#SWAT Season 8 Time

[bollywoodboxoffice]

SWAT Season 8 Release Date, Is It Coming Out? Time, TV Channel

What is the SWAT Season 8 Release Date? SWAT is an American procedural action drama series. This series is based on the 1975 television sereis and the 2003 movie of the same name. This series is created by Aaron Rahsaan Thomas and Shawn Ryan. SWAT sereis was started to premiere on CBS on 2 November 2017 and recently the final and last season of SWAT premiered on CBS on 16 February 2024 at…

[firewasabeast]

Donovan Rocker may not be very smart but he sure is pretty!

[shrimpybbq]

season 4 pt1 with rafe, high school gf and their son!

rafe and high school gf who spread his dad’s ashes together. they’re on rafe’s boat together as he spreads the ashes, her arms wrapped around his waist comfortingly. he wouldn’t want anyone else to be with him for this moment

rafe is pretty content with hiring a babysitter to look after the kids when he wants to spend some time alone with his girl, and when he decides to compete at the enduro, he deems the day kid-free. no one would think the couple had two kids and a house together as they stood together on the beach, her hands brushing tenderly against the nape of rafe’s neck as he sat on his bike.

“You’ve got this baby, you know that? It’ll be a piece of cake,” she said, her voice quiet. This was a moment between the two of them, and no one else needed to hear. Rafe still disliked sharing intimate moments in public brazenly, but he still needed reassurance and love.

He nodded, bringing her closer to him as he placed a quick kiss against her lips. “I’m gonna win this for you, baby.”

rafe absolutely adores when he gets to bring his smokin’ hot wife out with him to the events on figure 8. he loves to let his girl get dressed up and all pretty (for him), knowing she sometimes felt frumpy after looking after their kids all day. they’re at the club when rafe starts yelling at a random girl, enraged by her comment about his dad. his wife now having to drag him away with the help of topper, her hands soothing over his chest to try and distract him. it had been really hard for him since his dad died, and he swore he’d only survived bc of his wife and kids.

the couple are at the club they frequent together when hollis speaks to rafe, who after their conversation was no longer paying attention to the older woman, instead focusing on the girl he suddenly tucked under his arm

“And who is this?”

“This is my wife,” Rafe said with a smirk, his arm wrapping around his girls shoulders, placing a quick kiss to the top of her head. At that, the older woman’s smile dropped minutely, quickly excusing herself.

“Who was she, baby?” His wife asked, watching as Rafe turned the business card over in his hand.

“Uhh.. the biggest realtor/cougar on the island.”

“Oh ok, sounds like just your type, huh?”

“Baby, nonono, why would I want a cougar when I have the hottest milf standing in front of me?”

Rafe shielded himself from her playful swats as she came closer, his arms wrapping around his wife’s frame easily and lifting her off the ground.

“Come on baby, you know you’re the only one I want.”

rafe talks about his business deals with his wife often, her lounging on the pool chair as he vents his frustrations. he felt she was the only person he could tell everything to, and she would provide him with advice and solutions that actually helped, not just telling him what he wanted to hear

their son is resting on the other pool chair, exhausted after playing in the pool for hours with his mother and father, whilst their daughter rested on her mother’s chest, sleeping after being fed

rafe feels all of his frustrations slip away when he’s with his children - their innocence and happiness making him feel much lighter

girl dad rafe! he loves charlie but there’s something about his little girl who looks so much like her mother, who adores him and always outstretches her chubby little fingers towards him, that makes rafe’s heart melt

he spoils his little girl more than he should, buying her all the little dresses and shoes and accessories a baby could ever need

rafe who asks his wife to teach him to braid so he can practice for when she’s older!!!!!

girl dad rafe training charlie to be protective over his sister and make sure he’s always by her side

rafe had been addicted to coke, and while he’d managed to give it up, he had replaced the coke with alcohol. high school gf notices and does her best to reduce his intake, but truthfully, after seeing how difficult is was for rafe to stop the coke, she knew that this was probably the best she would get for a while. still, he doesn’t escape without a raised eyebrow when he goes to get another drink from the fridge

topper who knows never to talk bad about rafe’s girl - EVER. he made that mistake once and lived to regret it, having to lie to his parents that he fell from his bike. topper actually likes her now, and he gave himself the title of uncle topper to the cameron kids

as a husband, rafe is so handsy in public. he doesn’t care what people think about him anymore, so he lets himself squeeze and touch as much as he wants

beach time bby! i feel like honestly, rafe doesn’t like bringing his kids around the drunken kooks. they’re rowdy and rude, and rafe is trying to be better

so instead, he loves to take the family down to their private stretch of beach adjacent to the house, and relax and play with the kids. it’s so peaceful to him, and he truly feels content with his life in those moments. he’s got his hot as shit wife in a little bikini with their daughter tucked in her side, and little charlie is climbing all over rafe as he tries to get his father to throw him in the water again

oh he 100% helps his wife pick out her bikini that day, tying the tie for her, his hands roaming a little too much as she giggles in front of him

she had told him once that she felt insecure after having their children, her body a little different than it used to be. truth be told, rafe loved it. every time he looked at her body naked, fucked her or held her in his arms, he was reminded that she brought their children into the world. she gave him purpose and love

(he also likes that her tits are bigger from breastfeeding and loves to squeeze them whenever he can)

rafe is such a good dad bc he puts everything he has into being there for his children. they’re his entire world and everyone can see it

still, he needs frequent reassurance that he is nothing like the father his dad was, instead, he cares and nurtures his children

rafe discusses his plans to make amends with sarah with his wife, and she gives him strategies to try and talk to her (not that he tends to take them), but she also misses sarah

charlie who still asks for his aunty every now and then, making his mothers heart break. sarah hasn’t even met their daughter yet :(

when he makes the decision to do the deal with hollis, he does it for his family. he wants to look after them, and this deal would do that for them.

but when she hits on him, sensually touching his hand, he makes his priorities clear to the woman as he scoffs, pulling away from her

“I’m married…. And you know that - you even met her. I’m doing this deal for her, and for our family, so….”

rafe has problems but that man is so loyal, he actually couldn’t ever imagine wanting anyone else. he fought so hard and went through so much to keep his high school gf by his side and now he feels that she is the only person in the world who understands him fully. in his mind, it’s them against the world

click here for pre-season 1 rafe, gf & their unborn son

click here for season 1 rafe, gf & their son

click here for season 2 rafe, gf & their son

click here for season 3 rafe, gf & their son

click here for the 18 month gap before season 4 rafe, gf & their son

[wendichester]

Hii!, omg you’re such a talented writer I love your work but I was wondering if I could request something reader x Dean, season 1 episode 8

Where reader is super afraid of the bugs (mostly spiders) and Sam and Dean just tease her for it the whole time.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ creepy crawlies,

summary. bugs are in town and you are not having it! especially with the winchesters teasing the living hell out of you.

pairing. sam winchester x reader x dean winchester

wordcount. 440

notes. the only spider i will tolerate is the friendly neighborhood peter parker and no other!

You shudder as you step over another squashed bug, your stomach twisting. The entire town is a nightmare—infested with bees, cockroaches, spiders, and every other creepy-crawly creature you’d rather not think about. You don’t care if there’s some ancient curse at play; you just want to be anywhere but here.

