin’, huh?” Joel called, his voice lazy and amused.

You arched a brow. “Barely.”

He chuckled. “You still up for that dinner?”

Were you? You weren’t sure if it was sweat or nerves prickling at the back of your neck.

Ugh, you're so fucked. Why did you offer that in the first place? Could have sent yourself into a nice, cooled, ice cream rotted binge on your couch.

You nodded anyway. “Yeah,” you said. “I think I’ve earned some of your air conditioning.”

Joel leaned across the center seat, hooking his finger in the door and opening the passenger side. “Then climb on in, teach'. Let’s get you somewhere you can breathe again.”

The ride back was nice—windows rolled down, the late afternoon air sweeping in to soothe your sun-warmed skin. It carried the scent of cut grass and hot pavement, of summer sweeping into the Spring semester. It was roughly mid April. Your sundress fluttered at the hem, and you leaned into the breeze like it might cool something deeper than just the sweat on your back.

Maybe it'll blow away your stress along with it.

Sarah had launched into a breathless recap of her day somewhere around the end of the school parking lot. Now, she was mid-rant—animated, scandalized—telling a story that involved two classmates, an on-again-off-again relationship, and a betrayal. Middle school drama.

“They’re eleven—You're eleven,” you murmured, half to yourself, half to the open air.

“You better not be datin’,” Joel cut in from the driver’s seat, voice rough with playfulness. He flicked his eyes toward the rearview mirror with a practiced kind of ease. “You’re too young to be dealin’ with heartbreak.”

“Ew, Dad,” Sarah groaned from the side, dragging out the word like it physically pained her. “No. God.”

You laughed—genuinely—and shook your head. “The things I’ve overheard from these kids will always blow my mind,” you said, flipping your sunglasses up to rest on your head. “They talk like they've lived three lives already.”

Joel smirked, hand resting casual on the wheel. “Middle school’s a war zone now. Nothing like when we were that age.”

You nodded. “Now it’s pager beeps… sneaking their iPod into class… myspace…"

Sarah cringed, visibly. Old people.

He let out a low whistle. “I’d never survive.”

“Mmhhmm,” you hummed, softly. And for a second, you both just listened to the road.

The sky was shifting now—smeared with burnt orange, the sun dipping low enough to cast long shadows on the dashboard. The quiet between stretched, not awkward, not strained.

“Home’s just ahead,” Joel said, his voice gentler now.

You turned your head, looked at him—really looked this time.

“I can bring wine,” you said. “Figured it was safer than tryin' to cook with a power tool…” Lacey accent slipping off of the edge of your words.

He chuckled, the sound deep and raspy. “Good call. I’ve got ribs that need finishin' on the grill.”

Sarah practically cheered, a dramatic, “I love when you make ribs!”

“Then it’s settled,” Joel said, pulling into the driveway with the practiced motion of someone who’s done this a thousand times—but today, it felt different. Like a routine just slightly rewritten. You're an extra character, perhaps.

You stepped out of the truck and into something that, maybe, wasn’t so routine at all.

It didn’t take long—just enough time to slip home, peel off the sundress that had long since clung to your skin, and breathe for a minute in the stillness of your space. The kind of stillness that only exists in the hours of the afternoon, when the light comes in low.

You changed into something casual—soft. Nothing bold, nothing inappropriate. But not something you’d ever wear to teach sixth graders about symbolism either. The fabric settled gently over your arms, still chilled from evaporated sweat, the heat of the day finally breaking.

A bottle of wine—cheap, screw top, a last-minute grab from the grocery store last week. A Tupperware of homemade cookies from a restless baking spree the night before. Some fruit, slightly bruised but still sweet, collected into a bag you tied off with a ribbon you found in your kitchen drawer. It was an offering, of sorts. Not extravagant. But thoughtful.

Honest.

Shit, did you want to impress him?

As you locked your door and stepped back into the fading gold of afternoon, it occurred to you how strangely normal this all felt. Like you’d done it before. Like you might do it again.

Hoped you'd do it again.

You made your way next door, your arms full, your heart doing that quiet, uncertain stutter it sometimes did when life shifted just a little out of its usual orbit.

Joel was already on the back patio, sleeves rolled, one hand gripping a pair of tongs as he turned a rack of ribs with practiced nonchalance. The scent hit you before you even rounded the house—smoke, spice, a hint of char.

He glanced up as you approached, and gave a nod like you were right on time.

“Hope you’re hungry,” he said, the side of his mouth lifting. “We don’t mess around when it comes to ribs in this house.”

You held up the wine and the cookies like a peace offering.

“Well,” you smiled, “I figured I’d at least try to earn my keep.”

Dinner was simple, but good—the kind of meal that stuck to your gut and made the world feel a little smaller, maybe your pants too. Joel plated the ribs with a quiet sort of confidence, tossing a bowl of greens beside the meat like an afterthought.

Sarah had eventually taken her plate to the living room, sprawled on the floor with a tv-show humming from the television, volume low enough to let the hum of cicadas sneak through the open screen door.

You and Joel stayed outside, the patio lights strung overhead flickering to life as the sun dipped low. The wine was already half-gone between the two of you, and the fruit sat untouched on the table—sweating in the heat.

“You always cook like this?” you asked, moving around food with your fork.

He huffed, almost sheepishly. “Only when I’ve got a reason to. Usually it’s just whatever Sarah’s willing to eat without a fight.”

“She’s a good kid,” you said, tone softer now. “Sharp. Thoughtful. Sometimes I catch her looking out for the other students when she thinks no one’s watching…”

Joel leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed like he was weighing something. “She likes your class. Says you don’t talk to ‘em like they’re stupid.”

“Well, they’re not,” you replied. “Even when they act like it.”

That earned a low chuckle, his head tipping back, the sound rattling in his chest.

The silence after it wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was heavier.

You glanced at him—really looked—and felt that slow, creeping awareness settle in again. The line. The complication. The tension that had existed ever since this morning when you’d slid into the passenger seat of his truck like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The stares between bringing the mail in, or doing yard work in the summer.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said, after a pause too long to be casual.

You blinked. “What did you expect?”

He shrugged, then shook his head slowly. “I dunno. Most teachers I’ve met don’t come over with cookies and wine. Or talk about books like it’s gospel. Or…” He stopped himself there, jaw working as he looked away.

You swallowed. Your fingers fidgeted with the stem of your wine glass. “Or…?”

He didn’t look at you when he answered, voice lower now. “Or make me wonder if it’s a bad idea to enjoy the way you laugh.”

That silenced the evening air. Even the bugs seemed to pause.

Fuck.

You weren’t sure if it was the wine or the warmth or just exhaustion, but your voice came quieter than you meant it to:

“She’s your daughter. I’m her teacher.”

Joel’s gaze lifted, met yours. Steady. Serious. “I know.”

You didn’t look away.

“Doesn’t make it go away though, does it?” He said, almost a whisper.

The porch light buzzed above you, moths circling like they knew something you didn’t.

From inside, Sarah laughed at something on the TV. A reminder. A tether.

You stood, smoothing your flannel, suddenly aware of the way the night had curled itself around you.

“I should head home,” you said, not moving just yet.

Joel didn’t try to stop you. He just nodded once, like he understood exactly what you meant—and also didn’t. He didn't want to ask. Didn't want to know.

“Thanks for dinner,” you added, voice a little shakier than you wanted.

He looked up at you then, and his voice was quieter now. “Thanks for showin’ up.”

You turned to go, your shoes quiet on the worn patio boards, when his voice caught you—gentle this time, like it didn’t want to startle you.

“Wait—”

You stopped, half-glancing over your shoulder. The wind fizzling out against you, carrying with it the scent of smoke and sugar, and something that lingered between the two of you.

Joel stood slowly, one hand running along the back of his neck, the other dangling at his side, “I wouldn’t ask unless I really needed it,” he began, already cautious, already apologetic. “Tomorrow’s Saturday, I know. But I gotta run down to Tommy’s place. His breaker’s been out since Tuesday and he’s useless with wires.”

You don't question who Tommy is, guessing you'll find out sooner or later.

He smiled faintly—just enough to take the edge off the ask. “Figured it’d only take me half the day. Was wonderin’ if maybe you could… keep an eye on Sarah?”

Your brow arched, not from offense, just surprise. “You want me to babysit?”

He huffed, shaking his head like that word didn’t sit right with him. “She’s eleven. Barely needs watchin’. Just someone around. Someone she trusts.”

Questionable.

You hesitated—not because you didn’t want to, but because it suddenly made everything feel a little closer, a little less theoretical. You weren’t just a neighbor now. Not just her teacher. This was something else.

No, this is something entirely different.

“She’s welcome to come to my place,” you said finally, voice careful. “I’ve got air conditioning, cable TV, and leftover cookies. That should be enough to keep her entertained.”

Joel’s mouth lifted into a genuine smile. Not cocky. Not performative. Just grateful.

“I appreciate it. Really.”

You gave him a look—measured, but warm. “You're lucky I like her...”

“Have her knock around ten?”

He nodded, and for a second it felt like something else passed between you. A thank you, unspoken.

As you finally stepped back toward your own yard, his voice floated out behind you—low, but not uncertain.

“Night.”

You paused, smiled without turning. “Night, Joel.”

. . .

Ten came quicker than expected. The morning had been gentle—sunlight pouring through the kitchen window as you swept the floor barefoot, your coffee gone lukewarm on the counter. Cracked the windows to let in the breeze, the sound of birds and distant lawnmowers carried through the air. You’d even lit a candle, something citrusy and clean.

You weren't doing this for her, per se, but it did help spur your motivation.

When Sarah knocked, it was exactly on time.

She stood on your porch with a small canvas tote slung over her shoulder, the strap nearly sliding off. “I brought homework and bracelet stuff,” she announced, stepping inside like she’d done it a hundred times before.

“Good,” you smiled. “I’m making you do all my grading.”

She laughed, setting her things on the coffee table and plopping down on the floor. Out came the beads, a half-finished paperback, and a spiral notebook with messy notes in the margins. She settled quickly, legs crossed, humming softly as she untangled some elastic string.

The morning unfolded easily.

You sat on the couch, red pen in hand, a pile of essays to your right, and your planner open on the cushion beside you. The rhythm of your work was slow but steady. Sarah didn’t talk much, but the silence wasn’t strained. Every now and then, she’d ask a quiet question—about the reading, or if you liked a certain color pattern for the bracelet she was working on. You answered without looking up, then looked up anyway.

She was comfortable. Focused. There was something familiar about it, something that softened you without asking permission. The quiet company. The peacefulness of just being in a room with someone, no performance required.

You caught yourself looking around once, eyes drifting across the living room: the soft sunlight over the coffee table, the slow spin of dust in the air, her bent head over a half-tied knot in the string. Coiled brown hair that was messily tied up. It hit you how still it all felt—how whole.

The thought unsettled you. In a good way. In a scary way. One you felt like you might not deserve.

Sarah looked up, suddenly, like she felt you were thinking. “Do you think I should make one for my dad?”

You smiled, leaning back into the couch. “Would he wear it?”

“Probably not.” She twisted the beads between her fingers. “But he’d keep it.”

“Then yes. Definitely.”

She nodded, satisfied.

You went back to your grading, and the clock kept ticking. The day crawled in that slow Saturday kind of way. And still, neither of you felt any rush to break the moment.

Around noon, you made sandwiches—simple ones. Toasted bread, turkey, tomato, a bit of mayo, nothing fancy. You called Sarah to the kitchen, and she wandered in with a half-finished bracelet still looped around her fingers.

She stood beside you while you cut the sandwiches diagonally, eyes following the knife. “You always eat lunch this late?” she asked, biting into a pickle from the plate you slid her way.

“Only on weekends,” you stated. “School days, it’s usually whatever I can sneak between grading and yelling across the room to keep kids from doodling that damn S in their essays.”

Sarah snorted. “Justina wrote about teen vogue in her book report last week.”

You gave her a look. “You’re kidding.”

“Swear.”

You both laughed and sat on the barstools at your little kitchen island, legs swinging absently under the counter.

Halfway through her sandwich, she asked, “Did you always wanna be a teacher?”

The question came out of nowhere, but not in a challenging way. She just sounded curious. Genuinely interested.

You chewed thoughtfully, then gave a shrug. “I think I did. I liked books. I liked figuring people out through how they wrote. And… I liked the idea of being someone who noticed things when no one else did.”

Sarah nodded like she understood that more than someone her age probably should.

After a beat, she asked, “Do you like it?”

You leaned your elbows on the counter and looked at her—really looked. Tan skin, freckles. “I do. Even when it’s chaos. Even when it’s too hot and no one read the chapter. And someone’s crying in the bathroom. And another kid’s sneaking cheeto puffs under their desk… I still like it.”

That made her smile. Not just polite—but full, like she was letting you in on something private. “You’re good at it.”

You blinked, surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She twisted her straw around in her drink. “You don’t talk down to us. You don’t act like we’re stupid… And, you're funny."

“Well,” you said with a small grin, “…. some of you are suspiciously smart.”

She took a long sip of her juice. “Do you have a family?”

You paused—less because of the question, and more because it reminded you how rarely you got asked anything personal by your students. It just wasn't the type of thing they were curious about.

It was obvious you lived alone.

“Not really,” you said gently. “My family’s kind of scattered. A few phone calls here and there, but I’ve made my own little version of it along the way.”

Sarah looked at you. Not pity. Just a kind of knowing. “I think my dad’s doin’ that too.”

You didn’t say anything to that—just reached over and gently nudged the plate of cookies toward her.

“Eat another, that’s your payment for getting deep on a Saturday.”

She giggled and took one. “Deal.”

. . .

The night had crept in without warning. You hadn’t even noticed the sun setting, not really. One moment, the room was bathed in gold, and the next, it was all deep, dark, and warm lamp light. The hum of your box fan filled the background as Lilo & Stitch played on your TV, slightly fuzzy.

Sarah had curled up beside you with a blanket around her shoulders, popcorn long abandoned. At some point, she’d pressed a throw pillow into your lap and laid her head down on it without a word. It felt natural.

Like this wasn’t new.

You sipped from your mug of tea, still warm in your hands. The weight of her head on your lap wasn’t heavy—just present. Comforting. Her hair smelled like cheap shampoo and sun—like Joel clearly didn't know what hair products to buy for her—like maybe you'd have to fix that too.

You watched the movie for a while, but your eyes kept drifting to her instead.

She looked peaceful. Deep asleep, breath even, lashes soft against her cheeks. You reached for the remote slowly, lowered the volume down to a murmur, letting your other hand rest loosely on the arm of the couch

It made your chest feel oddly full. Not in a heavy way. Just full.

You liked it. You liked this.

And then came a knock. Soft. Three times.

You looked toward the front door and instinctively glanced at the clock. A little past ten.

The door creaked open before you could get up—Joel stepped in, gently closing it behind him as he spotted you on the couch. He didn’t speak at first. Just took in the sight.

Sarah, asleep. The dim TV light flickering across the room. Your hand halfway frozen mid-sip.

Joel rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to wake her.”

“She’s out cold,” you whispered with a soft smile. “Movie night hit harder than expected. It was a rager.”

He walked in a few steps, careful like the floor might creak too loud. His eyes moved from his daughter to you, then back again. “Looks like she made herself comfortable.”

You nodded. “She’s good company, don't worry.”

Joel’s mouth tugged into a soft smile. The kind that didn’t flash—it just settled there. “You’re good with her,” he said after a moment. “I mean—I knew that already. School and all' but this…”

He looked down at his boots for a second, almost like he wasn’t sure if he was stepping over a line just being here.

“I appreciate it,” he added, quieter this time. “Today. All of it.”

You swallowed and nodded, fingers curling around your mug, “Of course.”

There was a pause then. Just long enough for it to stretch a little. He looked like he had more to say, but didn’t know how to frame it.

“I can carry her out,” he offered, voice still soft, stepping forward.

You nodded and gently began to shift. “Let me help.”

Joel leaned in carefully, one arm sliding under his daughter’s legs, the other under her back. She stirred only slightly, murmuring something in her sleep as he lifted her with practiced ease.

She fit into his arms like it was the easiest thing in the world. A practiced ritual. Love and devotion.

You stood nearby, arms crossed gently over your chest, mug long discarded, watching him adjust her in his hold.

He looked at you—really looked.

“Maybe next time,” he said, “we make it dinner and a movie.”

Your breath caught, just a little. Then you smiled, faint and genuine.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Maybe we do.”

Joel nodded once, Sarah curled against his chest, and turned to the door.

But it didn’t feel like an ending.

It felt like the first page of something. Quiet. Earnest. Real.

He was halfway down the walkway when you spoke—quietly, but with enough clarity to carry through the still evening air.

“Joel?”

He paused, turning just slightly over his shoulder. The porch light spilled a golden hue across his back, catching the faint tousle of Sarah’s hair as she slept, her head tucked close against his collarbone. Hair slightly messed from the long day of wearing a hat.

You stepped forward, one hand bracing the doorframe. You weren’t sure exactly what gave you the nerve—maybe it was the way he looked standing there, solid and warm in the night. Maybe it was the weight of Sarah’s sleepy trust still lingering in your lap. Or maybe it was just the ache of wanting company.