Dean and Sam walk ahead of you, Sam flipping through his journal while Dean shines a flashlight into the trees. The air is thick and humid, the kind of night that makes your skin itch.

You hug yourself, scanning your surroundings like something’s going to lunge at you. “I swear, if something drops on me, I’m burning this entire place down.”

Dean smirks. “What, afraid of a few bugs?”

“A few?” You shoot him a glare. “Dean, they’re everywhere. And they have too many legs. And they’re gross.”

Sam chuckles, not even looking up from his journal. “Pretty sure they’re more scared of you than you are of them.”

You scoff. “Yeah? Then why do they keep crawling toward me?”

“Because they like you,” Dean teases, grinning. “You’re a real bug magnet, sweetheart.”

“Oh, shut up.” You swat his arm, making him laugh.

Dean shakes his head, clearly enjoying himself way too much at your expense. “C’mon, it’s not that bad. It’s just nature doing its thing.”

“Nature can stay away from me.” You wrap your arms around yourself, hunching your shoulders. “I am not built for this.”

As if the universe wants to make things worse, a spider—a big one—descends from a tree branch right in front of you, dangling by its thread.

You let out an actual scream, stumbling backward so fast that you nearly trip over a root. “Nope! Nope! I’m out. I’m done.”

Dean nearly doubles over laughing, while Sam, the ever-mature one, is biting his lip to keep from cracking up.

Dean wipes a fake tear from his eye. “Oh, that was priceless.”

You glare daggers at him, heart still hammering. “I hope you get bitten by a spider. And it mutates.”

Dean grins, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Aww, you’d miss me if I turned into Spider-Man.”

“Not if you looked like a real spider,” you grumble, shuddering. “I’d squish you with a boot.”

Sam chuckles, shaking his head. “I’d pay to see that.”

Dean tightens his hold on you, still grinning like a damn idiot. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. If any more creepy crawlies come after you, I’ll protect you.”

“Yeah, sure,” you mutter, but despite yourself, you lean into him. Maybe having a big, dumb, obnoxious Winchester around isn’t the worst thing.

But if one more spiders get near you, you’re out.

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[lavnder311]

Forced Proximity

Synopsis: In which the strongest and reader confess their feelings.

Themes: female reader, mutual pining, longing, HEAVY TENSION, some conflict, friends-to-lovers. Fluff, little bit of angst, kinda slow burn. Didn’t proofread but if you find something it’s definitely your eyes or screen 🙏 enjoy !

wc: 3.9k

—————————————————————————

When the news about floods and heavy rain rang through the halls of Jujutsu High, you never expected it to be much of an issue. Matter of fact, you thought it was like every other day during the Tsuyu season. Sighing, you took a look out the window from your classroom, coffee in hand, dreading the moment work is over before you’re drenched in rain.

You weren’t a teacher at Jujutsu High for long, only opting to take up the role since your long time friend and colleague, Gojo Satoru, was gone on missions quite often. When he came back, he was often tired and had discoloration around his eyes from the lack of rest, only for him to continue his work as normal, always putting a smile for his students in class. With you teaching, it gave him that time to rest a little extra before training his students one-on-one.

It wasn’t exactly a decision he agreed to, as he believed it was a burden he- as the strongest- should carry. It took many months before he finally considered your proposal. After all, you’d be safe at Jujutsu High, instead of fighting off curses in who knows where, right?

——————————————————————————

“Oh come on Satoru,” you pleaded, reaching up to his eye level before being stopped by his infinity.

“Promise sweets,” he said with a dramatic sigh, reaching out to ruffle your hair before swiftly and effortlessly dodging your swat at his hand. “I’m fine. I’m the strongest, after all!” He flashed you a grin, his tone both playful and self-assured. He took out some candy from his pocket, popping it into his mouth before putting another right above your lips, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. “C’mon, I know you want it.”

You frustratedly sighed, taking the candy and throwing it in the nearest trash bin. Crossing your arms, you gave him a pointed look as he quickly frowned, furrowing his brows in response. “Satoru, I’m bring serious. You can’t even tell me the last time you had 7-8 hours of rest. Or eaten a proper, nutritious, meal.” Emphasizing the last sentence, knowing he loves his sweets. (Of course the candy- not you. Right?) “Let me do this for you.” You pleaded, shoulders hanging in defeat.

His movements faltered for the slightest second before tilting his head back, humming in thought. “Well, I guess it’d be a nice vacation for you. Safer part of the job, no fighting curses, just keeping me company, aren’t ya?” His smirk all too knowing.

Sighing, you softly shook your head and rolled your eyes before giving him a look of worry. “I just.. I want to look out for you,”

He piped up in interest before swallowing another piece of candy he kept safely hidden. “Looking after the strongest will only get ya so far,” he teased, a smirk playing on his lips. “But why?” He asked, his tone shifting to genuine curiosity.

Now that, you couldn’t- wouldn’t- answer. Your friendship with Satoru was.. complicated. It was like walking a fine line between comfort and tension, one moment full of stolen glances and playful teasing, the next filled with casual flirtations- though, you were never really sure if that was just his way with everyone.

Most of the time, it was just Satoru pretending everything was fine when you knew he needed a break. He never let anyone see how much he carried, always wearing that smile. Most of the time, it was you two sitting atop of Jujutsu High, watching the sunset or laughing at a horror movie with stupid plots. Sometimes it was quiet walks to cafes or his favorite candy shops.

But right now? Now you weren’t sure if you’d ever be able to make a decision. You glanced at him, hesitation in your tongue. Finally, you sighed and muttered, “Because you’re an absolute idiot.”

——————————————————————————

“Attention all still at Jujutsu High,” a voice echoed through halls and classrooms, about 40 minutes after students resigned to their homes or designated rooms. “Weather conditions are not safe. I repeat, weather conditions are not safe. Please stay indoors until further notice.”

The thunder was almost impossible to miss, lightning making its way through the clouds, and heavy rain painting all that is Jujutsu High. Clearly, you weren’t going anywhere.

“Looks like I’m stuck,” you muttered, glaring out the rain-slick window. The storm outside almost seemed theatrical in its ferocity. Each flap of thunder rattled the walls of Jujutsu High, as if the world itself wanted to remind you that you couldn’t go anywhere.

A knock came from your door, an all too familiar one. Raising a brow, you sat up on your desk, crossing one leg over the other. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” A voice chimed in as the door opened. A voice too familiar, too smooth and unmistakably teasing.

You softly smiled seeing him come through the door, noticing he decided to opt into more casual clothing rather than his usual uniform and black blindfold.

“Satoru,” you greeted, your voice steady, though your heart did a little flip at the sight of him. It was almost unfair how effortlessly good he looked, even in casual clothes. A black coat paired with a white shirt underneath and black pants tailored to fit his lengthy figure. His hair, usually spiked and tall, looked softer- almost as though he hadn’t bothered fixing it before coming to see you.

He closed the door behind him with an air on nonchalance, leaning back as he crossed his arms. “Missed me already, sweets?” He teased, his lips curling into a lazy grin.

“You mean in the forty minutes since we last spoke?” You quipped, resting your chin in your hand, playfully grinning at him. “I’m not sure if I could have bared any longer without you.” You teased right back, your tone light but betraying a flicker of something deeper.

Satoru’s grin widened, his ego soaking up the attention as he leaned casually against your desk. “See? I knew you couldn’t resist me. I’m the highlight of everyone’s day as the strongest, after all.”

You rolled your eyes, but the playful glint in his expression made it impossible to look away. “Highlight? More like a recurring inconvenience.”

“Ouch.” He placed a hand over his heart, feigning hurt. “And here I thought we were bonding. Guess I’ll just take my charm elsewhere.”

You chuckled, putting your hands up in defense. “Don’t let me stop you.” You replied, though the words lacked bite. If anything, the thought of him leaving sent a pang of disappointment through you. You quickly masked it with a smirk, hoping you wouldn’t notice.

But Satoru didn’t move. He stayed rooted in his place, his usual easy grin faltering just slightly. His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than it should have, softening in a way that felt almost too intimate. The playful banter that defined so many of your interactions seemed to melt away, leaving something raw and unspoken.

“Actually,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant, “I think I’ll stick around.”

There was a weight to his words, a vulnerability that didn’t match his usual carefree demeanor. His tone lacked the teasing lilt you’d grown so used to, and it caught you off guard.

You glanced up at him, expecting another sly remark, but what you found instead made your chest tighten. His eyes, visible beneath his tinted glasses, were fixed on you- not with his usual amusement, but with a kind of longing he didn’t bother to hide. The storm outside roared, but in the silence between you, it felt like the world had shrunk to just the two of you.

For a second, you thought he might say something else, something you weren’t sure you were ready to hear. But instead, he shifted slightly, running a hand through his hair in what felt like an attempt to break the tension.

“I mean, who else is going to put up with me in a storm like this?” He added, the teasing edge returning to his voice, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You let out a shaky breath, a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, your own emotions swirling just as chaotically as the weather outside. “Lucky me,” you managed, keeping your tone light even as your heart raced.

He smiled faintly, but it wasn’t his usual playful smirk. It was softer, tinged with something you couldn’t quite name. And as he leaned casually against the edge of your desk, the space between you felt charged. Like both of you were waiting for something to happen- a shy confession, a flirt, maybe even something more- something neither of you dared to name.

Thunder shook the walls of Jujutsu High, causing your desk to slightly tremble. The sound echoed in the silence, as if the storm itself was urging something to break.

Suddenly clearing your throat, you forced yourself to look away, breaking the eye contact that held you captive.

“Well!” You quipped, trying to shake off the heaviness in the air. Satoru’s gaze was no longer on you, but rather the rain outside. His features were softened against the dim light, his jaw- that was usually relaxed and quick to smile, tightened for just a moment- barely noticeable if you hadn’t been watching him so closely.

“You’re unusually quiet,” you ventured, your tone light but curious. It wasn’t like him to let silences linger, especially not around you.

He let out a low hum, finally turning his head toward you. “Just thinking sweets,” he said, his voice smoother now, though something about it felt guarded.

“Thinking?” you echoed, raising a brow. “That’s a dangerous pastime for someone like you.”

His lips quirked into a smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Funny,” he murmured, taking a step closer to your desk, his fingers brushing the wood as if testing its solidity—or maybe just grounding himself. “But even I have my moments.”

You tilted your head, studying him carefully. The Satoru you knew was always confident, always teasing, always larger than life. But now, under the weight of the storm, there was something quieter about him, something you weren’t used to seeing.

“Care to share?” you asked softly, folding your arms across your chest.

He hesitated, just for a second, his hand stilling on your desk. His glasses reflected the flicker of lightning outside, masking his eyes, but you could feel the intensity of his gaze all the same.

“Not much to share,” he said finally, though his tone lacked its usual bravado. “Just wondering how many more storms we’ll have to sit through before someone…” He trailed off, his smirk fading into something softer, almost wistful. “…does something about it.”

Your heart stuttered at his words, at the way they felt so much bigger than the weather outside. You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat, drowned out by the thunder that rattled the walls once more.

“Maybe… hypothetically,” you began, your voice softer now, as if testing the waters, “a little push could help. You know, fire things up, I suppose.”

Satoru’s lips quirked into a small smile, but there was something unreadable in his expression, something that made your cheeks burn. “A little push, huh?” he echoed, his tone low and teasing, though there was an edge to it, like he was daring you to say more.

You shrugged, trying to maintain your composure under the weight of his stare. “I mean, sometimes things just… need a spark to get going. Isn’t that what storms are for?”

His fingers drummed lightly against the desk, his gaze never leaving you. “Careful,” he murmured, his voice dipping just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “Playing with fire can be dangerous.”

“Maybe,” you countered, leaning back slightly to put some space between you, though the tension still thrummed in the air. “But isn’t that what makes it exciting?”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the words hanging between you like the crackle of lightning in the storm. His smile faded into something softer, something that felt almost too raw to look at.

“You’re something else, you know that?” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. His words hung in the air for a moment, heavy and unshakable. “The storm.. it wouldn’t be easy.”

His gaze, fixed on you, was softer now, stripped of its usual teasing confidence. It was as if he wasn’t just talking about the weather anymore, and the weight of his unspoken thoughts sent a ripple of unease and anticipation through you.

You swallowed, your heart racing as you tried to decipher the layers behind his words. “No,” you replied quietly, your voice barely steady. “It wouldn’t be easy. But that doesn’t mean it’s not worth facing.”

His lips parted slightly, as though your response had caught him off guard. For once, he didn’t have a quick comeback, no smirk to hide behind. Instead, he shifted, stepping just a little closer, the space between you shrinking with each beat of the thunder outside.

“Sometimes storms destroy everything in their path,” he murmured, his voice so low it was almost lost beneath the rain hammering against the windows. “And sometimes… they make things clearer. Wash it all clean.”

You felt your breath hitch at the rawness in his tone, the vulnerability he rarely allowed to show. “Which one is this?” you asked softly, your voice carrying a hint of challenge but also something more—hope.

He hesitated, his fingers curling into a loose fist as though he were holding himself back. “That depends,” he said finally, his gaze never wavering from yours. “On whether you think it’s worth the risk.”

Every word, every glance, felt like it could tip the fragile balance you were both clinging to. “I do,” you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

And for the briefest of moments, Satoru looked like he might close the distance entirely, the hesitation in his eyes giving way to something fierce, something undeniable.

The storm outside roared, the thunder cracking loud enough to rattle the glass panes, but neither of you flinched. Instead, the silence between you seemed louder, charged with all the things you wanted to say but couldn’t find the courage to voice.

“You’re serious,” he murmured, almost to himself, the faintest edge of disbelief in his tone. His hand moved instinctively, brushing against the desk before retreating, as if he wasn’t sure whether to close the gap between you or hold himself back.

“Would I have said it if I wasn’t?” you countered, your voice steadier than you felt.

His gaze searched yours, his usual cocky exterior stripped away, leaving nothing but raw vulnerability. It was rare to see him like this, rare for him to let the mask slip. And yet, here he was, standing before you as if the storm outside had laid him bare.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” he asked, his voice barely audible, almost swallowed by the rain.

“Get what?” you pressed, your heart hammering in your chest.

He exhaled sharply, his hand running through his hair in frustration. “That I’m not afraid of the storm out there,” he said, nodding toward the rain-soaked window. “I’m afraid of the one in here.” His hand moved, just slightly, as if to gesture to the space between you, the unspoken feelings that hung like static in the air.

“I’ll be busy almost all the time, and the little time I do get, it’s to rest and train my students..” he began, worry filling his eyes. “And where would that leave time for you? For us?”