“When you put her down,” you said, voice quieter now, “… you can come back. If you want.”

Joel tilted his head. Not in surprise—more like consideration.

“I’ve got whiskey,” you added, your tone lighter, a little smile playing at the corner of your mouth, “Might not be top shelf, but it’s not the worst.”

For a second, he didn’t move. Just stood there holding his daughter, looking at you like he was seeing something he didn’t know he needed to find.

Then came a nod. Slow. Sure.

“I’ll be back in ten.”

You watched him go, the weight of that promise hanging in the air even after he disappeared down the drive.

Ten minutes stretched, but not in a bad way. You rinsed your mug, straightened a blanket. You didn’t overthink it. You didn’t change your clothes or fix your hair. This wasn’t a date—it wasn’t anything like that.

And still, your heart thudded a little when the knock came again.

You opened the door, and there he was—no daughter this time, no arms full of responsibility. Just Joel. Shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, hair a little tousled, eyes softer than you’d seen them all day.

“I brought glasses,” he said, holding up two tumblers from his own kitchen. “Didn’t know if yours had dust in ‘em.”

You grinned. “You don't take me for a whiskey girl?" The jest came out easy.

The two of you ended up back on the couch—poured the whiskey, handed him a glass, then settled back with your knees pulled up beneath you.

At first, it was small talk. Work. The heat. The horror that was sixth grade social dynamics. You laughed more than you meant to. So did he.

And then, somewhere between the second to third pour and the second silence that followed it, the mood shifted—not heavy, just quieter. The kind of quiet that stretches like a soft duvet, not a wall.

Joel swirled the whiskey in his glass. “She adores you, y’know.”

Your brows lifted. “Sarah?”

He nodded. “You’ve only been her teacher for a little while, but… she talks about you. More than I think she realizes. Always been a little cautious with people. But you? She lets her guard down… and I'm sure I'll never hear the end of tonight.”

You exhaled, your fingers tracing the lip of your glass. “She’s easy to care about.”

Joel glanced at you, then looked down at his lap, his thumb rubbing the base of the tumbler. “So are you.”

That stopped you.

Not because it was forward. But because it was honest.

You didn’t answer, not at first. Just let the moment hang there, warm and undemanding.

Then you gave the softest response you could manage, your voice barely above the hum of the fan:

“You didn’t have to say that.”

He looked over. “I wanted to.”

Another pause. Your legs shifted, stretching out toward the edge of the couch, and Joel turned slightly to mirror you. Closer now. Not touching. But close enough to feel it.

You lifted your glass between you. “To honesty, then.”

He clinked his against yours. “To whatever this is.”

And you both drank.

. . .

Sunday settled heavy over the neighborhood, the heat of the day finally loosening its grip as night crept in through the windows.

It's hot as fuck, per usual.

You’d spent the day on the phone—tow truck, auto shop, then the shop again. No answer. Then one more call that went straight to voicemail.

The car wasn’t going anywhere. And neither were you.

By early evening, you were pacing your Livingroom barefoot, fingers curling around the hem of your shirt as you weighed your options. The silence in your house only made it worse.

You weren’t stranded, not really. You could call a Taxi. Call a coworker. Figure something out.

But you didn’t want to do any of that. It costs money. It costs social awareness you lacked with your older co-workers.

So you grabbed your keys—habit, really—and crossed the short driveway barefoot, the concrete still warm beneath your soles. You didn’t knock immediately. Just stood there for a second, hand raised, heart giving a small, stupid thud.

Then you knocked—three soft taps.

It didn’t take long.

Joel opened the door in a T-shirt and jeans, hair still damp from a shower, towel slung over his shoulder like he’d been doing dishes. He blinked at first—surprised, but not unpleasantly so.

“Hey,” he said, that familiar rasp curling around the word like warmth.

“Hey,” you echoed, then glanced down, “I—uh—I hate to bug you, especially two nights in a row, but I think my car’s officially given up on life.”

Joel leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely. “That the same one you tried to nurse back to health Friday?”

“The very same,” you sighed, arms crossing in mirror of his. “I’ve called the shop three times today, and nothing. Was hoping you might have a mechanic, some advice? A brand new supercar?”

Joel didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I know a guy—used to work with him. He’s good, won’t try to fleece you.”

Relief bloomed in your chest, enough to make your smile genuine. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“Lemme grab his number,” Joel said, pushing the door open wider in invitation. “C’mon in. You might as well get comfortable while I dig through the drawer.”

You stepped inside, that familiar warmth of his home wrapping around you. There was something about the smell—cedar and clean laundry and something that felt lived-in. Sarah’s backpack was dropped by the couch, her sneakers nearby. Brown paint clung nicely to the walls.

Joel wandered off toward the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “Want some water? Or whiskey again?”

“Water, please. I’m trying not to turn into a problem,” you called back, a small jest.

He returned a minute later with a glass in one hand and a scrap of paper in the other.

“Here’s the number. Name’s Eli. Tell him I sent you, he’ll probably bump you to the front of the line.”

You took both, fingers brushing his—barely. But it was enough to send a small jolt through your system.

Easy, girl.

“I owe you,” you said, softly.

He looked at you then, for a beat too long. Not in a way that asked anything from you. But in a way that made your stomach flutter and your breath slow.

“Nah,” he murmured. “You don’t.”

A silence fell. Not awkward, not pressing. Just… open. You stood in his living room, water glass sweating in your palm, and felt that strange comfort again—like you belonged there more than you should.

You cleared your throat gently. “I, uh… I’ll let you get back to your night.”

Joel didn’t move. “You don’t have to rush off.”

You raised a brow inquisitively.

He shrugged, one hand running down the side of his neck. “Just sayin’. Sarah’s already asleep. It’s quiet. I’ve got a couch and a half a pizza left in the fridge.”

You tilted your head, smiling despite yourself. “Is that your way of asking me to stay for dinner?”

“I’d say it’s more of an open invitation,” he replied, eyes soft, “No pressure.”

You lingered in the doorway, fingers curling tighter around the cool glass in your hand. There was something disarming about the way he looked at you—like you were someone who mattered. Like this quiet exchange, wrapped in casual tones and easy smiles, meant more than either of you wanted to admit.

But your mind pulled elsewhere. You had a stack of unfinished grading waiting at home, a lesson plan to finalize, a classroom to reset before Monday at eight. As much as you wanted to sit back on that couch with him, legs tucked beneath you and the low hum of some old movie playing in the background… reality tugged at your sleeve.

Fuckin' reality.

“I’ve got papers to grade,” you said softly, your voice an apology more than anything. “And a few things to prep for tomorrow. My classroom’s a mess and the kids are expecting answers to questions I haven’t even thought of yet.”

Joel gave a small nod, not disappointed—just understanding. “Yeah,” he said, that low drawl, “Duty calls.”

You smiled faintly, setting the glass down on the kitchen counter. “I wasn’t expecting to be here this long, anyway.”

“Didn’t seem like you were in a rush,” he offered, the corner of his mouth tugging up.

“No,” you agreed, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder. “I wasn’t.”

You crossed the room slowly, letting the silence fall again. At the door, he opened it for you, the night air brushing cool against your skin.

“You’ll let me know if the car gives you more trouble?” he asked.

You looked back at him. “Promise.”

His eyes held yours for a moment too long again—warm and steady, like he saw straight through to the parts of you you kept hidden.

“Night, Joel.”

“Night,” he said, voice low. “Grade easy.”

You stepped out into the dark, your heart just a little heavier in the best way.

Back home, your papers waited. But so did the memory of the way he’d looked at you—not asking for anything, not needing to. Just seeing you. And that, somehow, was the part that lingered the longest.

. . .

Monday rolled in like a wave—heavy, gray-skied, and a little too fast.

You rubbed your eyes in the soft glow of your kitchen light, coffee in hand, toast forgotten in the toaster. It was too early, your body still half-asleep, and the stress of the week already sat on your shoulders like a full backpack. Ironic, right?

Your car still wouldn’t start, and the mechanic hadn’t gotten back to you over the weekend. The thought of repair bills danced in the back of your mind—bitter. Bills you might not be able to pay. Bills you know you aren't going to be able to pay.

At exactly 6:53 a.m, the familiar rumble of Joel’s truck echoed outside your window. You peered through the blinds and saw Sarah swinging her backpack onto her shoulder, Joel stepping around the truck to help her up with an ease that made your chest ache in some unspoken way.

You met them outside, travel mug in hand, your sweater pulled tight around you to fight off the last of the early morning chill. Joel gave you a nod as you climbed in—Sarah already chatting from the passenger seat about some comic she’d stayed up too late reading.

“Morning,” Joel said, voice still gravelly with sleep, “You alright?”

“As good as someone without a working car and a pile of essays to grade can be,” you muttered, flashing him a tired but honest smile.

He glanced over at you, one hand on the wheel. “You hear anything from the shop?”

“Not yet. I’m hoping it’s just the battery,” you sighed. “But knowing my luck, it’s probably the whole damn engine.”

“We’ll figure it out,” he said, like it wasn’t even a question. Just fact.

That small sentence landed heavier than you expected.

We’ll. As if this was shared. As if your problems were something he was already invested in. It was comforting, and terrifying all at once.

Sarah turned toward you from the passenger seat, holding up the beaded bracelet from the day previous. “If your car’s still busted tomorrow, I can make you one of these. For good luck.”

You smiled, genuine and soft. “How'd you know that's exactly what I need?”

The rest of the drive was quiet in that peaceful early-week kind of way—radio low, wind slipping through a cracked window, Sarah humming something tuneless in the front seat. Joel didn’t say much more, but you felt his presence beside you like a steady drumbeat. Reliable. Unspoken.

When the school came into view, you felt yourself straighten, the teacher version of you slowly surfacing.

But before you unbuckled, Joel’s voice cut gently through the quiet.

“After school,” he said. “We’ll go to the shop,"

"Together.”

You looked at him.

Tired, maybe.

A little stressed.

But steadier now.

“Okay,” you said, your voice soft.

. . .

The day was rough from the start.

Your first-period class barely looked up when you entered. Heads on desks, a few pencils half-heartedly scratching at papers. Jonathan Livingston Seagull sat untouched on more than one corner of a desk. You gave the same opening you’d practiced—about individuality, purpose, flying beyond expectations—but it landed with a thud.

By third period, someone asked if Jonathan was just suicidal, and another asked if they could switch to reading The Lorax instead. You scribbled a note to rework your discussion questions during your lunch break.

Damn kids.

Lunch came late and cold. The meat was… questionable. You ate a granola bar instead and skimmed through a few ungraded reflection assignments.

A few of them weren’t bad. Most of them wrote, 'he just wanted to be alone and fly,' in different ways.

Good observation. It's not like he's a fuckin' bird or anything.

The copier jammed halfway through printing your last worksheet of the day.

By the final bell, your nerves were strung tight. Your voice felt hoarse from repeating yourself. Your lesson plans for the next day were untouched. And your car was still out of commission.

You walked out into the bright Texas sun, slinging your bag higher on your shoulder, the heat already slick on the back of your neck. And there it was: the blue Chevy, idling quietly in the car line.

Joel gave you a small nod when you opened the passenger door. “Survived the day?”

“Barely,” you said, sliding in. “I think the seagull’s going to be the death of me.”

He gave a low, amused sound—not quite a laugh. “Still on that book?”

You buckled your seatbelt. “Yep. Today’s takeaway was that he should’ve just stayed with the flock.”

Joel didn’t look over, but you could see the smile pulling at his cheek. “Not exactly the message, huh?”

“No. But I’m not sure anyone in my third period cares much about metaphors.”

He adjusted the gearshift and pulled away from the curb. His forearm rested lightly against the wheel, steady. You let yourself sink back into the seat, eyes half-closed against the sun filtering through the windshield.

“How’s the car?” he asked after a few moments.

You sighed. “We talked on the phone. Mechanic's ordering a part. Might be a few days.”

He nodded. “Well—I’ll be here.”

You glanced over, surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said, not missing a beat. “I mean, it’s not out of the way. Sarah likes the company. And I don’t mind.”

You looked back through the window, a small smile curling in despite the heat and the bad day. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Anytime.”

That made you glance over. He didn’t look at you when he said it. Just kept driving, a slight edge of amusement in his voice.

You shook your head, but you didn’t stop the smile.

"Speaking of Sarah," you murmured as you settled into the truck seat, tugging your bag into your lap, "Where is she? Doesn’t she do a sport?"

Joel kept his eyes on the road, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on the open window ledge. “Yeah. Soccer. Practice runs a little later on Mondays. I'll swing back ‘round after I drop you off.”

You nodded, letting the quiet hum of the engine fill the pause.

“Soccer, huh. Is she any good?”

“She’s scrappy,” he said, mouth pulling into the start of a grin. “Got no fear. Don’t matter how big the other kid is—she’ll steal that ball like it’s hers by right.”

That made you smile. “Sounds about right. She’s sharp. Doesn’t say a ton in class, but I can tell her wheels are always turning."

Joel glanced over at you briefly, brow lifting. “Yeah? She don’t talk much about school, other than about you. I ask, but y’know—middle schoolers. Everything’s ‘fine’ or ‘I dunno.’”

“Well,” you said, chuckling, “… she was one of the only ones who turned in her seagull reflection on time. So she’s already ahead of the curve.”

That got a low, amused noise from him. He clears his throat, dramatizing, “She said that book was ‘weird but, like, kinda deep.' Her exact words.'

“She’s not wrong,” you replied, settling a little more comfortably against the seat. “Bird’s dramatic, sure. But you can’t knock his drive.”

Joel didn’t respond right away. He just drove, letting the warm spring breeze drift in through the window. Town rolled by, familiar and soft around the edges.

After a minute, he spoke again. “You got a second to breathe tonight, or you buried in papers again?”

You laughed under your breath. “A little of both. I always trick myself into thinking I can stay ahead. Then I assign open-ended questions and immediately regret it.”

“Rookie mistake,” he teased, lips twitching. “You’ll learn.”

“Oh, so now you’re givin’ me pointers?”

He shot you a side glance. “Hey, I know how to spot a burnout comin’. Seen it plenty. You teachers push too hard, too fast.”

You raised a brow, but the smile that crept in was genuine. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good,” he said, then with a quieter edge, “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with askin’ for help, y’know. For what it’s worth.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the shift in tone. You looked over, but he was already turning onto your street.

“I’ll keep that in mind too,” you said gently.

He pulled up in front of your place and let the truck idle.

“I’ll let you get to it,” Joel said, nodding toward your bag. “Unless you’re plannin’ to school me on seagull philosophy.”

You laughed, reaching for the door handle, “Careful, I might. I’ve got quotes.”

He smirked, voice low and teasing, “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

You stepped out, the truck door closing behind you with a soft clunk. As you walked up your porch, you glanced back.

He was still there. Engine still running—but he didn’t pull away until he saw you fully enter your house.

Shit.

This is going to be the start of something pretty dangerous, huh?

author note:

omgheyyyy... guess who is hooked to this idea (me, it's me). i think this is going to be my first thorough series. very slice of life and fluff heavy. eventual smut chapter... and ofc it'll lead all the way up to outbreak because angst, and I'm evil? maybe okay anyway thoughts r appreciated...

comment for next chapter tagging.

[platonicaxaxe]

Deathtrap & Bob ⁶

Bob Reynolds (sentry) x Ex Assassin Reader

Summary: Mad Bob->Sentry

The Bob(sentry) Masterlist here

Two Weeks Later – Avengers Tower

The Tower had a pulse now.

Not the cold, clinical hum of mission logs and training routines—but laughter in the halls, coffee mugs left beside comic books, and the sound of footsteps that weren’t always measured or militant. Yn had been staying at the Tower for two weeks, and the change was tangible.

She wasn’t just a guest anymore. She belonged.

Training Room – 10:34 A.M.

“Again,” Yelena said, smirking as she lunged forward.

Yn ducked, rolled to the side, and swept Yelena’s legs—but her blonde opponent caught herself mid-fall, flipping into a backwards stance with a grunt.

“Your balance is better,” Bucky observed from the side, tossing a small towel over his shoulder. “But don’t overextend.”

“I’m trying,” Yn said between breaths, wiping the sweat from her brow. “But Yelena’s built like a machine.”

“Thank you,” Yelena said proudly. “You hit harder now, too. Must be all that ‘love power’ from golden boy.”

Yn snorted, tossing a towel at her. “Shut up.”

At the edge of the mat, Bob stood silently, arms crossed, eyes trained on Yn like a hawk.

Every time someone struck at her, even during practice, he had to restrain his instinct to intervene. His fingers twitched, his golden aura faintly flickering at his shoulders.

“She’s fine,” Bucky said lowly to him. “Let her breathe.”

Bob nodded stiffly. “I know. I just…”

“You love her,” Bucky finished, matter-of-fact.

Bob didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Bob had just returned from debrief with the team after a short recon mission. Yn sat on the couch in his hoodie, legs tucked under her, sipping tea as she watched something play softly on the TV. When Bob stepped into the room, her head turned immediately.