The confession hit you like a bolt of lightning, sudden and blinding. Your throat tightened as you tried to find the words, but nothing came.

“Satoru…” you started, but the sound of his name on your lips made him flinch, as if it carried too much weight, too much meaning.

He looked away, the flicker of worry in his eyes dimming as if he’d said too much. “It’s not fair to you,” he continued, his voice quieter now, almost drowned out by the rain. “To expect you to be okay with… scraps of my time, with someone who can’t even promise to be around when it matters most.”

Your chest ached at the way his voice cracked on the last word, his usual confidence nowhere to be found. He wasn’t just pushing you away—he was scared. Scared of letting you in, of not being enough.

“Satoru,” you repeated, the sound of his name pulling his gaze back to yours. His expression faltered, the weight of his insecurities etched into every line of his face.

“Don’t,” he murmured, his hand lifting as though to stop you, but he didn’t pull away when you stepped closer.

“You don’t get to decide what’s fair for me,” you said firmly, the words tumbling out before you could second-guess them. “I know what this is—what we are. And I don’t care how busy you are, or how little time you think you have. I care about you, Satoru. Isn’t that enough?”

His eyes widened, his composure slipping further as the tension between you reached a breaking point. The storm outside seemed to echo the chaos in your chest, the thunder roaring like an unspoken promise waiting to be fulfilled.

“You make it sound so simple,” he said, a faint, shaky laugh escaping him. But there was no mistaking the way his shoulders relaxed, the way his hand finally reached out to rest on the edge of your desk, inches from yours.

“Maybe it is,” you replied, your voice steady despite the rapid thrum of your heartbeat. “Maybe you’re the one making it complicated.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, the vulnerability in his eyes giving way to something warmer, something that made your breath catch. His hand shifted, fingers brushing against yours—hesitant, tentative, like he was afraid to cross the line but couldn’t stop himself.

His fingers lingered against yours, warm and tentative, before he finally laced them together. The subtle touch sent a jolt through you, more powerful than any thunder outside. His grip tightened slightly, as though he feared letting go would mean losing something he couldn’t afford to.

“You really think it’s that easy?” he asked, his voice quieter now, yet laced with an edge of disbelief.

“I think you’re worth it,” you said simply, the words carrying more conviction than you thought possible. “I’m not asking for perfect. I’m asking for real—for you. Isn’t that enough?”

He let out a breath he didn’t seem to realize he was holding, his free hand brushing through his hair in a rare display of vulnerability. The usual smirk that would have accompanied your boldness was nowhere to be found. Instead, his lips parted slightly, his brows furrowed, as though trying to comprehend the weight of your words.

“You have no idea what you’re signing up for,” he muttered, shaking his head. But his fingers stayed locked with yours, betraying the battle between his mind and his heart. “It’s messy. I’m messy.”

“Then I guess I’ll learn to handle messy,” you replied without hesitation, stepping closer. The space between you was nearly nonexistent now, the storm outside a mere echo to the one building between you. “You don’t have to do this alone, Satoru.”

His jaw clenched, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. “You’re not making this easy,” he said, his voice wavering.

“Good,” you said, your tone soft but resolute. “Because the things that matter never are.”

For a moment, his expression cracked, his usual cool façade shattering under the intensity of your gaze. His hand let go of the desk and rose slowly, hesitantly, as if unsure of its place. But then his fingers brushed against your cheek, his touch featherlight, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he pressed too hard.

“Why do you have to be so damn stubborn?” he asked, but there was no malice in his words, only a quiet reverence that made your heart skip.

“Because someone has to be,” you whispered, leaning into his touch without thinking.

The silence stretched between you, charged and trembling, until he finally broke it. “You’re going to ruin me,” he said, the faintest hint of a smirk returning to his lips.

“Maybe,” you said, your voice a little breathless. “But isn’t that what makes it exciting?”

And then, before either of you could second-guess it, he closed the distance, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that felt both hesitant and inevitable, like the meeting of two storms destined to collide.

His lips were warm against yours, soft and deliberate, like he was testing the waters of something he had fought against for too long. The world outside seemed to dissolve—the thunder, the rain, even the walls of Jujutsu High—leaving only the two of you in the center of it all.

When he pulled back, it was barely an inch, his forehead resting against yours as his breath mingled with your own. His hand still cradled your cheek, thumb brushing gently along your skin as though grounding himself in the reality of this moment.

“I’m not sure what’s scarier,” he murmured, his voice hoarse with emotion. “The storm outside or how much I don’t want to let you go.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you smiled softly, your hand reaching up to cover his where it rested against your cheek. “Then don’t,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the chaos of feelings threatening to overwhelm you.

He closed his eyes, exhaling deeply as though he was surrendering to something he’d fought for too long. “You make it sound so easy,” he said, the corners of his lips twitching into the faintest smile.

“It doesn’t have to be hard,” you replied, letting your fingers trail down to intertwine with his again. “We’ll figure it out—together. Like we always have.”

The vulnerability in his eyes was replaced by something lighter, something hopeful, and it made your chest tighten. For once, Satoru Gojo—the strongest sorcerer you knew—looked like a man who believed he could rely on someone else.

“Together,” he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue like a promise.

The sound of thunder rumbled again, but this time it felt distant, less intrusive. Satoru straightened, his hand slipping from your face but staying firmly locked with yours.

“Well, we’ve already survived one storm,” he said, his usual teasing tone creeping back as he gestured to the window. “What’s a few more, right?”

You chuckled, shaking your head at him. “Always so dramatic.”

His grin widened, though it didn’t quite mask the sincerity lingering in his eyes. “You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. “Unfortunately, I wouldn’t.”

The two of you stood there for a moment longer, the storm outside gradually fading into a softer rhythm. It wasn’t a resolution to everything—there were still obstacles ahead, uncertainties and fears to navigate—but it felt like the beginning of something real.

Satoru squeezed your hand, pulling you toward the door with a newfound ease in his step. “Come on,” he said, flashing you a playful smirk. “Let’s see if we can find something to eat before the next storm rolls in. And maybe you can tell me how you plan to ‘handle messy.’”

You laughed, letting him lead the way. “Oh, you’ll see.”

And as the two of you walked down the hall, hand in hand, you couldn’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe, the storms were worth it after all.

——————————————————————————

Ugh it’s been so long since I’ve written and I’ve been so invested with my job. Anyways, here’s this piece for Gojo! 🩷

[violetflowerswrites]

Taking it Slow

Summary: An unexpected explosion severely injures you, and Jim Street, your LAPD SWAT roommate, comes to your rescue. The life and death situation makes you reevaluate the status of your “just casually dating” relationship.

Pairing: Jim Street x (Female) Reader

Disclaimer: Cannon violence and danger. Mentions of fire, explosions, and bombs. Location is an elementary school, mentions of danger to minors, but reader is the only one injured. Gruesome descriptions of bodily injury and blood. Some angst and mentions of divorce. BUT ALSO consensual kissing and touching. The smut in this is absolutely filthy as usual. Oral sex (female receiving). Consensual P in V sex. Street has a big cock. 18+ for explicit smut, violence, and language

Word Count: 4.5k

A/N: I finally got around to watching more SWAT after taking a break from crime dramas and I gotta say, Season 4 has been SO good. The commentary on our Covid and post-Covid society especially with race and Black Lives Matter is so thoughtfully done. I was re-inspired to make a part 2 of my Jim Street fic from back in July 2022! This fic can be standalone but it is technically a continuation from “Too Complicated.” Enjoy!