“There you are,” she said, smiling.

Bob melted.

“Hey. Sorry—Val kept us an extra thirty minutes.”

“Did you win the war?” she teased.

Bob chuckled as he sat beside her. She instantly curled into his side, her head finding that familiar space near his collarbone.

“We missed you,” she whispered.

He kissed the top of her head. “We?”

“Myself... and the heating system.”

He laughed again, quieter this time. “I’ll take it.”

Valentina stood in front of a holographic screen, arms folded, her expression unreadable as she watched surveillance footage. Yn sparring. Yn in the training gym. Yn walking in the garden. Yn laughing with Bob in the mess hall.

“Playback again,” she ordered curtly.

Mel, typing behind her, gave her a glance. “Ma’am, this is the fifth time today.”

Val didn’t look away. “I want to know how someone like her breaks through someone like him.”

“Maybe she didn’t break him,” Mel offered. “Maybe she just... held the right pieces.”

Val turned slowly. “Don’t romanticize it. She was trained to seduce, manipulate, kill—in that order. The Red Room didn’t raise wives, Mel.”

Mel frowned but nodded.

Valentina narrowed her eyes at the screen. Yn was now laughing at something Bob said, her hand over his, light, relaxed.

“She plays it well. Civilian enough for the public to ignore. Deadly enough for the right agencies to notice. If this goes south…”

“We’ll be ready,” Mel said quickly.

“No,” Val corrected. “I’ll be ready.”

Back in Bob’s Room – Midnight

Yn stared out the window at the stars.

“Do you think I’m ready?” she asked softly.

Bob, lying behind her in bed, propped himself on one elbow. “Ready for what?”

“To have a life.”

“You’ve always deserved one,” he said gently.

She turned to him. “Even with everything I’ve done?”

He reached for her hand. “Especially because of everything you’ve survived.”

She blinked, lips trembling slightly. Then she nodded, pressing her forehead to his.

And somewhere in the building above them, Valentina watched the glowing footage in silence, her reflection cold in the glass.

The storm wasn’t here yet. But she could feel it coming.

The room was dimly lit, windows casting long shadows across polished floors. Valentina stood by the window, the city twinkling behind her like a breathing organism. Her fingers held a glass of dark wine, swirling slowly as she stared out at the skyline—calculating.

Mel entered quietly behind her, tablet in hand.

“You asked for me?” she said cautiously.

Val didn’t turn to look. “Yes.”

She took a slow sip before speaking again. “I want you to pull up every unredacted file on The Deathtrap. Everything—missions, confirmed kills, suspected hits, aliases. Anything that slipped past the Red Room's wipe.”

Mel hesitated. “That’s… a lot of digging. You sure you want to do this now?”

Val turned sharply, her eyes gleaming.

“She’s been here two weeks, Mel. Bob is changing. And not in a way I can predict.”

Common Room

The fireplace flickered, casting golden light across the dark walls. Bob stood silently, arms crossed, eyes on the flames. Val entered alone, her heels echoing faintly against the floor.

“You wanted to talk,” he said, not turning.

Val didn’t waste time.

“I know you love her,” she said.

Bob finally turned, eyes cautious.

“But love,” she continued, “can be the perfect blindfold. It’s soft. It’s warm. And it’s dangerous.”

Bob raised a brow. “Is that what this is about? Another lecture?”

Val stepped forward, voice lowering. “You know what the Red Room is, Robert. You’ve seen enough minds to understand. You’ve read dark thoughts, disturbing ones—Yn was born into that. Forged in it. She’s not just a victim; she’s a weapon that walked.”

Bob’s jaw tightened. “She was a weapon. She’s not anymore.”

“That’s what you want to believe,” Val said, circling him slowly like a panther. “But let me show you something.”

She threw a tablet onto the table. On it, an old mission dossier flickered to life: Classified Black Ops: Subject — Deathtrap. Moscow. Target neutralized. Body count: 12. Clean hit. No witnesses.

Another file. Another hit. Another dozen dead. She scrolled quickly through them, page after page of carnage and blood.

“She was their prized killer, Robert. Her hands are redder than most of ours combined.”

Bob stared at the screen for a moment. But then… he looked back at Val, completely unmoved.

“And she hated every second of it.”

Val scoffed. “How do you know?”

“Because I can feel it,” he said, voice rising, glowing light flickering faintly around his eyes. “I see her nightmares. I see the child in her still trapped in that place. Every time she flinches at loud sounds. Every time she stares at her own hands like they betrayed her.”

“She’s dangerous.”

“So am I,” Bob growled. “More than anyone here.”

“If the government finds out she’s here—”

“I’ll protect her.”

“They’ll want her in a cell, Robert!”

“They’ll have to go through me first,” he snapped.

Val’s voice dropped to a venomous whisper. “You’d destroy everything we built here… for her?”

Bob stepped forward, now face to face with her. “No. I’d destroy everything you built—if it means saving the only person who makes me feel human.”

Val’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not thinking clearly.”

“No, Val,” Bob said, voice calmer now but firm. “For the first time in my life… I am.”

Bob closed the door softly behind him. Yn was sitting cross-legged on the bed, reading. She looked up, eyes instantly softening.

“You okay?” she asked gently.

He nodded, walking toward her. “Yeah… just had to shut someone up.”

“Val?”

He climbed onto the bed beside her, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind.

“She doesn’t understand what love looks like. But I do.”

Yn leaned into him, burying her face in the crook of his neck. “You sure I’m not too much baggage?”

“You’re my favorite kind,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers.

And outside the room, behind a screen, Val watched in silence—her plan faltering as love, once again, refused to be broken.

Valentina’s Private Office – Midnight

The moonlight spilled faintly through the high-rise glass windows, casting silver stripes across the sleek, cold marble floor. The city was quiet, but inside the tower—tension simmered.

Yn stood in front of Valentina’s door, jaw tight, knuckles slightly white from clenching. After a breath, she knocked once and walked in—without waiting for an answer.

Valentina was pouring herself a drink, calm and composed as ever.

“Well,” Val said coolly, without looking up. “Didn’t expect you to come to me.”

“I bet you didn’t expect me to hear what you said to Bob either,” Yn replied sharply, shutting the door behind her.

Val turned, swirling her glass lazily. “So the assassin does eavesdrop.”

Yn took a step forward, voice low but steady. “Why are you so desperate to get rid of me?”

Val chuckled, leaning back against her desk. “Let’s not pretend, sweetheart. You already know why. You’re a liability.”

Yn’s eyes narrowed. “To who? You? Or the government?”

“To everyone,” Val snapped, the mask finally cracking. “You may play the part of the quiet girlfriend, the broken stray Bob’s trying to fix—but I know your kind. The Red Room doesn’t train women. It rewires them.”

“You think I asked for any of it?” Yn hissed. “You think I chose that life?”

“No,” Val said coolly. “But the world doesn’t care about your trauma. They only care about results. And your results come with bodies. Too many. Too bloody.”

Yn took another step forward, her tone icy. “You’re not scared of what I’ve done. You’re scared of what I mean to Bob. That he’s not yours to manipulate anymore.”

Val slammed her glass on the desk, her voice finally rising.

“You’re going to be the mole that rots the Avengers from the inside,” she hissed. “You think the world won’t find out who you are? What you’ve done? You think Bob’s glowing little heart will be enough when governments start questioning why a mass killer is sleeping in a secured tower?!”

Yn didn’t flinch.

“I’ll face whatever comes. But I’m not leaving him. Or this team.”

“You’re a time bomb,” Val seethed.

“And you’re just pissed that he’s no longer dancing to your strings.”

Silence fell between them—thick, suffocating.

Val picked up her glass again. “This isn’t over.”

Yn leaned in, just slightly. “It never is with women like us.”

And with that, she turned and walked out, leaving Val alone with her spiraling thoughts and unfinished wine.

From the shadows near the hallway, Mel had been listening. A flicker of uncertainty crossed her face for the first time.

The day before the mission, Valentina stood at the front of the room, tapping her fingers against the polished table as a digital map flickered to life behind her. Her tone was professional—cold and calculated.

“We have intel on a Hydra cell resurfacing in rural Latvia. Minimal resistance, clean sweep, in-and-out op. Bob, you’ll lead. Yelena, Bucky, Mel… and Deathtrap,” Val said with a flat gaze at Yn.

“Yn,” Bob corrected gently, but firm. “Her name is Yn.”

Val’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Of course.”

Yn, standing beside Bob, crossed her arms. “I can handle myself. Just tell me what to do.”

Val’s eyes lingered on her a second too long before turning to the others. “Good. Wheels up at 0400.”

Latvia – Abandoned Facility – Operation Site

The mission was smooth—too smooth. Yn moved like a ghost through the corridors, silently disabling targets and leading the way. She took down the final room, disarmed a Hydra tech, and retrieved the data drive.

Suddenly—click.

She froze.

A bombcuff locked around her wrist. A synchronized warning sound blared, and all members’ comms echoed the same words:

"Warning: If any unauthorized individual attempts to remove or interfere, detonation is imminent."

“What the hell—?!” Bucky shouted, spinning toward the source.

Yn stood frozen, her breath caught. The cuffs were glowing—live.

“Yn!” Bob moved toward her instantly, glowing with golden light. “Get that thing off her now—I swear—”

“Stop,” Yn said quickly, holding up her cuffed hand.

Everyone turned to her.

“I… I think I know what this is.” She looked directly at Val, who had just stepped off a nearby unmarked aircraft.

“This was never a mission,” Yn whispered. “This was a setup.”

Val didn’t deny it. Her voice rang over the team’s confusion.

“We’ve received footage. Discreet agencies. Cases covered up by people who were paid off. And now the truth will be public.”

Yelena’s voice broke through the tension. “Val, don’t—”

“Yn,” Bob’s eyes were glowing, his aura beginning to radiate power. “I-I can destroy all of this—I’ll do it.”

“No,” Yn said, her voice soft but unwavering. “If I run… I’ll always be running. If I want to live free… I need to face what I’ve done.”

Bob stared at her, hurt blooming behind his golden gaze. “But you don’t deserve this.”

Yn looked into his eyes. “Neither did the people I killed.”

U.S. Supreme Court – High Security Tribunal – Two Days Later

The courtroom was cold, vast, and clinical. Yn was locked inside a reinforced glass chamber, her neck secured by an inhibitor collar, wrists and ankles chained. She stood tall—but pale.

The media was shut out. But in Thunderbolts Tower, the entire New Avengers team sat in silence in the conference room, watching the trial through a secure feed.

Bob sat closest to the screen, fists trembling, his powers threatening to rise with every flash of horror on screen.

The prosecution played a montage of CCTV footage—old missions from around the globe. Yn in her Red Room uniform. Silent. Efficient. Brutal.

– One clip showed her silently executing a diplomat in Dubai.

– Another, planting a bomb that leveled a meeting between defected spies.

– A final one—dragging a whimpering Hydra scientist through snow, blood marking the path.

Bob’s eyes welled up. Yelena covered her mouth.

Yn watched her own footage, face blank—until the last tape. It was a child. Her target.

She looked away, jaw clenched, breathing ragged.

In the tower, Bob stood up. “This is torture,” he said. “She’s already living in hell.”

“This is justice,” Valentina said, arms folded at the back of the room. “She’s a threat. A loaded gun in the heart of our tower.”

Bob turned slowly toward her, voice dangerously low. “You call this justice? You’re just afraid of what she means to me.”

Val arched an eyebrow. “She’s a killer, Robert.”

Yelena stood. “Most of us here have done what she did. We were made into monsters. Some of us still are.”

Bucky stood beside her. “Even you, Val. Don’t pretend you’re clean.”

Val’s smile vanished.

One by one, the team stood behind Yelena.

Yn, inside a glass detainment cell, her arms chained, her neck restrained with a magnetic collar—just like Bucky’s years ago. Her hair was damp with sweat, her eyes hollow, and her breathing shallow.

Bob sat on the edge of his chair, fists clenched, while Yelena, Bucky, Alexei, Ava, and John watched with aching tension in their eyes.

“She’s scared,” Bob murmured, barely above a whisper. “I can feel it.”

The Prosecutor Stepped Forward

“The following surveillance clips have been decrypted from Hydra's black files, Red Room’s deepest vaults, and allied intelligence bureaus who erased these from existence—until now,” he announced coldly.

He turned to Yn.

“You were known as Deathtrap. What we will show now is the cost of that name.”

The courtroom’s main screen lit up.

There were more

CLIP ONE: Rome, 2013 – The Poisoned Waltz

A ballroom full of diplomats and elites.

Yn moved through the crowd in a silver dress, emotionless. She spun in a slow dance with her target—a high-ranking physicist planning to defect from Hydra.

She whispered something.

He fell dead mid-spin.

The crowd screamed.

She walked away like nothing happened.

“Laced contact lens. No forensic trail. Death within seconds.”

CLIP TWO: Morocco, 2015 – Black Site Silence

A desert prison facility in flames.

Inside the chaos, Yn slipped past burning cells and panicking guards. In a corner cell, a man screamed for mercy—one of the few Red Room handlers who defected.

She dragged him by the collar.

“You broke them. Let’s see how it feels.”

The blade was swift. Her hand didn’t shake. She walked out covered in ash.

CLIP THREE: Seoul, 2017 – Political Execution

A South Korean senator sat tied to a chair, bloodied.

Yn stepped into frame, calm, surgical. Dressed as a hotel maid, she placed a silenced gun to his head and pulled the trigger without a word.

“The Red Room’s message to the resistance. A warning.”

CLIP FOUR: Switzerland, 2018 – Cold Heist

A snowy mountainside. Yn descended on a laboratory. The footage showed her silently eliminating guards—quick throat slits, snapped necks.

She retrieved a glowing vial. Extremis prototype.

“No witnesses. No survivors.”

CLIP FIVE (New): Latvia, 2019 – The Betrayed Mentor

An older woman in a wheelchair—another Red Room survivor—sat before a fireplace. She welcomed Yn in with a warm hug.

Moments later, hidden camera footage revealed Yn’s eyes dim as she was triggered by a command phrase.

Her body language changed.

She stabbed the woman in the heart.

“Her mentor. Her handler. Her friend. All three.”

Bob’s hands trembled.

“She didn’t want any of that,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “T-they made her do it.”

Valentina stood near the back of the room, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “People will never believe that. All they’ll see is blood.”

Yelena turned sharply. “Then they’re the problem. Not her.”

Val didn’t even blink. “She’s a ticking time bomb.”

“She’s just a survivor,” Bucky muttered.

Tears streamed down her cheeks now. Her lip quivered. She stared at the cold marble floor, haunted by the ghosts she’d buried.

“I didn’t choose to be her…” she whispered hoarsely.

Silence fell.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

The prosecutor stepped forward, unsympathetic. “But they didn’t have a choice to live either.”

“She’s breaking,” Bob said, nearly rising from his seat. Energy crackled faintly at his fingertips.

Val turned. “She’s too dangerous, Robert. Don’t be blind.”

“I’m not,” he snapped.

“You’re in denial,” she snapped back.

Yelena stepped between them. “We all have blood on our hands. Even you, Val.”

Val’s jaw twitched.

“We fight for redemption,” Yelena continued, “Not to bury people under their trauma.”

Yn finally broke.

tears slid down her face as the prosecutor listed her aliases: “Shadow Widow. Deathtrap. Asset 02-Theta.”

“Do you deny these names?”

She raised her head.

“I don’t,” she said. “But I’m not her anymore.”

Silence fell like a blade after hours of agonizing footage and sharp accusations.

The presiding judge rose slowly from her seat, her voice stern and final as she stared directly at the glass chamber where Y/N stood, trembling and pale.

“Y/N Y/L/N…” she began, her words echoing through the courtroom, “…for the unlawful assassination of 39 individuals including political figures, scientists, and civilians—while knowingly operating under and affiliating with illegal organizations such as the Red Room and Hydra—this court finds you guilty.”

Y/N's breath hitched. Her fingers trembled around her shackled wrists.

“You are hereby sentenced to capital punishment by lethal injection… tomorrow afternoon.”

The gavel slammed down like thunder.

“Court adjourned.”

A collective gasp erupted in the chamber.

The screen flickered as the final verdict was read.

Bob stood frozen, his breath caught in his throat.

Then—

His eyes lit gold, veins glowing faintly under his skin.

His chair screeched against the floor as he stood. “No…” he breathed.

“NO!”

Energy cracked in the air around him like static lightning.

Yelena's eyes widened. “They’re killing her… they’re actually going to kill her.”

Alexei slammed his fist on the table. “This is wrong! She was brainwashed!”

Bucky gritted his teeth, eyes glassy. “They’re punishing the soldier, not the war.”

John Walker stood up, tense. “We need to do something.”

“No…” Bob muttered, still glowing, his voice deeper—warped—the Sentry threatening to surface.

“I should destroy the building. I should burn their judgment to the ground.”

Yelena rushed to him. “Bob—no! That’s not what Y/N would want!”

“SHE IS NOT A WEAPON!” he shouted, his voice booming like a storm, causing the walls to shudder.

Yelena looked near tears. Ava turned her face away in fury.

“I won’t let them take her,” Bob whispered again, face hard, voice hollow.

Valentina stepped back from the room’s edge, silently watching as her plan bloomed into chaos.

Y/N collapsed to her knees after the gavel slammed, gasping for air.

Two guards moved toward her. She didn't fight.

She just closed her eyes and whispered softly to herself:

“I deserve this. For them. For all of them.”

But even as the walls closed in, a part of her clung to the warmth of Bob's hand… the scent of his hoodie… the sound of Yelena laughing in the training room… the little peace she found after the storm.

She had tasted healing. And now, it was being ripped away.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a bloody hue across the city skyline as the world prepared to end the life of a woman it once didn't even know existed.

Inside a high-security containment facility, Y/N sat in a transparent cube reinforced with vibranium fibers and gamma-proof seals — a prison designed for monsters. Her hair hung damp and limp over her eyes, her body slouched in defeat, and the red welt still burned on her neck from the restraining collar. She was a ghost of the assassin once called Deathtrap — and even more so, a ghost of the woman Bob Reynolds had come to love.

A low, distant hum stirred in the wind above the facility. Lights flickered. Alarms didn’t even get the chance to scream.

Then, a golden streak split the darkened sky.

A thunderous blast echoed across the complex as The Sentry landed like a meteor, golden energy crackling off his form, boots crushing the pavement beneath him. Dust and debris swept through the prison yard like a storm.

Inside her cube, Y/N jolted as the world outside shook.

Then she saw him. Bob.

His blonde hair messy from the wind, chest rising with erratic breaths, eyes glowing molten gold — not just with power, but with love, desperation, and pain.

She rushed to the glass wall, pressing her palm against it. Bob mirrored her, their hands meeting with only the thick transparent barrier between them.

"Y/N..." he said, his voice low, raw, breaking.

She shook her head as tears rolled down her cheeks. "Bob... you shouldn’t be here."

"I have to be here," he said, breath trembling. “I can’t just stand back while they take you away from me.”

Her knees buckled slightly. “I chose this, Bob. I needed to face it... for all the blood on my hands...”

He pressed his forehead against the glass, golden sparks dancing at his fingertips. “That blood isn’t all you are. You’re not just Deathtrap. You’re Y/N. And you saved me when I couldn’t save myself.”

She whimpered, her voice cracking, “You don’t understand… I don’t deserve freedom.”

His voice dropped, raspy and fierce. “Then I’ll fight to make you deserve it. If the world can’t see what I see in you… then to hell with the world.”

Energy surged from his body in golden waves. The unbreakable cube began to hum and tremble. Microfractures spiderwebbed along the glass where their hands met.

“B-Bob—!” she gasped, stepping back.

But he didn’t stop.

"I promised you we'd live our life. Just us. Away from all of this." His voice cracked as a tear fell. “And I don’t break promises.”

With a final burst of light, the glass shattered outward, the force contained and redirected by Bob’s own will so she wasn’t harmed.

The sirens finally started. Guards rushed from towers, orders screamed through comms.

But they were too late.

With a blink — whoosh — The Sentry wrapped Y/N in his arms and shot into the sky like a star ascending. The explosion of flight blew the prison's rooftop apart, debris spiraling as golden light disappeared into the clouds.

They were gone.

No one saw where they went. No one knew where to find them.

Only the wind carried the last echo of Bob’s vow:

“We’ll live free. Together.”

The world would never know what truly happened that night.

The high-security facility meant to contain the most dangerous woman alive was reduced to ash and ruin. What was once a steel-locked fortress now lay in twisted metal and scorched earth. Hundreds of guards, agents, and staff—gone in an instant. No black boxes. No camera feeds. No trace of survivors.

The only thing the authorities could piece together was a growing legend: The Sentry had turned. That he had loved The Deathtrap. That their love brought the skies down in fury.

But there were no photos. No videos. Only whispered theories, exaggerated tales, grainy images distorted beyond recognition.

They became ghosts. No—myths. Echoes in the wind of a love so powerful it rewrote fate.

Yet somewhere, far away from the charred remains and political scandals...

Peace lived.

In a quiet, tree-wrapped cabin nestled on the outskirts of a sleepy town — nameless, unbothered, and almost too ordinary — life found rhythm again.

The early morning light filtered through gauzy curtains, casting golden stripes across the wooden floors. The cabin smelled of pine, fresh coffee, and the warm scent of sizzling breakfast. A pan crackled on the stove, and Bob stood at the counter, sleeves rolled, spatula in hand. His blonde hair was longer now, tousled and soft, a few strands falling over his brow as he focused on the eggs.

Then—arms.

Delicate yet familiar arms slid around his waist from behind, pressing against him with a quiet warmth that made his heart leap.

A sleepy voice murmured against his back, “Good morning…”

The sound of her — rasped, honeyed, drowsy — made him melt.

He smiled, setting the spatula down for a moment. “Morning.”

He turned just enough to press a kiss to her crown, where her slightly messy hair still held the scent of lavender from last night’s shower..

Y/N’s cheek rested against his spine, her arms holding him tighter. “You’re up early.”

“Wanted to make your favorite,” he said softly. “The local shop had fresh sourdough yesterday. Thought it’d go well with the omelet.”

She chuckled lightly. “You spoil me.”

He turned to face her, hands finding her waist. “After everything we’ve been through…” He looked into her eyes, a gentle fierceness behind the gold that barely shimmered anymore. “You deserve peace. You deserve mornings like this.”

Y/N blinked at him, her eyes glinting with emotion. “I don’t care where we live, or if the world forgets us… as long as I have you.”

He leaned forward and kissed her — slow and steady, like time didn’t matter anymore.

Outside, birds chirped. A wind danced through the forest.

And inside that cabin, far away from governments and villains and cages...

Two people—once weapons of mass destruction—had finally found their own quiet heaven.

[gooner127]

back 2 u - lee jeno

word count- 861

summary- you and jeno dated for about three years. broken up multiple times, he says he’ll change but never does and everytime you take him back, not this time though!!! you’re tired of his lies and his bullshit so you finally stand up for yourself in hopes that he’ll move on and finally give you the peace you’ve been needing.

w- cussing, angst and idk

authors note- hai guys i tried angst also based it off back 2 u one of 127s best songs of course!!! jeno take the damn hint bruh🥀 but uhm enjoy please😛 also for @neogotmysam who requested jeno for angst!!!

01:27 AM

you wake up to the sound of your phone ringing for the 5th time that night. you sigh and reach for your phone about to decline until you read the contact name ‘jeno.’, with slight hesitation and a groan you answer the call rubbing your eyes and running your hand through you hair.

“y/n plea-“ jeno opens his mouth to speak but you quickly cut him off. “jeno, don’t do this.” you manage to say with a groggy voice.

jenos voice is shaky, sounds like he has been crying. “baby, please. i can change for you i swear just give me sometime to get everything together then it’ll all go back to normal yeah? sounds good right? that’s what you want for everything to be ho-“

“jeno stop.” you cut him off once again. “you say that every single time. when have you actually changed? no, no, when have you actually put the effort into changing? you always say “oh baby i’ll change i swear” but you never fucking do. it’s the same bullshit over and over again and i am tired, exhausted of letting you walk all over me.”

that’s when he finally stays quiet. “..i..” “you what jeno? what’s your excuse this time? is it finally something different and believable or is it the same bullshit you’ve fed me the past three years? i’m serious jeno i’m not doing this anymore, i’m not going back. not to you.”

pushing through sniffles and shakiness jeno opens his mouth again. “please just he-“

you groan loud enough for him to hear you, holy shit he can’t take a hint. “stop calling me. stop coming by my place. stop looking for me. you have to let it go jeno. you’re making this worse for the both of us. move on. let me go. you’ve done this way too many times and i fall for it each time. every single fucking time i’m left hurt and feeling like shit, i don’t want that anymore. stop trying. i’m not letting the cycle repeat itself again. this, us, it’s already over. there is no place left for you.” you managed to choke the last part out, this hurts to say the more you think. one little part of you wants to take jeno back but you know you shouldn’t, it’ll end up like every single other time. he wont change. so you need to.

silence after that. you can hear a pin drop kind of quiet. after multiple calls every night, hundreds of desperate messages, showing up at your apartment about two times a week, he’s quiet. his mouth is shut. he has nothing left to say. it breaks your heart a little feeling as if you were too harsh, well then you get out of that haze and remember the hell he put you through.

the next thirty seconds are in silence just you, your mind and jenos shaky breathing. you’re pulled out of your thoughts when jeno opens his mouth to speak, his voice cracking.

“..i..i..i-i’m.. s..sorry.” took him about 10 seconds to just say those two words. “i..i’m sorry for pushing my luck. i should’ve backed off the second you told me to…stop.”

you immediately talk after him. “you’re hard headed. one thing that bothered me about you at times. i get that..you want us to give it another try but that’s not going to happen jeno. i’ve given you so many chan-“

he cuts you off this time. “and i’ve fucked them all up i know. i’m the dumbass but i can’t help how i am no matter how hard i try.”

you sigh. “which is why i’m not taking you back jeno. you never actually change. you don’t try to and you don’t want to. you saying ‘i can’t help how i am’ doesn’t help your pleas. you could’ve put an effort into wanting to be a better person but you never have. what we used to have is no more. it’s gone. it wont happen again. you need to let me go and go our separate ways. stop contacting me jeno. please.”

like always jeno opens his mouth and you’re back to square one. “please i’m serious i can change, were so good together and you know it too. i can’t live without you i love you.” you can hear him crying more as he continues to speak “please y/n just once more, i can’t do this i need you here with me i wont be me anymore without you. i’m sorry for being a dick take me back, one more chance i’ll do anything i’ll put an effort into changing just like you want i swear. please i don’t know what more you want fro-“

you can’t handle it anymore, you grab your phone and hang up the call. hearing him saying the same phrases that you’ve been an idiot to and believed made you so fucking irritated.

he calls you again. you decline.

he calls you again. you decline.

once more jeno calls. you decline, you click his contact and block his number. maybe this way you’ll finally get the peace you’ve hoped for because one thing is for sure, you’re not going back.

[rivalriotrenegade]

Nikto x Reader

(I accidentally deleted this so I’m reposting it 🥹)

Nikto has a form of D.I.D and often refers to himself as “we” which is why it’s written like that in the story.

About: Nikto x GN reader. This one was written in about 20 minutes and edited in 5 so it’s kind of sloppy, but still sweet. Not my best work lol. The story is just you calling him pretty. Also the use of “Andre” which is going to be his actual name in the story. 

Warnings: CHEEEEEEEESY to the MAX! Also some slightly toxic behaviors. Nikto went through a lot and hurt people hurt people, but basically he tries to use his height to ever so slightly intimidate reader for like .05 seconds. Also descriptions of kissing? Is that a warning? 

Summary: Nikto does not think he’s beautiful, if anything he thinks he’s the exact opposite. It had taken well over a year of dating before he was comfortable enough to show you his face. After seeing him maskless for the first time you began to call him “My pretty boy” He hated it at first. Honestly he thinks you’re trying to be cruel. After a while of bottling it up he finally explodes. 

It was about 10:30 at night and you're just starting to make some late night spaghetti. You knew he had a rough few weeks with KorTac and thought it’d be nice for him to have a home cooked meal. You had just put the hamburger into the sauce and realized you needed something to stir it with. “Hey pretty boy, can you pass me the spatula?” You ask.

You're caught off guard when Nikto, who had been quiet most of the night, suddenly explodes. “Don’t call me that! I am not pretty!” He snarls. You cock your head to the side not sure where all this anger is coming from. “But I think you’re pretty. Are you telling me that my opinion is wrong?” You question. 

“You’re lying! You’re lying! Do NOT lie to us!” He hisses, stepping into your space caging you between him and the counter, purposely looming over you, trying to make you back down. His eyes are wide, wild. He’s looking at you like he doesn’t know you. Your own eyes soften. It’s not the first time something like this has happened. “Oh Andre.” You say slowly reaching up to cup his face. Nikto flinches back slightly before letting you touch him. You gently caress his face. “I’m not lying. Have I ever lied to you?” You ask.

Nikto hesitates for a moment taking deep breaths trying to ground himself before whispering out a hoarse “no.” He pauses before continuing his voice cracking, “But I can’t be pretty.” You cradle his face in your hands and carefully pull him down so you’re almost eye to eye. “But you are.” You say. “You are the most beautiful person I know. You have gone through some horrible things and you survived. To me these scars are proof of how strong you really are. There a reminder that you came back alive, so how could I think that they'd be anything less than beautiful?”

Nikto stares at you, his eyes unreadable. He stares at you until it’s just bordering in to the territory of being uncomfortable and then before you even know what was happening, he’s kissing you. Usually his kisses are rough and dominating, but this one is desperate. He’s kissing you like this is the last time he’ll ever see you. His hands grip at your hips, fingers digging into your flesh, determined to keep you there. 

He sucks on your bottom lip and when you part them he shoves his tongue into your mouth. He’d never admit it, but you swear you hear him whine against you. His movements are frantic, feverish. Like any space between the two of you needs to be all but eradicated. When he pulls back your both left breathless and panting.

He then pulls you into his arms and buries his face in your neck. “I love you.” He breaths. You smile, rubbing his back up and down to sooth him. “And I love you too, my pretty boy.” 

(You swear you feel him cling to you a little tighter)

[monosanimegenericzone]

Hunter x Hunter: Meteor City bullshit

bruh i am still hung up on this one detail about the phantom troupe and meteor city

so is it or is it not "common knowledge" that the phantom troupe is associated with meteor city. this detail is the crutch of Kurapika's character arc and the entire finale to Yorknew and both don't add up to each other.

i don't have volume 0 and i can't find it anywhere online, so i can't provide screenshots as evidence. the only other place i can get evidence is the phantom rogue and aint no fuckin way youre gonna get me to do that again.

but in the wiki and in the movie, the massacre is reported to the world in great detail and the last detail in the report is a note with the Meteor City slogan written on it. "We'll accept anything you leave here. But don't take anything away from us."

it's not stated whether or not the news claimed it was the troupe or not, but Kurapika either figured out on his own or assumed based on [SOMETHING] that it was the phantom troupe.

fast forward to yorknew. the fucking WORLD MAFIA???? DID NOT KNOW THAT THE PHANTOM TROUPE WAS FROM METEOR CITY?????

EXPLAIN YOURSELVES. I KNOW YOU (world mafia) WERE JUST THERE TO LOOK LIKE BITCHES. BUT COME ON.

there is only one or two ways this makes sense to me.

timeline-wise there is about 4-5 years between the kurta massacre and Yorknew. I'm pretty generous with this timeline and say 5.5 years and round up to 6.

explanation 1:

the mafia knew at one point that the phantom troupe protected meteor city, but had a massive member loss over the last decade and the information was diluted to a point that the ten dons doubted it was even true.

the troupe is never seen around the city, and if they are it looks like they're there on black market business alongside the human traffickers and mafia folks. to the mafia and world governments, they are there for the business and business only.

kurapika would hear about it through either ex-mafia personnel or to the rest of the world justices, it's still common knowledge and treated as fact.

explanation 2:

kurapika associated the phrase with the troupe before he associated it with meteor city.

the only way this would happen is if there was already a rumor or a claimed fact that the troupe was responsible for this attack. so that would be eye witnesses or what the newspaper reported but either one would make that slogan a troupe saying.

and later he learns that the slogan is actually a meteor city thing and connects the dots post-yorknew. (he admits after the evidence is presented that it makes sense that pt is from meteor city

to the mafia, this looks like an act of meteor city. the troupe would have never taken public credit for the massacre. to the mafia and other people who know the calling card would see the note and think: "oh the kurtas did something to mess with meteor city. good to know, more eyeballs for us :D"

and the troupe just stays completely silent about it.

explanation 3:

kurapika is a super sleuth and kept quiet about it because he cant be bothered. its not common knowledge at all, kurapika just built completely different at age fuckin.

how old was he when he left?

11 i guess. maybe 10.

this plot wrinkle has driven me insane for the last 5 years and i can't get it out of my head.

[bcksbarnes]

time's never been on our side - chapter four

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

summary: you and bucky happen to meet by chance one night, and it feels like there is a spark between the two of you - but he has to leave. was this destiny? or cruel fate?

word count: 3.5K

read the: previous chapter

a/n: it's been *checks notes* almost 2 months since i've updated this fic but i promise i'm not abandoning it. i really love this chapter and have some exciting things planned!! enjoy.

The days following your night with Bucky were a whirlwind. If you and Bucky weren’t out grabbing breakfast one morning then by the afternoon the two of you were taking long walks through the park. And if you still hadn’t seen each other by night time, then you usually met up for dinner or drinks. It was always causal, and consistent. 

There hadn’t been a day that passed since Bucky returned that the two of you didn’t see each other. It was like two magnets, drawn to each other every single time.