Part One Here - “Too Complicated”

Part Three Here - “I’ll Be Here”

Masterlist Here

…

“All Units please respond, bomb at Harriet Tubman Elementary, repeat bomb and fire at Tubman Elementary.”

The police scanner radio squawks to life in the leather-scented interior of Sergeant Daniel “Hondo” Harrelson’s sliver Dodge Charger.

Hondo locks eyes with Jim Street, LAPD SWAT. His expression falls immediately, drawn and serious.

A school bombing?

Not on their watch.

”20 David, Sergeant Harrelson responding. Let’s roll!”

…

Your pink highlighter squeaks across the tiny Times New Roman text of each signature line on the paperwork you’re preparing.

A tightness in your neck forces you to pause and lean your head to the side, trying to release the tension in your body.

It’s another tough case. The student was expelled out of a previous school due to repeated fighting. His current teacher is young and inexperienced, and the counselor is definitely overwhelmed. You were called in to take over his case and then recommend him to a therapist, a behaviorist, a specialist, someone before he was expelled again.

Who knew that an 8 year old could wreak so much havoc at a school?

You glance out the window of the 2nd floor classroom, watching the poor kid get into a screaming match with a yard duty. The bright red digital display of the classroom clock shows 9:00 am in blinking lights that seem to say…

tick

tock

It’s

only

9

freakin

AM

on a Monday.

But, no one could have predicted what would happen in the next ten seconds.

One

A thunderous boom echoes across the playground, so loud that all the kids freeze, balls dropped and forgotten.

Two

Thousands of shards of shattered glass fly through the air as the school building collapses into itself from the roof downwards.

Three

The ear-splitting screech of the fire alarm forces everyone to cover their ears, eyes squeezed shut.

Four

Smoke rises in thick gray plumes into the sky, followed by bright orange flames.

Five

The stampede of three hundred little feet shakes the earth as panicked children run towards the grass field, away from their burning school.

Six

Bewildered shouts across the blacktop try to account for all the children, staff members still running out of the smoke.

Seven

Wide-eyed stares fill with tears as it dawns on the kids what had happened.

Eight

A dozen simultaneous calls to 911, all trying to be heard over the crying, screams, and shouts.

Nine

A terrifying pop pop pop makes everyone flinch and duck for cover, as the heat from the fire breaks even more windows. But it could have been gunshots. Everyone doesn’t dare to move.

Ten

After those ten, chaotic seconds, you finally open your dust-filled eyes, ears ringing, sounds muffled as if you were underwater, and your dazed mind takes several agonizing seconds to comprehend the scene around you.

Fallen desks and books scattered haphazardly across the classroom.

Shattered glass reflecting the flickering flames of a fire somewhere above you.

Looking up, a gaping hole in the ceiling leading to a smoke-stained blue sky.

The incessant blaring of the fire alarm doesn’t help your clearly concussed head make sense of it all.

You deduce that there had been some kind of accident. An explosion maybe.

And that caused an industrial AC unit to collapse through the ceiling, knock you out of your chair, and pin one of your legs from the waist down.

And now, an alarming pool of blood was starting to seep from under the crumpled gray metal.

Even more alarming, you couldn’t feel a thing underneath the crushing weight.

“Oh. I’m dying.” You huff out loud, your logical deduction giving way into dark humor.

You twist your neck around, the soreness long forgotten, and try to find something, anything, to help yourself survive.

You grab your cardigan, covered in drywall dust, and slip it under your upper thigh, tying the sleeves together as tight as it could possibly go. The makeshift tourniquet immediately soaks up your blood, turning the cream-colored yarn into a horrific deep red.

Bile rises in your throat as panic sets in, but you push it down, desperate to get out of this.

You look down, realizing that your phone fell out of the pocket of your jacket when you grabbed it. The screen is cracked, but usable.

Without hesitating, you press a number on your phone and it starts to ring. There’s only one person in the world you want to talk to before you lose consciousness. Maybe forever.

…

“Street! What do you think you’re doing?”

“What? You’ve never played in one of these as a kid?”

You’re out on another casual date with Jim Street, LAPD SWAT. Also known as your impulsive, annoying, immature, and absolutely adorable roommate.

That you had accidentally-on-purpose kissed one drunken night. Which led to much more…for several hours.

And now, the two of you went out most every weekend, casually dating, but not trying to label it…yet.

“Come on, Y/N! It’ll be fun!”

Street ducks into an arcade, which immediately deafens you with a cacophony of beeps and honks, electronic character voices, and techno dance music. It’s an overstimulating nightmare so you focus on the leather-clad back of Street, who is leading you deeper into the room.

A couple of surly teens throw judgemental side eyes at the two of you, grown-ass adults screaming and shouting at basketball, skew-ball, and claw machines.

You clutch a small blue plushie, from Lilo and Stitch, courtesy of Street’s claw machine skills, as he whoops upon seeing another game, his childhood favorite.

“Yes! We have to play this next!” Street grins at you from ear to ear.

You hesitate for a split second, but shake your head, chuckling, “Okay NASCAR, wait for me!”

You tease him, knowing that Street’s name is all too fitting, his long history of all things on wheels that can go faster than 100 miles per hour is well known.

You sit behind the plastic wheel of the racing game as Street quickly punches in a couple quarters.

“Think you can keep up?” Street teases you immediately.

“Mhm.” You reply, your face dead serious, all traces of amusement long gone.

Street takes in your expression and furrows his brow.

“Oh shit!” He exclaims as you leave him in the dust, your digital car screeching as the wheels fight against the tight turns.

You’re silent, the only sounds are the quiet clicking of your foot pressing on the fake gas pedals of the game.

Your car peels around the track, going into the final lap, with a 3 second lead on Street.

“Oh my god, are you seriously drifting?” Street shouts in frustration, watching your vehicle slide sideways against the last tight turn and across the finish line with a flourish.

He smacks the wheel and laughs.

“That was crazy, Y/N. I didn’t expect you to be so good! I thought you said you didn’t really go to arcades growing up.”

“Can we go home?” You grab your jacket from the armrest of the racing game chair, turning away from Street.

“Uhh…yeah sure.” Street says slowly, confused.

You walk quickly out of the arcade, a mix of frustration, shame, and sadness filling you.

Hands clench into fists at your sides as you suck in a shaky breath, trying to steady your whirlwind of emotion.

Street half-jogs to catch up with you, calling your name. He reaches out a hand to grab your wrist, but the instant he makes contact you snatch your arm back abruptly.

“Don’t touch me!” You snap, more harshly than you intended.

Street’s face flashes confusion, hurt, and a bit of anger all at once. You see him stifle the urge to snap back at you, and instead, he shoves his hands into his pockets, his shoulders slumped down and he quietly pleads with you instead.

“Talk to me, Y/N. Don’t keep it in again.”

You know you’re acting like an asshole and ruining the date. Street surprised you with being the mature one in this situation while you’re the one taking out your emotions on him.

So you slowly reach out to take one of his hands in both of yours. It’s warm, heavy, and sure in your grasp, a reassuring anchor. You clutch his hand close to your chest and duck your head down, unable to make eye contact.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Just tell me what’s going on. Please?”