It was now a little short of two weeks, the increasing anxiety of Bucky's temporary break almost being complete should be plaguing his mind — but it's not. Instead when he hit his pillow at night all he saw was your face, and he’d dream of the day he spent with you, because these days you were the only thing on his mind.

Life had never felt so exciting before. All the years worth of fighting and running all suddenly felt like they had a purpose, like they were leading him to this exact moment. Bucky finally had a reason to wake up in the morning.

There were three more days left of his break. He did his best to not look at his phone and think about Steve's eventual call or where in the world he would be placed on his next mission. Hundreds of miles away from you.

Bucky's mornings didn't seem to drag on as they used to. He didn't wake up from his sleep with hopes that this day would go by fast so it would be over with already. No, he wanted every single second to count. He noticed that he now had some pep in his step as he got ready, humming to himself as he combed through his wet hair. His towel hung low on his hips after his shower waiting patiently to see if he would hear from you.

It became a bad habit for Bucky to spend his time after seeing you waiting by his phone for a text, a call … something. His face would light up with that crooked smile when your name finally appeared on his notifications, spending the next few hours responding until he managed to fall asleep with his phone in his hand.

He fell asleep and woke up thinking about you.

As if on cue, his phone buzzed — your call lighting up the screen. He didn’t even let it ring twice before picking up.

“Morning,” Bucky muttered as he placed it to his ear, trying to suppress the smile on his features. He rubbed his eyelids, trying to get the last of the sleep out of his system.

“Morning,” you mumbled back, a soft whine in your voice. 

You had just woken up, sitting in bed with your back against the headboard, the sheets pooling around your waist as you rubbed your face softly - not realizing you were mimicking Bucky’s movements on the other end of the line.

He could picture you sitting there alone and he wondered if you were as sleepy as you sounded. Warm from the heat your body collected through the sheets. He wondered what it was like to wake up next to you.

“Still asleep?” he teased. “I thought you were a morning person.”

“You kept me up way past my bedtime, Barnes.”

Bucky chuckled and it echoed through your phone, even as you finally stood and stretched your arm over your head, trying hard to suppress the groans and yawns from slipping out as you do.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I got you back to your place by a reasonable 10:30pm.”

“I still stand by my statement.”

“Of course you do,” he teased, shaking his head.

Bucky placed the phone on the bathroom counter, hitting the speaker button on the screen. Needing to get ready, but wanting to hear your voice.

“Have anything exciting planned for us today?”

“Actually,” you say, chewing on your bottom lip. “There’s an exhibit that I wanted to check out. I know you only have a few more days in town, so if that sounds too boring, maybe we can meet up after instead?”

As if he would actually say no.

He takes his time responding to you, not wanting his response to seem rushed or too enthusiastic. He was still trying to play it cool. 

“No, I'd like to come along. What’s the exhibit about?”

“I'm not entirely sure. One of my friends went last week, said that it brought her to tears. That it was better that I went in not knowing the details.”

“Sounds very mysterious.”

“Can’t be worse than that broom closet you brought me to,” you say.

Your hand grips the phone tightly as you make your way into the kitchen, your footsteps soft against the wood floor. You take a moment to grab Alpine’s food from the shelf, knowing that you were only minutes away from her finding you and audibly complaining.

“Hey,” he says, his voice stern to defend himself. “That was fun.”

“I never said it wasn’t.” There’s a moment of silence. 

Bucky rolls his eyes even if you can’t see them, his free hand moving to grab his deodorant. 

“I'm going to finish getting ready, send me the address and I'll meet you there.”

You mumble out a quick sounds good before hanging up. There was no need for goodbyes, simply knowing that you would be seeing each other soon was enough to hold you over until then.

The streets of the city were loud and bustling on the warm Saturday morning, it was early spring and most people are indulging themselves in the nice weather – yourself and Bucky included. You had met him on the corner a few blocks over from where the museum was.

Despite how warm the weather was, he dressed in jeans and a dark long sleeve shirt, and a black baseball cap. An interesting choice for the temperature.

“If I’d known any better I’d say you’re a glutton for punishment,” you say to him as the two of you walked side by side.

“How come?"

"Long sleeve shirt and jeans on a day like today? It has to be one of the hottest days of the year so far."

Bucky is all too aware of the sweat forming on the back of his neck, and while he doesn't appreciate the reminder of the heat — he'd rather not have the entire museum distracted by the large man with the glaring metal arm. He wanted to play it cool … or as cool as it could get.

"Museum's get cold," he simply states instead, shrugging his shoulders in hopes the conversation will just fade away.

Luckily for Bucky, you approached the steps of the museum and drop the conversation entirely as you entered the building. As you walked through the doors you were greeted with a lobby filled with people.

The museum was older than he had expected it to be, the marble pillars gave it an old world charm while the tall painted ceiling made even Bucky feel small. You take a moment to appreciate the view, your head tilting up to get a full view of the various colors and shapes.

Bucky's gaze moves to the side of your face as he watches you take in the sight, while he enjoys his own. The slope of your nose, the roundness of your cheeks — here you were this stranger that he's gotten to grow fond of, and all he had was three days left to enjoy it. Even if it took everything inside of him, he was going to enjoy it.

Bucky opens his mouth to say something, but is quickly distracted by a sign in the corner of the lobby, doing a double take when he reads the words.

FEATURED EXHIBIT: WORLD WAR II AND ITS HEROES

His heart dropped to his stomach when he realized what this meant, that there would definitely be a section of the exhibit dedicated to Steve, and in turn Bucky himself. What was World War II without Captain America?

He couldn't do this. He had purposely tried to keep his identity under the radar from you, tried to keep you from knowing the horrors that he had committed. While he was aware that all it would take was a quickly search of his name to figure out who he really was, he wasn't ready to let go of the idea that it was still a mystery. So, he tried quickly to think of an excuse why he couldn't go inside: feeling sick, forgot to turn the shower off at his hotel, literally anything.

Finally, Bucky turns his attention back to you, but to his dismay you've already made your way towards the hallway entrance calling out his name to follow. Maybe it's the way you moved, or the excited look on your face, because suddenly the excuses die in the back of his throat, and his feet are carrying him to you.

This should be interesting, he thinks to himself.

The exhibit itself is well crafted, handling dark topics with the grace they deserve — but Bucky already knew all of this information, because he lived it. He tried not to remember the sounds of grenades exploding and the screams of his fellow service members. He tried not to flash back to being captured, unaware that Steve would ever come to save him, the fear he had in his body while they poked and prodded him.

But those were just the beginning of the haunting soundtrack of the life. The one that, despite it all, led him here to you in this moment.

Bucky loses you at one point while he's distracted reading about nurses on the battlefield, a photo of a woman he remembers — Lucille — proudly displayed helping a man on a gurney, bleeding from his head. So many faces, so many names, all gone.

He weaves his way through the crowd and down the long corridors, stopping when he finds you right in the place he didn't want you to be. Standing above you is a large image of Captain America surrounded by his unit, the Howling Commandos, and to his right is a face you've seen before — the face that you've spent the last week and a half with, and is now standing right next to you.

When you had first met Bucky that night in the bar, you felt like you couldn't place him — like you had seen him before. Now, you understood why. You'd seen his face on news stories, in history books, on internet forums trying to guess the identity of The Winter Soldier.

Bucky wants to crawl out of his skin right then and there. He's not sure what you're thinking. Are you absolutely terrified of who he was? Were you sure how he was even still standing here to this day? His eyes never leave the side of your face watching as you bite down on your bottom lip in thought.

Here he was, hoping for the best but expecting the worst.

"You never mentioned you were friends with Steve Rogers," you say.

The words are simple and not exactly how Bucky was expecting you to react to this news.

A breathy laugh leaves his lips as he brings his hand up to run through his hair, taking another step forward until he's standing shoulder to shoulder with you. There's a split second where he realizes that this proximity between the two of you is overwhelming — like it's short circuiting his brain.

"It never came up," he responds back, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I told you I was a soldier, of sorts."

"You mean an Avenger."

"I'm not sure that's what I'd call it," he tries to deflect.

"Did you really kill all those people?"

Without hesitation, Bucky responds.

"Yes."

Your face turns towards him and his blue eyes meet yours immediately, like they were waiting for your gaze. It should be terrifying to be standing in front of a man who did bad things, who had a life you couldn't even begin to fathom and who obviously was ripped right from time itself. It should be, at least.

"Are you scared of me?" Bucky asks, quietly.

People shuffled around the two of you, but neither of you made a step to move from where you were standing. Steve Roger's over-sized figure looming over the two of you.

"No."

It's a quick and simple response, you offer up no other explanation.

"You should be."

"Because you did bad things."

"No, because I did very bad things."

"But you don't anymore."

"No," he shakes his head. "I don't anymore."

"So, tell me why I should be scared of you," you challenge.

If there was ever a time that Bucky Barnes was speechless — it would be right in this moment. Not because he couldn't answer your question, he had a million reasons why you should be scared of him, but because no one's ever asked him to list the reasons.

He opens his mouth to speak but promptly closes it again, his lips forming into a thin line as he fails to come up with a reasonable argument right then and there.

"I think we have another part of the exhibit to see," you say, changing the topic all together. Your hand vaguely gestures to the hallway that continued.

Bucky's lips curled into a smirk at how normal this felt. You found out that he was an ex-assassin working with Captain America and all you wanted to do was continue spending time with him. Incredible.

"Lead the way," he mumbles, motioning for you to go first.

There isn't too much left of the exhibit to see, but Bucky now fills the silence with stories from the war. Not all bad, some include stories of the drinks he's shared with friends even in the midst of war zones, or the days leading up to his enlistment. He skips over the train and his fall, flexing his metal hand when the memory pops into his mind.

You're absorbed with all of this new knowledge, taking in every single piece that he's willing to share with you. Maybe it'd be a lot for some to learn that the man standing next to you was well over 100 years old, but you didn't even bat an eyelash.

Was it because he had the physical body of someone much younger? Or because he never felt a step out of place? Either way, you didn't question it, if anything it made your interest in Bucky grow.

A few hours later, once you were done with the museum and back at your place, did it feel suddenly real that Bucky was leaving in a few days. His large figure was overwhelming compared to the small sofa in your living room he was sitting on — knees pressed close to his chest. As stark as the contrast was, he fit perfectly in your apartment, as if he was the missing piece.

You tried to shake your head from the thought as you grabbed two beers from the fridge, you barely knew the man and you were already slotting him into your life. A week's worth of time together didn't change anything … did it?

"Thanks," he says, grabbing the cold bottle from your hand once you rejoin him.

Your body sinks down on the couch next to him, there's not a lot of space between the two of you. Despite the layers of clothing separating your skin, you can feel the heat of Bucky's thigh pressed against yours. You wonder if his skin is as callous as it is on his hands, thinking back to the night he walked up behind you and pressed his fingers against yours — dragging them softly ...

Bucky says your name and snaps you back into reality, realizing he had already been talking and you've only picked up the tail end of what he's said.

"Sorry, repeat that?" you ask before taking a swig of your drink.

"I said that I have to leave on Tuesday," he repeats, his eyebrow raising. "Will I see you before then?"

"Is that who you go with when you leave?" Your question deflect his, curiosity getting the best of you in the moment. "Captain America?"

"Please don't call him that," Bucky grumbles. "But, yeah. Steve usually leads the missions, likes me to be there for reinforcement."

"You've been fighting for a while."

"Eighty years."

"Do you ever want to stop?"

Bucky sits back against the couch, his fingers fiddling with the arm rest softly trying not to show the look of discomfort on his face or let a sigh out of his mouth. Of course he's thought about stopping. He's dreamed of it, but it's not possible when this is all he's known.

"It's not that simple." He lifts the bottle to his lips again and takes a long swig, shaking his head after. "If I stop then people get hurt."

"But there are dozens of others. Capta — Steve, or that guy who dresses up like a spider in Queens. Does one person really make or break things?"

"You don't get it, it's not that simple."

You didn't mean to push or pry, and you could tell by the agitation in his voice that this was not something that Bucky wanted to discuss further.

So you dropped it.

Right as you were about to change the topic Bucky's phone buzzed in his pocket, halting the conversation. He gave you a tight smile as if to say sorry about that as he slid the phone out. You couldn't read the screen from where you were sitting but whoever it was made Bucky's eyebrows furrow, he hesitated to answer the call.

"Uh, just give me a second," he says to you apologetically before he stands from the couch. Bucky places his beer down on the side table before making his way into the hallway of your apartment, holding back a string of curses as he finally answers. "This better be important, Wilson," his hisses barely above a whisper.

"You know I only call if it is," Sam's booming voice came in on the other side of the line. "Cap wants us all on a red eye to Lagos in the next twenty minutes."

"You're full of shit," Bucky snaps. "I can't get on a flight now."

"Don't shoot the messenger. He's got a jet flying to the compound now to pick us up. Says it's an emergency, an uptick in some activity we've been tracking lately. If we don't act within the next two days there will be major issues."

Bucky rubs his forehead as he peaks out behind the wall to see you sitting on the couch, your hands in your lap as you look away from where Bucky is standing. If he was someone who wasn't as good at reading body language he would have sworn you weren't listening, but he knew all too well.

"He owes me," Bucky mutters. "Give me thirty."

The phone line ends with a beep, Bucky is left with his thoughts for a moment. Fucking Steve.

His feet are heavy as he makes his way back to you, a sinking feeling in his chest. When you heard him approach, you turn to face him again, but he doesn't have to speak for you to know what he's about to say.

"I have to … uh …"

He lifts his phone up and shakes it a bit, closing his eyes as he lets out a sigh.

"It's important."

There's no better excuse he can offer you than that, and even as it leaves his lips it sounds weak. His eyes open again and he shrugs his shoulders, unable to leave from his spot. You knew this would come eventually, maybe a few days earlier from what you had anticipated, but it had to come to an end.

"How long?"

"I'm not sure, I'll find out more when I'm briefed later."

You stand from the couch and cross the room until you're standing in front of him. His head is rolled back and he watches you carefully through hooded eyes, the urge to reach out and pull you into his arms is overwhelming.

He tried so hard to convince himself this was two strangers getting to know each other before time ran out.

Well, time was up.

And you two were definitely not strangers anymore.

He whispers your name and brings his hand up, but quickly stops himself from reaching out to you. No matter how badly he wanted it.

"Be safe," you say to him, nodding your head softly.

"I'll try."

Bucky swallows everything he wished he could have said before turning on his heels, just like he did that very first night you had met him.

"You better text me," you call out to him right as his hand grasped the doorknob.

"I will."

"You better."

Bucky turned and gave you one last smirk before pulling the door open and disappearing behind it, leaving you standing alone in the middle of your apartment. Neither of you were sure if this life was a cruel joke, or if the universe worked in mysterious ways.

[moonlit-imagines]

Headcanons for babysitting the Barton kids with Natasha

Natasha Romanoff x reader

warnings:

a/n: silly lil concept. also its like implied nat and y/n are dating but not explicit so like it can def be platonic or romantic depending on how you perceive it.

prompt:

oh you KNOWWW it’s gonna be a good time when “auntie nat” and y/n show up to babysit

clint and laura were going out of town for a whole week and left you two—the only two they trusted—to watch their three kids

and ofc the kids loved you guys to death

“can you show me how to shoot a gun?” -lila

“let’s check the rules your mom left” -nat, reading the note on the fridge “‘don’t let the kids touch your guns’ sorry kid, against the rules”

cooking was something you both were dreading

“can we take the quinjet to get mcdonalds?” -you

“only if you fly” -nat

no R-rated movies was circled and underlined on the “rules” note about 10 times

but the terminator doesn’t count right?

being woken up by nate in the middle of the night bc he cant sleep

“your turn, nat” -you

after nat didn’t come back to bed for a while you found her and nate playing “spies” (she really wanted him to be her mini-me 😭)

“y/n! wanna play?” -nate

*defeated sigh* “sure!” -you

within 20 minutes all the kids were downstairs pretending to be spies and the new mission was “get the kids back to bed”

“no, we cant dye nates hair red” -you

“it’d look great” -nat

“natasha they’re never going to let us see the kids again” -you

three kids is just a LOT of work

you had newfound respect for clint and laura

“it’d be easier if we could drug them” -nat

“yeah…..NO” -you

cooper and lila would start arguing over the shower, nate didn’t like his breakfast, nat was getting stir crazy, you were trying to patch a hole in the wall before clint ever knew it was there—yeah. pretty great stuff

check-in calls with laura

“hey! how are they doing, not causing you too much trouble?” -laura

*lila and cooper doing nat’s makeup TERRIBLY* “oh, yeah, we’re just fine. hang on. i have to send you a picture” -you, getting photographic evidence

“oh. my god. clint, you have to see this” -laura, holding up her phone to show the worlds deadliest assassin with horrendous green eyeshadow on her eyes and cheeks and smeared lipstick

“how’d they find my makeup?” -clint, sarcastically

you didn’t know it yet, but you’d be the next victim

“oh, thanks guys…you didn’t have to” -you

truthfully you and nat got some hilarious pictures together

those pictures would live on the barton fridge for years

tending to farm things

“should we call tony? the tractor is broken again” -you

“are you kidding? this is my week away from tony” -nat

it was kind of like a vacation for you guys too. it was no paris or london, but it was an escape from your routine

but you did already make plans for paris for right after this

“watching kids for a week earns us a nice vacation, right?” -you

“i feel like saving the world several times earns us a vacation, but sure, if you think babysitting is the way to go, we can do this more” -nat

lila asking for coffee

you checking the rules list, which has a bullet point saying “do not let lila have coffee”

cool aunt nat almost made her a nice little latte too

“hey, spies might be allowed to lie, but little girls are not. try again later” -you

pretending to be an elderly couple on the porch rocking chairs, drinking your morning coffe and watching the sunrise

“maybe we should retire. get a nice house in the woods. ignore the avengers when they call.” -you

“i don’t hate that idea” -nat

trying to get the kids to do their chores was a hassle

dishes, trash, laundry, cleaning bathrooms, these kids must have thought THEY were on vacation

“i hate how these kids are just not afraid of assassins. that is not normal” -nat

“it’s normal when they call a world famous assassin auntie nat” -you

“are you saying im going soft?” -nat

“i would never say that…” -you

she says in shock like she didn’t just bake cookies with them.

laura and clint finally came home and you guys had dinner ready for them

“aw, you didn’t have to do that” -laura

“don’t worry about it, i know you’ve been on the road all day” -you

you all ate dinner together and said your goodbyes and the kids all gave you a group hug

“i hope they behaved for you” -clint

“they were just perfect” -nat

and on your way out, you heard

“hey, did someone put a hole in the wall? this looks freshly patched” -clint

the kids scattered and you and nat were wise to exit promptly

“love you guys! lets do this again sometime!”

taglist: @locke-writes // @captainshazamerica // @summersimmerus // @prettysbliss // @simp-legend // @wild-rose-35 // @nekoannie-chan // @beth-gallagher22 // @sk1bidi-n1k0-e4ts-people // @deanzboyfriend // @mr-mxyzptlk-1940 //

[cfdbuckley]

If the idea of showing up in court with his knuckles bruised and Tommy's face black and blue didn't seem like it would get him into trouble, Buck thought he might really like to experience it, for the complete asshole ruining his morning. Was it sort of his fault for starting something with Eddie before he ended it? Maybe, he could see how it could be interpreted that way, but if he hadn't been with Eddie last night, he would have never slept at all waiting for morning to come because he needed to convince Tommy to end things. So in that way, hadn't he gotten everything he wanted? A night and a morning with Eddie and perhaps an expedited end to the trial claim?

He was never, ever going to leave first without turning to Eddie, and while he wasn't necessarily surprised to find him right there when he turned, Buck still felt his heart melt in his chest, all the anger momentarily evaporating from his features as he was pulled in. Wrapping his arms back around Eddie, he held him close and kissed him back, mapping out the covered muscles of his back as he did. His heart rate spiked as he realized he was getting a glimpse of his future right here, unashamedly kissing Eddie out in the open, getting to hold him like this as often as he wanted?

Buck exhaled shakily and leaned in to nuzzle the side of Eddie's face as he was glaring at Tommy, but then he opened his eyes to see the phone and shot Eddie a grateful look and a soft smile. "Of course. I'll be back before you know it." He squeezed him briefly before taking and pocketing his phone, his brow immediately furrowing when he turned to see Tommy staring daggers right back at them. He was giving Eddie a particularly pointed look that Buck couldn't decipher, but he did realize it seemed easier for Tommy to look at Eddie than at him. Really, he wanted to ban him from ever laying eyes on Eddie but he figured Eddie might feel the same way in reverse, so he took what he could and went around to get into the truck, buckling up and barely getting a chance to wave before Tommy was backing up out of the driveway like a bat out of hell and was roaring down the street, probably at a speed not legal in residential areas.

[20 minutes later]

Buck: he's signing the papers now!! i'm free, all urs ♥️

[10 minutes later]

Buck: he says he needs 2 get evryth from mine that he gave me during the claim 🙄 so guess we're going 2 mine 1st. i'll text as soon as i'm omw back!

[A few hours later, without any read messages or answered phone calls]

Buck: Himbo slut is all yours now, though I didn't peg you for liking sloppy seconds, Ed. Got him ready for you, but call me if you decide you want to try a real man next time, yeah?

[IMG Attached: A shot from above, Buck on his stomach, only the back of his head visible, no face. Arm muscles are lax, messily tied above him at the wrist to the bed frame. Photo is of his torso and above, a few angry lash marks across his ribs.]

Buck is vaguely aware that Tommy left, finally. Vaguely aware that he was speaking just before descending the loft stairs. But Buck is mostly aware of the fatigue, the ache in all of his muscles, and the exhaustion that keeps making him feel like he's losing time every time he lets his eyelids slip shut. How long has he been here? Why can't he pull his arms down or turn? He sucks in a weak breath against his bedsheets and tries again to pull at his arms but they feel like overcooked noodles, leaving him huffing as he desperately tries to clear away the brain fog. If he could just think, lift his head, maybe...

Water actually sounded pretty great once Buck mentioned it because his throat was still feeling pretty rough from sucking Buck off earlier. Even though he was tempted, he still declined Buck's offer because, again, that meant Buck would have to leave the room, but he also wasn't quite ready to get the taste of Buck from his mouth. "Nah, I'm good." And he was, very much good that was, but Buck seemed to know exactly what he needed to feel so much better as Eddie quickly found himself on his back with Buck blissfully on top of him. As he felt Buck's head settle in the crook of his neck, Eddie reached up and wrapped one arm around Buck's back while his other hand found it way into Buck's curls to hold him in place. The fact that this was the first morning of many future ones that they would be able to have was not lost on Eddie, and the fact brought a lazy smile to his face.

Eddie was actually thinking about Chris when Buck asked him what time he was supposed to pick up his son. It was just another example of how he and Buck were connected in a way that was almost impossible to explain to other people. While he wasn't ready to tell his family, which included both his work and actual family, about him and Buck, Eddie knew this wasn't something he wanted to keep from Chris. He planned to have Buck around the house for as long as Buck agreed to it, and Eddie didn't want to have to hide showing affection to Buck. Since he knew that Christopher loved Buck already, Eddie knew that it wouldn't be that much of an adjustment for his son to accept. The only major concerns that Eddie had was exactly how to bring it up to Chris and if Chris would be able to keep it a secret from abuela, Pepa, and the rest of his family.

Before Eddie was able to answer Buck's question, their perfect, cozy after-sex bubble was rudely popped by a honking car. At first, Eddie thought that the horn was directed towards a particular house down the street that Eddie had some reservations about, but it became quickly clear that the offending horn was directly outside his own home. His next thought was that obviously someone in his family was having an emergency, possibly related to Christopher, so Eddie tried to scramble to find his phone for any missed texts or calls. Before he could even look, Buck was already off of him and the bed and determined who the annoying culprit was.

Just hearing that it was Tommy pretty much destroyed all the exceptional mood that he was in due to his perfect morning with Buck. He was too busy mentally picking out good spots to bury Tommy's body at to actually get dressed, so by the time he pulled himself from off the bed, Buck was already heading out the bedroom door to confront his ex. That finally got Eddie to start moving faster, so he through on a pair of sweats that were at the top of his hamper before following Buck. Before he was able to leave the bedroom though, Eddie saw Buck's phone on the bed and picked it up.

By the time Eddie made it out the front door, Buck was already at the pickup door. He was able to hear Buck mention cutting ties with Tommy, so he at least had some idea where the two of them were heading off to do. Before Buck could get into Tommy's truck though, Eddie had reached him and pulled him in close so that he could kiss Buck before he left. Even though Eddie knew all his neighbors were watching them due to Tommy's nosy display, he didn't hold back as he licked his way into Buck's mouth to deepen the kiss. Even though part of it was to put on a display for Buck's ex, Eddie also wanted to reassure and comfort Buck before he left. Eddie reluctantly pulled away from Buck's lips and sent a death glare in Tommy's direction as he handed Buck his phone. "Be safe and please call me as soon as you can."

[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

Imagine if the human didn't age when they were in like the puppet world

The beach that makes you old? Nay, the puppet world that stops you from aging

"I can't believe you've been here for 10 years already!"

Human, looking into the mirror: Me neither

Oh, what's this? An opportunity to write angst?

If you like my work, please consider commissioning me or leaving a tip on Ko-fi (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

Not ageing in Home

★ Time seems to work differently in home. Something you didn't notice for the longest time. Cuts would heal at a normal pace. Although your body never changed. Months turned into years, time marched forward, but your body never did.

★ At first, it was easy to ignore. Nobody else aged. They were all made out of fabric and stuffing. It felt like a strange gift. And for awhile you treated it as such. Enjoying it for however long it'll last.

★ You start keeping track of the years in a notebook. Marking down each birthday you've celebrated. Determined to remember your own age. At some point, it feels like a joke. Like just another thing stolen from you.

★ The world you left behind would still change. Right? It should change. Or does it work differently? You don't know for certain. Maybe try not to think about it. Shove it in the back of your mind with everything else you'd rather not dwell on.

[ragesmut069]

Driving Zayne crazy at work

Warnings: cunnilingus, p in v, unprotected sex, breeding, multiple orgasms, pain, choking, light degrading, praise, work sex, dubcon/ CNC

Zayne and I had officially been dating for a couple months now, and I realized he never seen me dressed up. I’m usually in lounge clothes, or honestly nude. Zayne and I have been going at it almost every day, Zayne has taken me on a couple dates but they were nothing crazy. Last week I asked Zayne if I could plan a date, he said yes but that I’m not paying for anything. Zayne always dresses nice for work and this morning I noted what he left in. I’m pretty Zayne thinks we’re gonna go do something stupid for our date like an arcade or a movie or something, but I wanted to surprise him with nice dinner reservations. It was one of the best places in town and it was hard to get reservations, but then I used Zaynes name and they gave us reservations right away because Zayne saved the owner or something.

I told Zayne he wasn’t allowed to be late to our date so I made sure to pick a later time thinking that he’ll be able to have everything wrapped up at work. Our reservation was at 8:30, I showed up to the hospital at 7 because i knew he was gonna take forever to leave. I was wearing a black bodycon dress that accentuated my curves, the dress wasn’t very long but it came up to mid upper thigh. I had cute black floral embroidered tights on and black platform boots that came up to below my knee, and I paired it with a long black jacket and cute little purse. I wasn’t very girly but this was my style and I felt happy and sexy. I made sure to wear a matching red lace lingerie set underneath. Of course Zayne was in the middle of a surgery when I got to the hospital, so I went to his office took off my coat and sat down on the couch he had in his office. My make up was perfectly done and my hair came down in soft waves. I was so excited to surprise Zayne, I was scrolling nervously on my phone waiting as the time got later I started to drift to sleep. About 10 mins later I was startled awake when the door opened and I heard footsteps, multiple foot steps. I looked up to see Zayne and like 8 medical students. I stood up to great Zayne.

Zaynes mouth dropped open as he took in the sight of me. He drank in every inch of me, as soon as his eyes got to me I saw a flash of hunger in his eyes. As soon as I thought he was gonna jump me, he cleared his throat and said

“Hey beautiful I just have to finish this deliberation about the surgery we just did and then we can go.” He kissed my cheek “you can sit back down it’s nothing serious” I sat down and noticed all of his students staring at me.

“This is y/n my future wife, treat her with respect when you see her” Zayne said to all of his students my eyes went wide at the thought of being his wife I knew I must have been blushing. A couple of the girls kept shooting daggers at me and a couple of the guys kept looking me up and down. Every time Zayne saw the guys drooling over me he would clear his throat and say their names. As soon as the meeting was over they all filed out. As soon as they were all out and the door closd he walked over to me, he squatted in front of me, causing us to be eye to eye, he ran his hands up my thighs until he hit the hem of my dress.

“ I’m sorry baby but I still have to do some paper work.”

“But our reservation is at 8:30” I looked down and noticed it was 8 and the restaurant is 30 mins away. I was upset at Zayne but how could I be upset when he’s saving lives.

“Reservation? Please don’t tell me it’s to (blank restaurant name that I can’t think of)”

“Yea why”

“I’m so sorry baby but the owner called me and asked if I made that reservation and I said no, so they canceled it” as soon as he said that tears started to well in my eyes

“I didn’t know you would want to go to a place like that”

“But you like that place” I said as the tears dropped from my eyes. Zayne was quick to wipe my tears

“Oh baby I’m so sorry please don’t cry. Let me finish this paper work and then we’ll go get some food, I promise I’ll make this up to you.”

I sniffed as I said “okay” I was a little disappointed but I dried my tears and decided that all that mattered was Zayne seeing me dressed up. He kissed me quickly and then went over to his paperwork. I got up and walked over to Zayne and linked my arms around his neck from behind and started to kiss his cheek, down his neck leaving small kisses all over him. His typing slowed as I started to depend the kisses slightly sucking and nipping on his neck.

“What are you doing?” He said with a smirk.

“Don’t mind me” I said whispering in his ear. I pulled him back from his desk, I walked around him and got down on my knees underneath his desk. I pulled him back towards me. I ran my hands up his thighs, I delivered small bites to his inner thighs. I heard him let out a quiet low growl.

“I’m never gonna finish if you keep distracting me.”

“I’ll make sure you finish” I said as I started to undo his pants. I heard him let out a laugh and continued typing.

I started to palm at his cock through his pants. I could feel him growing against my palm, so I released his cock. His cock fell out, the tip perfectly pink and veins that throbbed when he was about to cum. He was so big my hand didn’t wrap all the way around and his length extended past my hands stacked on top of each other. I wrapped my hand around Zayne’s cock and started to slowly pump up and down. I put Zayne’s balls into my mouth, and I continue to pump his cock. Zayne let out a moan, the typing stopped, I popped his balls out of my mouth and said “you have to finish your work.” I wrapped my lips around his cock, swirling my tongue around the tip tasting the precum that leaked out. I started to bring my mouth up and down with my hand. The drool spilling out, creating a lube for me. My head bobbed up and down faster. Zayne’s hand wrapped into my hair, just as Zayne thrusted up deep into my mouth, his cock throbbing as he was about to cum deep down my throat. A knock came at the door. Zayne whispered “fuck fuck stop” I looked up at him and shook my head no, his eyes widened at me. The door slowly swung open

“Sorry doctor Zayne I just had to ask you a quick question”

“Right now’s not a great time kimmy”

“I know I’m sorry sir but” I zoned out on whatever she was saying. This was one of the girls that was giving me a dirty look earlier, I’m guessing she’s in love with doctor zayne. Little did she know I was on my knees about to make him cum.

I kept bobbing my head, I could hear zayne stutter and sigh through his conversation with his student.

“I just think that she’s a bad look for you sir” the girl said. “I mean she’s not even a doctor and she seems juvenile, she was dressed slutty waiting for you in your office”

My head popped off zaynes cock. Who’s she calling slutty? Me?

I saw Zayne’s Jaw clench and his fist ball up, his knuckles turning white with rage. I started to rub small circles onto his thigh, hoping to calm him down. Zayne looked down at you one hand still wrapped around his cock and your eyes wide with fear because you didn’t know what Zayne was about to do. The palm of his hand coming up to hug your cheek bone. His thumb rubbing your temple. He looked up at the girl and said

“If you ever speak about my future wife like that I���ll make sure you never become a doctor. Now get out of my office so that way I can bend her over this desk” he said as he tucked his cock away and pulled me out. As soon as the girl saw me she ran away wide eyed. The door slamming shut behind her.

Zayne stalked across the room and locked the door. His eyes locked on mine, he was starved for me, he needed me. My center automatically warmed at the sight. I’ve never seen zayne like this, he’s usually hungry for me acting like I’m his life force but something about right now was primal, he needed to prove that girl wrong, he needed to prove that I’m his. I believed every word zayne said.

His lips slammed onto mine, he was drinking me in like I was his only source of water. His tongue was inside my mouth, he was sucking on my lip and tongue, anything he could get. His hands gripped my waist holding me still against his desk. Zayne reached behind me never leaving my mouth, I heard him push stuff around on his desk, most of his stuff falling to the floor with loud thuds and the sounds of paper flying away into a mess around the room. Zayne lifted me effortlessly and placed me on the desk.

I could feel my panties growing increasingly wetter with every kiss, every drag of his hand over my body. He gripped my hips and thighs tight leaving marks for tomorrow. I pushed Zayne away and said

“You know this all started as a punishment because you canceled our reservation”

“I know baby I’m sorry let me prove how sorry I am” he said, coming back between my legs and slamming his mouth onto mine. His hands trailed over every inch of my body as our kissed deepened, our tongues darting out and finding each other’s. His hands slid up my thighs to my sweet spot, he started to rub small circles, my underwear and tights were soaked with arousal. I moaned against him as he rubbed over my clit. Zayne let out a soft moan as he felt my arousal. I pushed Zayne back once again.