“It’s just—I’m not used to opening up like this.”

“I know. We’re learning how to, with each other.” Street slips his free hand under your chin, lifting your head up to kiss you affectionately on the cheek.

“Take your time.”

You sigh into his touch, releasing some of the tightness in your chest.

“Can we get ice cream first?”

…

Over a double scoop of cookies and cream, you confide in Street more of your life story.

How there was a period of time in middle school where you used to spend hours at the arcade after school to avoid going home.

Your parents were fighting constantly and you just couldn’t take all the screaming. Your older sister was in high school and worked part time, so she would drop you off with a handful of quarters and get you after.

For some reason, that racing game became your focus, your obsession. You channeled all your frustration, all your hurt, all your pain into that game.

It was your escape.

“It feels silly to freak out now. It’s been well over a decade since I’ve played that game.” You mumble into your ice cream.

“It’s not silly,” Street reassures you, “It’s a painful part of your life.”

You scrunch up your nose and murmur in agreement, not really wanting to think about it anymore. You take another lick of your ice cream, accidentally getting some on your cheek.

Street reaches out with a finger to wipe the smudge of the sticky treat off your face and instead of cleaning his hands on a napkin, he decides to lick it off instead.

You raise your eyebrows in surprise, the gesture unexpectedly sexy, but Street just chuckles.

“What? You taste good.”

…

You clutch Street by the collar of his leather jacket, slamming his broad back against the apartment door.

He drops the keys with a clatter, slides a free hand up to lock the door before gripping the back of your neck roughly, returning your desperate kiss.

“Y/N. Are you sure?” He releases your lips with a pant, pressing his forehead to yours and checking in with you.

Consent is so sexy, especially coming from him. Your previous boyfriends always took what they wanted, when they wanted, and you thought that’s how sex had to be.

It was only after being with Street that you realized how gentle, how considerate, and how trustworthy someone could be during sex.

Street treated you with respect, with reverence. He took his time to worship your body.

You were his queen, his goddess, and even if he didn’t say as much in words, he sure as hell showed it with his actions.

So yes.

You were fucking sure you wanted him.

You pulled off your clothes as you walked ahead of him towards your room, dropping fabric across the hallway on your way there.

Street followed quickly, stopping at the foot of your bed with his jeans still on. His chest visibly flushed red as he stared in wonder at your naked form. And he half-laughed, half-groaned out loud.

How did you manage to get your clothes off so quickly and look so damn delicious on the bed for him?

He grabs both of your ankles and drags you down, lifting them up above his shoulders so he can taste you.

You lean back on both elbows, your hair splayed across the sheets as you tip your head back in delight.

“Oh shit, that feels so good.” You breathe out, a moan slipping through your lips.

“Mmm, I can tell.” Street smiles into your pussy as he licks long strips up your core. He finds your clit within a few moments, and starts alternating sucking and licking the sensitive nub.

Your thighs start shaking as the stimulation shoots down your legs.

Street’s chin grows slick as your arousal throbs out of your core, but he simply holds down your thighs with his strong grip, and dives his tongue into your center even more.

It’s only when you spasm particularly hard, almost kicking him in the head that he finally releases you, chuckling as he swipes a thumb across his lips, wiping off some of your juices.

Your body is still twitching, your nerve endings shooting electricity from your core all the way down to your toes and you throw an arm back across your forehead, trying to recover.

“Come on, you can’t be done yet…” Street teases.

“Absolutely not.” You laugh out in a huff, “j-just…give me a minute.”

“Nah.”

Street lifts your legs again, this time crossing them behind his hips, so that he can line himself up to your entrance.

He pushes in slowly, but just the round head of his cock stretches your pussy to the point that you have to grab his arms and stop him.

“Hold on, Jim.”

Street freezes. You only call him by his first name when you’re being serious or something’s wrong.

He pulls out immediately and lifts you up into a sitting position. He immediately grabs your face in his hands, searching your eyes for pain.

“I’m so sorry, did I hurt you? We can stop— I didn’t mean to—“

You grip his wrists and gently remove them from your cheeks. Instead, you press a gentle kiss to his lips, your gaze at him soft and reassuring.

“I’m okay. Let’s try a different position.”

“Are you sure?”

You turn around, holding up your weight on your hands and knees, and spreading your hips back. You flip your hair over your shoulder and glance back at him with a smirk.

“You haven’t made me cum yet, have you?”

Slowly, Street’s concerned look spreads into a smile.

“No, I haven’t.”

“So fuck me.”

Street holds his cock steady while you carefully push back against him, controlling the pace.

When you’ve fully taken him in, now adjusted to his size, Street still hesitates.

“It’s okay. I’m ready now.” You brace yourself.

“Be as rough as you want.”

A sound akin to a growl escapes from the man who is balls deep in your pussy.

He places a bruising grip on your right shoulder and left hip, and slams you back, knocking the wind out of your lungs.

He does that again and again - pulling out almost all the way before slamming your body back against him almost violently.

“Oh fuck!” You yelp each time, your pussy throbbing around him.

Street then pushes your neck down, and you fist the sheets in your hands as you press into the bed, your ass in the air as he thrusts into you relentlessly.

You can hear your bottom smacking against his strong abs, as he swings his hips into you over and over.

And that cock, his huge, delicious cock, spears your pussy in just the right place every time.

“Oh my god, Street. That feels so good!” Your muffled voice can barely be heard over his grunting. God, you love it when men are loud during sex.

Before you know it, you’re close. Street must be too because he snakes a firm arm around your tummy and lifts you up, holding you tightly to his chest. Your core is still clenched in a vice grip around his member as he thrusts upward into your pussy.

“Street! Oh wow! You’re so big!” You praise him, feeling his cock hitting your cervix from his position.

“Yeah? You like it when my cock hits your pussy. Just. like. that?” Street punctuates his question with a hard bounce into you.

“Mmph!” You moan, and you grab his arm, still trapping you against his sweat-slicked body.

“Street,” you pant.

“Yeah?”

“Go faster.”

With a guttural groan, Street grabs the flesh around your hips and drills up into you. His cock drives in and out at a speed that could only be described as mechanical, a piston that pumps as deep as it could possibly go before pulling out and slamming back in as far as it can go.

You fall onto the bed again, unable to do anything but hold on far dear life as Street rails you like a rag doll.

Within seconds, you feel that familiar tingle spread from your core to your entire body, washing over you in waves of pleasure.

“Oh god— I’m cumming!” You scream, gasping for air.

You are answered with a growl as Street collapses on top of you, cumming inside your throbbing core, your pussy milking every last drop from his twitching cock.

Fuck, that was incredible.

After a few moments, you crawl out from under him, and stand up to head to the shower. He leans up on an elbow, watching you with a blissed-out smile. You tie your hair up into a messy bun, the simple action somehow sensual as hell as he sees your bare shoulder blades squeeze together as you reach up to your head.

You turn, catching him admiring you.

“What?” You ask, totally unaware.

“You’re beautiful.”

Your already hot skin somehow flushes even hotter at his words. You have a love-hate relationship with Street’s compliments.

So you just lean down and peck his cheek with kiss-puffed lips.

“Go to bed. We both have work tomorrow.” You whisper before pushing him back onto the mattress, shaking your head in laughter.

…

Your current reality is a universe away from yesterday’s date night with Jim Street.