“No you’re in trouble doctor zayne”

“I know baby I’m sorry” he said as he kissed my cheek. “But I need you”

“No zayne I’m supposed to be teasing you”

“I’m sorry baby, I need you.” He said bringing his hands to my waist, picking me up off his desk and turning me around. I was now bent over his desk, he kicked open my legs, so I spread open perfectly for him. He brought his thumb to my center rubbing small circle and then his other hand slapped my ass delivering a sharp pain on my ass. He then ripped my tights open.

“Zayne wait”

“I can’t baby I’m sorry” he moved my panties to the side and then I heard his pants coming undone.

“Zayne wait you’re to big I can’t take you right now”

“You can take it” he moved my hair to the side and then kissed my neck and delivered a couple bites to my neck. I could feel him pumping his cock against my ass. He pulled back from neck, he grabbed both my wrists in one hand holding them behind my back and then I felt him line up with my center

“Slowly Zayne please” just as I said that Zayne slammed into me. His cock stretching my walls and rammed all the way up to hit my cervix. I choked out a loud moan.

“Shhh baby we’re still at work” he said stilling his movement

I tried to take my arms from Zayne so I could brace myself but Zayne kept his firm grip on my wrists.

“Be a good girl and take me” he said as he pulled back and snapped his hip back into me. I bit down on my bottom lip, letting out soft moans as he keep thrusting in and out of me. With every thrust my mind slowly went numb, my cheek rested against all of Zayne’s paperwork and laptop on his desk. Zayne delivered a loud slap to my ass, I tightened around him. Zayne’s head dropped down to my shoulder delivering light kisses

“Just like that baby, you’re doing so good” he whispered in my ear and I started to pulse around him. Tears started to well in my eyes with pleasure.

“Fuck baby you’re pussy is sucking me in” he said as his other hand came to my clit and started to rub small circles on my clit.

“That’s my girl, takin me so good.”

“Z-Zayne m’ gonna cum” I choked out as I came undone around him.

“Good girl cum for me” he said as he brought out my orgasm, he didn’t stop until he brought out every last bit of my orgasm. I let out one last moan as Zayne’s hips slowed. He slowly brought himself out of me and let go of my wrists. He turned me around and picked me up, laying me back down onto his desk. He dropped his head between my thighs and started to lap up my arousal.

His tongue licked up my center, spreading my folds and tasting every part of my arousal, he started to suck on my clit causing me to cry out from over stimulation. Zayne’s hand traveled up the front of my dress and palmed at my breasts through my bra. He continued sucking my clit and massaging my breasts.

He came up and slammed his lips back onto mine. I could taste myself on him, my tongue darted out collecting the taste of me off his mouth.

“Fuck such a nasty little thing huh?” He said as he brought his fingers up to my folds and parted them. His fingers slammed inside me “you like tasting you on me don’t you” he brought his fingers out of me and shoved them into my mouth. My tongue swirled and sucked on his fingers and he shoved his digits down my throat causing my eyes to tear up again. He took his fingers out my mouth and slammed them back into my pussy. His hand wrapped around my throat, his fingers pressing down just where he could cut off blood flow, my head started to lighten and my body became numb from the lack of oxygen. His fingers were slamming in and out of me. His fingers lightened up as he took his fingers out of me and forced them down my throat again. His hand tightened around my throat again, his hand slamming into me. I felt my center start to warm and flutter with absolute pleasure. My eyes rolled to the back of my head and my pussy pulsed aroundZayne’s fingers as his fingers hit my soft spongy spot over and over drawing out my orgasm. My brain was mush from the lack of oxygen and my orgasm as he drew it out until my body was shaking and couldn’t cum anymore for him. I felt the tears stream down my face, I had drool leaking out the corners of my mouth from his fingers slamming to the back of my throat.

Zayne’s mouth came down to my forehead and delivered a light kiss to it. His mouth came to my ear and he whispered

“Come on baby I’m not done with you yet”

I moaned out and tried to stutter out a no

“Oh are you saying no” he said as I shook my head in response

“Oh why” his lips came to my neck

“S-S- sore” I said through broken cries as his lips trailed over my neck.

“But she’s telling me something else, you’re dripping onto my desk” with every word he said I felt my hole tighten and flinch.

Zayne’s fingers spread my lips apart, he shook his head and clicked his tongue at the sight of my hole tightening. “Fuck it’s practically begging for me to fuck you again”

“N-no”

“You don’t get to walk around my office in this tight little dress” I could hear his pants unzipping and his belt coming undone again. “And say no to me. You started this sweets, now fucking take me like the good little slut my student thinks you are” I felt him line himself up with my entrance again, this time he was slow and deliberate.

He slid into me, making sure I could feel every part of him, his hands hiked up my legs to his shoulders, he undid his tie and the top two buttons of his shirt. He looked so good I could see the sweat start to build around his neck as he slowly fucked me. His eyes are drinking in every part of me. When he looked at me he was dazed, I could see every ounce of love he had for me in his eyes. He was starved for me, he needed me. This made me want to do anything for him. Even letting him fuck me over and over no matter how sore and over stimulated I was.

As he slowly pulled in and out of me, he started to whisper mostly to himself “fuck y/n you drive me crazy” he moan as his cock kissed my cervix sending a pleasurable pain up my spine. “You’re making me risk it all, having you spread open for me on my work desk, while my students wander the halls.” His pace started to quicken, his eyes were set on where his hips met your cunt. He was drinking in the beauty of you sucking him in. You let out soft moans and cries with every word Zayne said. “It’s taking everything in me not to rip this dress of to reveal what I’m guessing is a matching lingerie set” his hips snapped into you hard forcing out a loud moan, his hand came up and covered your mouth “shhh you gotta be quiet remember” you moaned against his hand, eyes rolling back with pleasure.

He quickened his pace slamming his hips over and over again, he stretched your walls perfectly filling you up until you were fucked silly.

“Fuck such a greedy girl, sucking me in so perfectly” he pressed his body against yours with your legs still on his shoulders, he was hitting you deeper now, your eyes watered over, Zayne’s lips kissed your tears as they fell “tell me how good it is baby” his hand left your mouth finally, you were panting out to Zayne. “Fuck Zayne, I can’t take it I need to cum” I moaned out his hand was back around your throat squeezing and then letting go, your head rolled back, your back arched up, you could feel zayne getting close, his cock throbbed inside you, his thrusts losing their rhythm, he was moaning and panting in your ear causing you to lose control. Your body started to shake as you orgasmed harder than you ever have. Your hands raking down Zayne’s back, you heard a small tear from his fitted button down. Neither of you cared, he was huffing and biting into your neck.

You felt thick ropes shoot out inside you as he brought you to the end of your orgasm. He slammed himself right up to your cervix making sure to fill you up with his seed as much as he could, shooting it right into the source. “You should talk to your doctor about birth control” he panted out

“You’re my doctor, Zayne”

“Oh then I deny your request for birth control”

He pulled back from you and ran his fingers up your center collecting his seed and your slick together on his fingers. He brought his fingers to your mouth and made you suck his fingers dry. Your eyes were wide. Was he really gonna get you pregnant right now?

[boohorns1136439]

Learning to belong ~ poly!MHA x fem!Reader (11)

Remember when I said chapter 11 will be out next weekend, one month ago ? I am a liar, but you guys have to forgive me.

Warning: cursing (?)

Tags: Pack! Izuku Midoriya X Bakugo Katsuki X Shoto Todoroki X Kirishima Eijirou ; Pack! X fem!Reader ; Omega!Izuku Midoriya ; Omega!Bakugo Katsuki ; Omega!Shoto Todoroki ; Omega!Kirishima Eijirou ; technically Beta!Reader ; modern Au ; post-UA ; Reader has a quirk ; non hero!Reader ; smut eventually ; fem!Reader ; afab!Reader

10 <- 11 ->12

Taglist

Masterlist

The routine settled over the pack. Bakugo’s gaze was still locked on Todoroki, a quiet blaze simmering behind his crimson eyes. His nostrils flared as he exhaled sharply through his nose, muttering a curse under his breath. Then he turned on his heel and stomped toward the kitchen while the floor creaked under the weight of his steps. Only then did Izuku realize he’d been holding his breath. He hadn’t known what to expect, an explosion, maybe. A barked insult. A demand, raw and unfiltered, tearing through the tension like Bakugo always did. His blonde mate had come dangerously close to snapping more than once in the past few days. Izuku had seen the storm brewing behind his eyes, but he understood. Bakugo wasn’t just angry. He missed him. They all did.

It had been less than a month since the incident, but it felt like an eternity since Todoroki had really looked any of them in the eyes. Since their fingers found each other in the quiet, without needing words. Sometimes they didn’t speak at all. Just sat like that, fingers laced, listening to the distant sounds of life moving around them. And every time Todoroki’s thumb rubbed small, absent circles into Izuku’s palm, it made something bloom behind his ribs. Gentle, deep and steady. He missed that. He missed the way Todoroki’s smile started small, barely a twitch of the lips, and then slowly bloomed. He missed his mate’s scent too. Even that had changed.

It used to be crisp, like the first bite of winter wind. Sweet golden honey layered over frostbitten berries. Now, it clung to the corners of the room in an unfamiliar way. Weakened. Clouded and Muddied. The sweetness had gone stale, eaten away by something bitter and wrong.

Despite being lost in his reminiscence and thoughts, Izuku caught movement from the corner of his eye. Kirishima was hovering near Todoroki. He stood there for a moment, then, gently, he stepped forward and hesitantly, he reached out, offering a gentle pat to Todoroki’s shoulder, with an expression armed with an encouraging smile. It wasn’t much. The touch was clumsy, uncertain and somewhat awkward. But it was kind, it was sweet, simple, and Izuku felt his chest warmed at the sight of it.

Though, Todoroki didn’t react, didn’t lean in the touch. The hand on his shoulder might as well have belonged to a ghost. Kirishima’s hopeful smile faltered, his brows pinched slightly dejected by the quiet rejection as he withdrew his hand. Not with anger or frustration, just defeat. He lingered a second longer in the room, then pulled his hand back and walked away, retreating quietly to his room.

Almost an hour later, Izuku was still staring blankly at the corner of the coffee table when Bakugo’s voice cut through the apartment.

“Dinner’s on the damn table!” Bakugo yelled from the kitchen.

Izuku moved without thinking to the dinner table, guided by habit more than appetite. He slipped into his usual seat at the table, and a moment later, Kirishima walked in, dragging his feet and sat without a word. But no sign of Todoroki coming.

Bakugo waited exactly thirty seconds before gritting out, “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Sandals thudded against the hallway floor as he left the dinner table. A few seconds passed. Then the sound of footsteps again, two sets. Bakugo returned with Todoroki in tow, gripping his wrist in a firm hold. He dragged him to the table and sat him down in a chair, and shoved the waiting plate in front of him with a hard clatter.

“Eat,” he snapped. His gaze said the rest: Don’t you dare fucking leave.

Dinner didn’t get any better after this small « commotion ». It was stir-fried beef and vegetables over rice. Nothing fancy. The kind of meal Bakugo threw together on autopilot. It smelled good and tasted even better, savory, filling, beef and vegetables coated with a delicious garlic soy sauce, but the tension hanging over the table turned every bite into a lump down Izuku’s throat, even more when he noticed that Todoroki only picked at his plate.

Eventually, and thankfully, a part of him thought, plates ended up emptied. Except for Todoroki’s, which still looked mostly untouched. Bakugo loudly put down his chopsticks, and stood suddenly, scraping his chair back with a screech. He picked up his plate and everyone’s but Todoroki, and put them in the kitchen sink.

« I’ll do the dish kacchan. » Izuku said as he got up of his chair but he was stopped in his tracks.

« Sit your ass down Deku. » Bakugo responded without looking back.

Quickly the sound of water and clattering plates filled the silence around them, no one at the table moved. Todoroki was looking blankly at the wall, still distant and cold while his food was also turning cold. Izuku didn’t dare move after Bakugo told him to sit down, and Kirishima was just sitting there, arm crossed, lost in his thoughts. The moment was broken when after a couple of minutes, Bakugo spoke up again.

“I’m done. We’re going out. »

Izuku blinked. “Wait—what? Out? Where? Right now?”

“You heard me,” Bakugo replied. “Get your gym stuff. You too, shitty hair.”

Kirishima hesitated. “I don’t really feel like going out, man.”

“I wasn’t asking.” Bakugo’s voice didn’t rise, but it hardened. “Grab your bag. We’re going.”

Izuku stood slowly, brow furrowed. “Are we training? Or—”

“Stop asking questions, Deku. Just go get your stuff »

Bakugo turned back toward the table, eyes locking on Todoroki.

“What about you?”

His tone shifted. Still hard, but undercut with something else. Not quite hope, but expectation. A challenge he didn’t expect to be met. Daring Todoroki to give a different answer than the one they all expected him to give. But his icy hot mate didn’t even lift his head as he replied.

“You guys go ahead,” he murmured. “I’m too tired.”

A pause followed. Bakugo stared for a beat, his jaw clenched tight, then he scoffed and turned away, before walking out of the dinner room.

Izuku crouched beside Todoroki, speaking softly. “Eat a little more, okay?” he said, brushing a kiss to his cheek. “And try to rest. I’ll check on you when we get back.”

Todoroki only offered the smallest nod as a response, then Izuku rosed to his feet and went in his bed room . His gym bag was already packed and waiting by the door.m so he just slung it over his shoulder and returned to the front door, where the others were getting ready.

Gymn bags by their sides, Bakugo shoved his shoes on while Kirishima, by his side moved slower with his head down and tugged his hoodie over his hair before crouching to tie his laces. Izuku followed their lead and put his own shoes own.

The three stepped out into the cool hallway, and the door clicked shut behind them.

A sharp chill clung to the night air as the pack, minus one, headed to the car. Bakugo climbed into the driver’s seat without a word, slamming the door hard enough to make the whole frame rattle. Izuku barely had his seatbelt on before the car lurched forward, tires squealing slightly against the pavement.

Katsuki’s grip on the wheel was white-knuckled, his jaw clenched tight as he glared straight ahead. Every time they hit a red light, his fingers tapped out a sharp, impatient rhythm, punctuated by low curses muttered under his breath. The tension radiating off of him was suffocating.

Kirishima sat silently in the backseat, hunched toward the window, his reflection ghosting in the glass. The weight of the past few days still pressed heavily on him. Normally, he’d be the first to crack a joke or throw on a playlist, something loud and chaotic like Raise Your Flag by MAN WITH A MISSION, already queued up to blast through the speakers. He’d sing along loudly, grin and say something stupid like “You have to feel the music in your gut, man!”, and their blonde mate would told him to fuck off with his own matching grin. But tonight, he said nothing.

Izuku sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He wasn’t sure what Bakugo had planned, but right now, anything was better than whatever they were doing these days.

.

.

.

The gym was dimly lit when they arrived. The stale stench of sweat clung to the concrete walls, mixing with the metallic tang of oxidized iron and chalk dust. The air was thick with a heaviness that settled deep in the lungs. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, their inconsistent glow casting jagged shadows along the floor and across the rows of reinforced training equipment designed specifically for heroes. Multi-ton treadmills, weighted dummies, resistance fields, climbing towers, everything here catered to quirks, to extremes, to bodies like theirs. In the back stood the fighting ring, scuffed and battered from years of use. Another perk of the job. Izuku knew this gym like the back of his hand. It belonged to the agency him and Bakugo’s worked at, a shared space for all its hero’s with unlimited access. He had trained here, bled here, pushed himself to the brink here but tonight, it felt different. More charged.

Bakugo didn’t speak. He just made a beeline for the locker room, his boots echoing off the concrete. Kirishima and Izuku still followed him without a word. When they returned, changed and dressed down in gym clothes, Bakugo was already in the ring. The ring’s padding creaked beneath his boots as he rolled his shoulders and adjusted his gloves.

The second Kirishima stepped within range, a pair of gloves flew at his chest.

“Put ’em on,” Bakugo rasped.

Kirishima caught them mid-air with a surprised blink. “Don’t we need to warm up, or—?”

“I’m warm enough. Get in the ring.”

Kirishima hesitated only a moment before nodding, stepping between the ropes with a quiet sigh. Izuku hung back, settling near the edge of the ring, his arms crossed. Kirishima squared up in front of Bakugo, falling into a fighting stance with all the enthusiasm of a man going through the motions. His shoulders sagged slightly, his feet were planted on the mat. Bakugo, however, looked like he was seconds away from lunging.

“Ready, shitty hair?”

“Yeah,” Kirishima answered, voice dull. “I’m good.”

But "good" didn’t land the first punch.

Bakugo did. He shot forward like a missile, closing the distance in a single heartbeat. His fist collided with Kirishima’s guard, and the impact echoed through the room like a gunshot. Kirishima stumbled, boots dragging along the mat, barely absorbing the hit before crashing into the ropes.

“Slow,” Bakugo spat, already moving again.

Kirishima retaliated on reflex, swinging a solid right hook, but Bakugo dipped under it, ducking in close until their chests nearly touched. Then, with a grunt, he shoved Kirishima hard, sending him staggering backwards again.

From the edge of the ring, Izuku watched the scene unfolding in front of him. There was nothing playful about this spar. Bakugo was provoking Kirishima, prodding at some bruise beneath the surface, poking the red bear.

“You think holding back makes you a better person?” Bakugo’s voice cut through the air like a whip. “You think it makes up for anything?”

Kirishima’s eyes flashed, something sparking behind the tired haze.

Bakugo sneered. “Pathetic.”

Izuku saw it then, the flicker in Kirishima’s pupils, the way they sharpened, darkened. He was tracking Bakugo’s every move with predatory precision. And Bakugo knew it. He was feeding off it. Smiling, not just with amusement, but with anticipation.

“Come on,” Bakugo growled. “You hit that doctor harder than you’re hitting me. What, are you scared now, Eijirou?”

That did it.

Kirishima lunged, his entire body surging forward. The ring trembled under their combined weight as they collided. His fists came down in a storm, slamming into Bakugo’s guard over and over with raw, unchecked force. The sound was sickening, flesh on flesh, gloves on ribs, elbows scraping against sleeves. But Bakugo didn’t back down. He grinned, wild and unhinged, accepting each hit like a dare. Kirishima’s next punch missed, and Bakugo seized the opening, ducking low, elbowing him in the ribs, then gripping the back of his neck and yanking him into a brutal knee to the gut. The red hair choked, spit flying his lips, but he didn’t go down. He stumbled, bared his teeth, and charged into Bakugo, lifting him clear off the ground before slamming him into the mat. The sound was an echoing thud, and Izuku flinched involuntarily. They grappled, limbs tangled, sweat pouring down their skin. Their bodies moved in instinct and rage and something dangerously close to desperation. Neither wanted to stop. Neither could.

Izuku’s breath caught in his throat. There was something raw in it, something primal, like watching two storms collide. Each hit carried more than muscle. Every punch was part of a silent conversation. Bakugo’s lips were pulled into that terrifying, twisted and hot smile. Kirishima’s hands trembled, not from fatigue, but from the violence he was no longer holding back. And Izuku, well Izuku could feel it in his bones. The weight of it. The heat. The air was thick with sweat and pheromones, a heady, electric blend of rage and desperation and something primal. Bakugo's spice, sharp and biting. Kirishima's musk, warm and unrelenting. It clung to Izuku’s skin, mixed with the metallic tang of the gym until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. It hit him like a punch to the gut too. Dizzying. Almost sweet. Almost too much. His mouth went dry. His skin prickled.
God, it was intoxicating.

In their fight, once again,Bakugo gained the upper hand. He flipped them, slamming Kirishima onto his back and pinning him with a forearm across his collarbone. He winced, gasping, sweat glistening on his flushed face while Bakugo hovered over him, panting, chest to chest heaving, legs tangled together. His voice was low, and rough.

“There you are,” he rasped. His eyes burned, not with anger, but something sharper. Hungrier.

Kirishima sucked in a shaky breath, wide red eyes matching the blonde. “Fuck,” he breathed, the word cracking on his tongue.

Bakugo didn’t move immediately. He just looked down at him, face and knuckles bruised, his sharp teeth threatening to break into his skin. His body pressed even harder on his, almost crushing him with his weight. In response, Kirishima shoved him off with a growl, already rising to his feet, still not satisfied and craving more.

Izuku swallowed hard, his pulse drumming in his ears. He hadn’t moved the whole time. It wasn’t just a fight. It was hunger. It was yearning.

And god help him, it was hot.

So, it took me way longer to work through this chapter than I expected. I don’t know why; this was such a pain in the ass 😭

I feel like it’s been 10 chapters of everyone feeling bad for Todoroki, and I need to move on. Thankfully, it shouldn’t be long before I’m done with it. There are probably only two more sick Todoroki moments left, and very soon Bakugo will have his own POV chapter. I’m not really sure if I can call it a POV chapter, though.

I hope you guys enjoy it! I read a fic that did dialogue differently than I usually do, and I decided to try mimicking their style. Is it better than before, or not? I think I like it better this way. I also really tried to give you all a sense of what pack life was like before the reader, so I know it’s getting long, and maybe you guys are getting impatient to see the reader again. But trust the process! I feel like I need to make sure the pack feels like they have a real relationship on their own before introducing the reader to them.

Unrelated, but let me know what you all think about the characterizations. I don’t want them to feel too OOC, but I also want to try new things with them.

As always, criticisms are welcomed

Big thank you to @cafekitsune who made the beautiful dividers

10 <-11 -> 12

Taglist: @too-much-gacha ; @electronicexpertshark ; @poopopp ; @cjdjfhfhfufjfdj ; @kimi01985 ; @icycoldbeanieweanies ; @ghostlyworld ; @marsbars09 ; @queenondeezmatatas ; @imnotherw ; @bedheadloser ; @chrisbiniesluvrr ; @fsocs-blog ; @jadeddangel ; @qardasngan ; @goldenglow149 ; @andysteve1311 ; @pinkmelodies ; @hopefulb1ue ; @redkarmakai ; @zukusluvr ; @navezepol221 ; @candiiee ; @aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaq ; @mniya ; @randomhuman112 ; @mintvender r ; @deadendgrim ; @captainswanarcher ; @figbaby ; @midnight-nightmare ; @talilosha ; @bawlangya ; @optimisticprime3 ; @purplescorpi0 ; @astrolovedy ; @desiree-lee ; @okaysxx ; @the-faceless-bride ; @thelameone101 ; @gethexxed ; @lowkeyhottho ; @bvirrious ; @heespretty ; @roxy776699 ; @kamy-thee-egg ; @talia-the-gemini ; @pikachuzhc ; @itsnotjustmyself-blog ; @roxy776699 ; @mystic60 ; @reallysparklychaos ; @sixxze ; @blurryperrtymoonlight ; @1poison-cat1 ; @allyfoxglove ; @mindsbloody ; @jkvolgs ; @haruaikawa ; @k3nmakyan ; @my-anime-garden ; @fto6 ; @hanniesroom ; @readeryn68 ; @queenofsimps001 ; @mai1em ; @demonzgutzz ; @sleepy-x-snake ; @xxang3|zz ; @decadentcrusadefun ; @shhhstar ; @n3ptOnee ; @nxcx|Ixsevens ; @mailem ; @aslos ; @thatone-gayweeb ; @eveylynnn ; @nervoussangel ; @inakyo ; @graythecoffeebean ; @ninabinna ; @3thr3al ; @barrythestrawberry041 ; @omgeyeless-blog ; @primary-022 ; @prettyprojectshq ; @bluepatrolbear ; @literallyjustmyself23 ; @p3n310p3 ; @slayerdiva ; @hw-shorty ; @quixoticcat ; @fluffypuffyfishyswishy ; @thepocgoat ; @heylolmeow ; @00asworld ; @kienhawon ; @acotarshdowandbone ; @barrythestrawberry041 ; @11sp4des ; @maliamaiden ; @puppyminnnie ; @katbug37 ; @the-fandom-ness ; @dabisstapledonballsack ; @ninabinna ; @graythecoffeebean ; @primary-022 ; @nervoussangel ; @p3n310p3

[padawan-snack-packer]

[They see you crying (over a show movie) - Clones Edition]

Hi babes, how are we doin'???? I hope you're having an amazing day/night!!!!

Sooooo I watched Andor (yes, the new season, most recent set of episodes. Yes, I sobbed like a dehydrated womp rat) and it got me thinking… grief is grief. Whether it’s over a real person or a fictional character who got done DIRTY by the writers, your heart doesn’t know the difference. It just hurts. And that is not cringe. You’re not "too sensitive" or "being dramatic" because a show or movie made you cry — you're just a human being with feelings (and possibly an attachment to scruffy rebels or doomed clones).

Soooooooo if you’ve ever been that person who had to pause the credits because you were too busy sobbing into your snack bowl? This one’s for you!!!💛

Let the clones hold you through it. You deserve that comfort.

[Small note but I promise I'm working on the asks, i'm editing them rn but they will be posted today!!! thanks for your patience!!!]

🛡️ Captain Rex

Immediately goes into battlefield triage mode.

"Are you injured? Is someone hurt? What—oh. It's the—it's the show??"

Once he realizes it’s not a real emergency, he just goes very still and very soft.

Doesn't totally understand why you’re sobbing, but he sits next to you anyway and wraps an arm around your shoulders.

Very gently: “You wanna talk about it?”

Listens patiently as you ramble about the character death, the betrayal, the emotional damage. Says things like:

“That’s terrible. I wouldn’t have left them behind, for the record.”

Will quietly Google the show’s ending after, so he can better understand your pain.

Offers to help you write a strongly worded letter to the writers.

🟠 Commander Cody

Walks in, sees the tears, immediately: “Who do I have to shoot?”

Realizes it’s a fictional problem, sighs, mutters “Kriffing civvie drama,” and proceeds to sit beside you.

Offers you a blanket. Then another. Then a snack. Then a pillow. Doesn’t know what helps, so he just keeps piling things like some sort of golden retriever boyfriend.

10 minutes later he’s watching too. Begrudgingly.

Ends up emotionally invested and refuses to admit it.

“I wasn’t crying. My eye was itchy.”

If you rewatch the sad part, he’ll stay quiet the whole time, then quietly mutter: “...They deserved better.”

🟥 Commander Fox

At first thinks someone died and he's reaching for his blaster like "WHERE—WHO—"

When you sob "it's just a movie!!" he freezes mid-combat stance like a glitched protocol droid.

Stares blankly for five full seconds.

“...Why would they write something like that?”

Paces like he’s trying to figure out who to arrest for this emotional crime.

Absolutely texts Thorn in all caps like “I THINK THEY MURDERED THE MAIN CHARACTER FOR NO REASON??”

Offers you his cloak, his time, his entire salary. Whatever will stop the tears.

"Tell me what they did to you. No, I want every detail."

🔴 Commander Thorn

“Aww, sweetheart, come here.” Immediately scoops you into his lap like a human-sized therapy blanket.

Cracks jokes to make you laugh through the tears. But in a loving way.

"Don’t cry, cyare, or I’m gonna have to hunt the director down and force him to write a new ending."

Also genuinely mad on your behalf.

Would 100% play the trumpet at the writer’s front door at 3am in protest.

Buys you comfort food and insists on watching something happy after. ("No more emotional trauma today, thanks.")

💙 Fives

Dramatic gasping. "Nooo, mesh’la, who hurt you?!"

Immediately wraps you in his arms and rocks you like you’re the world’s saddest baby bird.

Is fully ready to fight the fictional antagonist.

“Tell me their name. I’ll get Jesse and we’ll have a talk with them.”

Cries with you. Even though he doesn’t know what’s happening. Now you’re both a mess.

Probably shouts "DON’T GO IN THERE!" at the screen mid-tears.

Makes a whole event out of comforting you: hot chocolate, movie rant, forehead kiss, extra blankets.

🛠️ Echo

Gentle, steady comfort king.

Wipes your tears with the edge of his sleeve and just softly asks, “Want to tell me what happened?”

If you explain, he listens all the way through, then hugs you and goes, “Yeah... that’s rough. I’m sorry they did that to you.”

Tries very hard to not be mad at fictional writing, fails.

Writes emotional fanfiction in his head to soothe you.

Quietly recommends better-written shows that won’t make you cry (but will totally watch this one with you again, if you need to process it more).

🟡 Boil

Stares like you just told him his blaster died.

“You’re crying over a series?”

...But then you explain, and he sees your little tear-stained face, and now he’s upset too.

Grumbles something like "Kriffing writers, can’t let people be happy?"

Pulls you into a hug and pets your hair awkwardly, like he’s not used to this kind of emotional warzone.

Might start angrily defending the character you’re sobbing over.

“No, I don’t care if he was flawed! He did his best!!”

Secretly tears up when he watches it later on his own. Lies about it.

🐻 Waxer

“Aw, cyare, what’s wrong?” Already pulling you onto the couch.

Hears your explanation and immediately goes: “That’s awful. I wouldn’t have written it that way.”

Super empathetic. Tells you it’s okay to cry. Holds your hand. Plays with your fingers while you sniffle.

Talks through the whole emotional arc with you like a therapist.

“So the dog died AND the love interest left?? That’s emotional terrorism.”

Brings Numa in like: “Can you believe this show made them cry?? Unacceptable.”

Gets you snacks and tells you you’re doing amazing even if your face is puffy.

💜 Jesse

Walks in mid-sob and immediately does the full dramatic gasp.

“Oh no, not my favorite person — who did this to you!?”

When you point at the TV and whisper “they died,” his face drops like you just personally attacked him.

Grabs the remote. Rewinds. Watches the scene in full silence.

“...They did you so dirty.”

Will absolutely cry with you. No shame. Holds your hand, dramatically wipes a single tear from your cheek.

Mutters “he deserved better” for the next week like it’s a prayer.

If you rewatch it, he brings snacks and tissues. Every. Time. This is a ritual now.

💉 Kix

“Whoa whoa whoa—deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth—what happened?”

Immediately goes into soft medic mode. Hand on your shoulder. Crouching to your level.

When he figures out it’s because of a fictional character? He still treats it like a real crisis.

“Grief is grief, cyare. Doesn’t matter if it’s fictional. Your brain doesn’t always know the difference.”

Encourages you to drink water and decompress.

Then watches the whole episode and gives you an emotional damage debrief like, “This arc is textbook betrayal trauma. I’d cry too.”

Offers to “prescribe” ice cream and cuddles.

🐺 Commander Wolffe

Absolutely convinced you’re hurt or sick. Bursts in like: “Who made you cry? Where is he??”

You say “the movie” and he just... blinks.

“...You’re crying because of a movie?”

Cue grumpy but deeply concerned dad energy.

Awkwardly pats your shoulder. Then sighs. Then sits beside you and puts a stiff arm around you like “this is how people do comfort, right?”

Ends up emotionally invested anyway.

“...I knew he was a traitor. You can tell by the way he looks like a smug chakaar.”

Starts lowkey watching the show with you. Pretends it’s for “threat analysis.” (It’s not.)

🖤 Dogma

This man is PANICKED. You’re crying. He doesn’t know why. He thinks it’s his fault.

“Did I say something wrong? Did I mess something up?? Please tell me what I did—”

You manage to say it’s about a TV character, and he just deflates.

“Oh... thank the stars. I mean—no, not that I’m glad you’re crying, but—”

Silently shuffles into the room and brings you water like it’s the only thing he knows how to do.

Ends up very quiet and serious watching the rest with you.

Doesn’t cry, but definitely holds your hand a little too tightly when the next emotional moment hits.

Becomes very invested.

“This show is really well-written. I see why you’re upset.”

💥 Hardcase

You are ugly crying. The TV is still going. He walks in, gasps so loud it’s comedic.

“WHO DO I HAVE TO BLOW UP.”

Genuinely checks the door and window for enemies before you manage to sniffle, “...they killed him...”

"WHAT??? WHO??? Show me, I’ll handle this!!”

You point at the screen. He looks. Frowns.

“Wait. So. Not real?”

Then he watches the scene, starts crying with you even though he has no context.

“They didn’t deserve that!! They were a GOOD DUDE!! I know it in my soul!!”

Has a box of tissues in one hand, your hand in the other, and pure rage in his heart.

Later? He rewatches the whole series from the beginning. Gets unreasonably attached to that character.

“I would’ve died for them. Fr. Fives-tier loyalty. No notes.”

🐝 Tup

Gentleest bean. You’re crying, and he just comes over so softly.

“Hey... oh, sweetheart, are you okay?”

You say it’s the show, and his whole face just melts.

Wraps you up in a hug immediately. Doesn’t question it. Doesn’t laugh. Just warmth and steady heartbeats.

Sits beside you and wipes your cheeks with his sleeve.

Actually cries with you. His empathy is dialed up to a million.

Doesn’t say much. Just sits there with you, hand on your back, letting you be held.

He’s the kind of person who murmurs, “I know... it’s okay to feel it,” and you believe him.

Brings you hot tea and a soft blanket later. Softest king.

🟡 Appo

At first? Confused. You’re sobbing. He short-circuits.

“...Uh. Hey. You dying?”

You manage a “no—TV show—he died,” and Appo is just like: “oh.”

Immediately sits down like a brick.

“Alright. Walk me through it. What happened?”

Watches it in full. Expressionless. Then nods once.

“Yeah that’s messed up.”

Doesn’t cry. Doesn’t say much. But leans in so your head rests on his shoulder and gently puts an arm around you.

Carries you to bed if you fall asleep mid-rewatch.

Pretends he’s not invested. Absolutely is. Secretly furious they killed off your fave.

💛 Bly

Sees you crying. Immediately alarmed.

“Mesh’la? What’s wrong?”

When you say it’s just a sad episode, he immediately switches to comfort mode.

Pulls you into his lap, kisses your temple, and rocks you gently while murmuring,

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweet thing. Let it out.”

Will 100% watch the episode with you and get emotionally WRECKED.

Grabs your hand during the tragic death and squeezes it like he’s the one in battle.

“No. No. Not like this. They were just about to be happy.”

Brings you snacks and tissues, snuggles with you for hours after.

Starts referring to your fave character like they were a mutual friend.

“I miss them too. They were brave.” 😔