You stare at his name on the phone, willing him to pick up.

“Y/N?”

Before you can explain to him, you hear the police radio in his car announce your school site and the bombing.

“Jim. I’m there.”

Street is speechless, the dots connecting with several torturous seconds as his worst fears become true.

One

You had told him that morning that you weren’t going into the office, but visiting a school today.

Two

You never call him, preferring to text. If it’s a call, something must be urgent.

Three

You almost never call him by his first name.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Hondo responds to the radio but Street barely hears it as he shouts into the phone.

“What happened? Are you okay?”

“There’s been an explosion. A bomb? An AC unit fell through the roof. I’m trapped on the second floor.”

“Are you hurt?” Street repeats his question, desperation seeping into his tone.

Somehow you hesitate to tell him. So instead, you switch to video call and show him your leg.

Street’s eyes widen in horror as he sees the bloodied, crushed flesh.

Hondo glances at Street’s phone, his siren already screaming down the streets of LA.

“We’re coming.”

…

“You can’t keep me here, Hondo! Y/N is hurt, I have to get to her!”

“Street, you’re compromised. You’re gonna take risks and I can’t have you do that, not when there are kids here who need your head straight.”

Another sudden crash makes both men instinctually duck for cover. They had just arrived into a horror scene, with a blazing fire, fire trucks dousing the building with water, police holding back hysterical parents, ambulances treating kids and staff for smoke inhalation, and a soot-smeared principal talking to the fire marshal.

Hondo makes a beeline for her, Street on his heels.

“Sergeant Harrelson, LAPD SWAT. Is everyone accounted for?”

“Yes, all the kids and staff, but we’re missing one visitor, a social worker.”

Street chokes your name out, to which the principal nods, confirming that it’s you.

Meanwhile you breathe out a sigh of relief.

“Thank god everyone is safe.” You remark weakly, still on the phone, hearing their entire conversation.

Street is astonished you can think about others but his train of thought is interrupted when Chris in his comms crackles to life.

“There! I got eyes on the bomber! He’s on the roof, east side!”

“We have to go!” Street yells desperately.

“Okay.” Hondo huffs out, making a split second decision.

“Tan, go with Street and get Y/N out. Weapons hot, masks on, the bomber might run into the building. Deacon, you’re with me, let’s trap this rat.”

Street wastes no time running inside the smoke-filled building, his flashlight barely penetrating the ash and dust as he finds the stairs and runs up, Tan covering his back, sweeping his gun back and forth just in case the bomber decides to come their way.

“I’m coming, Y/N. Ten seconds out.” Street speaks into his comms, and his phone, for your benefit too.

But he doesn’t hear a reply.

“Shit!” Street curses. “She was losing a lot of blood, she’s not responding!”

Tan makes a game plan immediately as they keep running.

“I got the AC unit, you start CPR!” Tan shouts.

They skid to a stop at the destroyed classroom, and Street’s heart almost stops at the scene.

Your limp body, lying in a pool of dark blood, trapped under a giant hunk of metal, your phone still clutched in one hand.

Street kneels next to you, his own heartbeat reverberating loudly in his ears.

Thu-thump

He presses his fingers to your neck, feeling for a pulse while leaning down, trying to feel your breath on his face.

Thu-thump

Nothing. He immediately rips his smoke mask off his face and breathes into your mouth.

Once. Twice.

Thu-thump

He braces his hands against your chest and pushes down forcefully, starting CPR compressions.

Thu-thump

With a grating screech of metal, Tan manages to tip the AC unit off of you, revealing your upper thigh soaked in blood and your leg clearly broken in at least two parts.

Thu-thump

Street barely glances down to look, focusing on bringing you back to life. He feels for a pulse again, finally feeling a weak heartbeat, but a heartbeat nonetheless.

“She’s stable! Let’s get out of here!” Street shouts, throwing his smoke mask back on, and another for you.

Tan has already tied your leg down into two splints, one for your thigh, and another for your calf and ankle.

“Ready!” Tan replies in a voice muffled by his smoke mask, wiping his blood soaked hands on his tactical pants and gripping his gun again.

Street lifts you up, carefully draping your injured leg over his forearm, and cradling your concussed head gently against his shoulder.

He flies down the steps, Tan covering his back.

“This is 25-David, Y/N is secured, coming out of the school now.” Tan communicates to the team.

The moment they step out onto the front lawn of the school, their comms crackle again.

“Don’t do it man, don’t!” Hondo yells out. He must have found the bomber.

“Second bomb!” Chris warns, just as another explosion on the far side of the school collapses the roof completely, burying the spot where you were just trapped, and taking the bomber along with it.

“Hondo! Deacon! Chris!” Tan shouts into comms. The two of them shield you from the debris, holding their breath as they wait for a reply.

After a few moments, they hear Hondo coughing into the radio.

“20-David. We’re okay, we’re coming down.”

Street and Tan breathe a sigh of relief, as the EMTs run up to the three of you, carefully putting you on a stretcher.

Streets hurries alongside them, and jumps up into the back of the ambulance, glancing back at Tan.

“Go!” Tan shouts at him. “I got it covered.”

The last thing Street sees as the doors close is Tan standing with his back illuminated by a school on fire, his hands hanging at his sides, bright red with your blood.

…

Bzzt Bzzt Bzzt !

Vision blurry, it takes a few seconds for your eyes to focus and notice the late afternoon sun streaming through plastic blinds in a white-washed room.

A hospital room. That’s right, you were injured in an explosion at the elementary school, and your leg…

You looked down to see a full cast, from thigh to ankle, keeping your leg locked straight. A thin, polyester blanket covers the rest of your body.

Bzzt Bzzt Bzzt !

The insistent vibrating of a phone turns your attention to where a sleeping Jim Street, still in full SWAT gear, rests his head on his folded arms in the empty space on your bedside. One of his hands holds yours gently, even as he dozes.

You slip your hand out from his warm grip and brush his hair back, still flecked with a bit of ash and dust from the rescue mission.

Your gaze softens as you look at his peaceful face. You must have worried him so much with the accident.

Bzzt Bzzt Bzzt !

You see his phone lying on the table and you can just make out what it says.

5 missed calls from Hondo. 2 texts from Chris and Tan saying he missed the debriefing.

And currently, Commander Hicks is ringing, ready to ream his ass for being irresponsible, you’re sure of it.

“Street.” Your voice cracks. Clearing your throat, you try again, louder this time.

“Street!” You shake his shoulder insistently.

He shoots up, awake in an instant. “Y/N! You’re up!”

His eyes dart over your face, checking for any signs of pain.

“You’re in trouble.”

Street takes one look at his phone and mutters “Shit.” Without thinking, he presses a kiss to your clammy forehead and ducks out the door, phone pressed to his ear.

You bring a tentative hand up to your forehead, a lot dazed and a little shocked. The two of you haven’t really discussed the nature of your relationship after that weekend of crazy sex, trying to take it slow.

But it’s not every day that you get gruesomely injured and your hot as fuck roommate rescues you from near death.

As you hear Street’s muffled apologies outside of your hospital room, fuzzy memories start coming back to you.

White letters of a SWAT vest hovering over you as firm hands push down on your weakening heart.

Strong arms holding you up as you feel yourself being carried down a flight of stairs at a ridiculous speed.

The smell of smoke, and the unmistakable smell of Jim Street as he cradles your head into his chest, keeping you safe.

A warm hand never letting go of yours as sirens squeal in the ambulance, your consciousness fading in and out.

A reassuring voice, his voice, telling you that you’re alright, that you're safe.

“I got you, Y/N. I’m right here.”

Fuck taking it slow.

You’re not a girl who normally falls in love with a man in an uniform but damn. You sure as hell get it now.

The door opens with a quiet click and Jim Street steps back inside.

“Hey—“

“I love you.” It comes out a little louder than a whisper. ”I love you, Jim.”

Street's words die in his throat as his eyes widen. He crosses over to you in two strides and simply lifts up your chin so that he can press a kiss to your lips.

A desperate, urgent, love-filled kiss that says just how scared, just how terrified he was to lose you.

And just how much he loves you too.

….

[boy-cow000]

Drained

Spencer x Gn!Reader

Warnings: Mostly Fluff, Mention of a case, Spencer feeling rough

Summary: After a particularly long case Spencer happens to lock himself out of his apartment. In need of help, he stumbles into the home of the only non-bau friend he has left. However, he finds himself much more comfortable with you than he originally thought.

Word Count: about 890

A/N: Pretty short blurb because I’ve been dying to write again but I’ve been too lazy to rub my two brain cells together and produce something :,D btw IDK what season this is in so use your imagination

_______________________________________

Spencer couldn't be more thankful for his job. Knowing the lives he saved and the people he helped was enough to get him through most of the especially rough cases. However, this most recent one had been particularly troubling. The random small American town they had been flown to was not known for their technological advancements, to say the least, and the lack of documentation had made Garcia's job almost impossible. On top of that, the intrusive and misguided opinion of the head chief of police had completely skewed the case in the wrong direction. Needless to say, Spencer was rightfully exhausted, along with the rest of the members of the BAU.

After landing and leaving the jet, he told himself that all he had to do was head home so he could finally sleep. Truth be told, it wasn’t even that late; the plane had landed around 8:20 PM. Yet, sleep was the only thing on Spencer's mind after that 48-hour case.

It took him some time to get home, but at this point, nothing but the sweet relief of his bed mattered. Except, much to his dismay, he seemed to have a little trouble finding his keys. Unfortunately for him, that “little trouble” turned into a full-blown panic very quickly. Spencer tried to remember where he had put it. Mentally swatting away the thick fog laying over his mind, he let his head smack against his front door in defeat when he realized that his keys were left on the jet. Calculating his options, it became apparent there weren’t many. His coworkers were probably already sleeping, and it's not like Spencer had a history of having an extensive list of friends. Well, except you, that is. Spencer didn’t feel like paying upwards of 65 to 120 dollars for some locksmith to come in the middle of the night, so you were starting to seem like the best option. Knowing you didn’t live far away, he grabbed his things and started to text you. On the drive over, he began feeling a little nervous. He wondered if the reason you weren’t answering was because you were asleep and if he was going to bother you.

Upon arriving, he felt at ease seeing the lights in your apartment on. He fumbled with his bags but managed to get to your front door without dropping anything. He was so tired. Blinded by the light of the inside of your apartment, he resorted to a curt “hi” once you opened the door. You let him in a bit panicked; to be frank, you didn't know why he had suddenly asked you if you could crash. You were still happy to see him, however.

After explaining the situation, you let out a sigh, knowing nothing serious had happened. You told him to make himself at home while you figured out where your extra covers were. He took off his shoes and sat himself on your couch, awaiting further instruction.

When you came back, you saw Spencer, palming the socket of his eyes. Your heart stopped for a second, worry took over, and you wondered if maybe the case was weighing on him more than he’d like to admit. You rushed over.

“ Spence! Are you okay?” You laid the covers on the edge of the couch and rested a hand on Spencer's shoulder.

Spencer peeked into your eyes for what seemed like forever—a breathless moment between his answers. You felt your heart form a lump in your throat; your cheeks flushed, and you suddenly felt guilty. What if Spencer was actually doing terrible and you couldn’t help him because you were too busy wrestling with the effect he had on you? Eventually, you broke the intense eye contact, and Spencer sighed in return.

”I’m fine, really. It’s just… I was exhausted a minute ago, and now”

”Not so much.” You finished his sentence for him. He let out a light chuckle and bumped shoulders with you. He must’ve been delirious, because you couldn’t think of another reason why he would’ve been comfortable enough for all that physical contact. Your torso stiffened, and while still trying to calm yourself down, he let his head roll onto your shoulder and nudge itself into your neck. Spencer was going to kill you if he kept this up.

Spencer snaked his arms around you, entrapping you and making you fall back into the couch a little. You grabbed his opposite shoulder, hoping to lay him back, but his head bobbled a little lower, and it was clear he was no longer awake. Spencer kept snuggling, and it was making it increasingly harder to get yourself out of his grasp. An incoherent thank you left his lips before he fully fell asleep. So you sat there, absolutely surrounded by Spencer. Glaring at his slumbering state. Overtly aware of his faint sent, of his hair brushing against your face, of his slowed breath on your neck, of his hand grasping your waist, of him.

Your own exhaustion was catching up to you at an alarming pace. Despite your brain and dignity screaming at you not to fall asleep in his arms, your thoughts were starting to blur. Eventually, you fell asleep, caged in, breathing to the sound of his heartbeat. With that, tomorrow promised itself to be interesting.

[forestclan-clangen]

MOON 8 (Part 2)

<< FIRST | < PREVIOUS |

Hopechase notices that Morningpaw was acting off ever since Tree was invited back to camp. She flags down Barleywave, her mentor. After a lot of pestering, Barleywave agrees to try and talk to her. Hopechase appreciates his effort.

(Hopechase, warrior, female, 90 moons) (Barleywave, warrior, male, 37 moons) (Morningpaw, apprentice, female, 10 moons)

Morningpaw confesses to Barleywave that she's scared of living in the Woods, she's scared of being sacrificed and doesn't want to feed them. Barleywave doesn't know what to say. Desperate, he thinks, "What would Hopechase do?" He gets into a play bow and starts poking and prodding until Morningpaw starts laugh-sobbing, swatting back at her mentor until her pain dulls, becoming bittersweet.

(Barleywave, warrior, male, 37 moons) (Morningpaw, apprentice, female, 10 moons)

---

Barleywave was way out of his depth.

StarClan, why was Hopechase good at bullying you into being a better cat? He was awful. This was awful. He wasn't good with feelings, and even less with being vulnerable about them. He either laughed away his suffering or buried it down in a dirtplace never to be spoken of again. Barleywave, your apprentice is feeling down, Barleywave, go talk to your apprentice, be there for them! Yes. Easy. Definitely, perfectly easy and normal. He was an adult. Feelings were normal. He could talk...about....

Nope, still nauseous.

Barleywave took a deep breath as he approached the entrance to the apprentice's den. He stopped and sat down, briefly taking a moment to admire the outside of it. Talonpaw and Morningpaw had grown attached to the frames they made for the Plentiful Gathering, hanging them outside to show off their work. He remembered how proud they were. They were happy.

And now, Morningpaw wasn't. Hadn't been for a while. And it was his responsibility to fix it.

Come on, Barley. It's just a training patrol. You're just bringing Morningpaw out of camp and hoping to talk. It's not hard, he mentally berated himself. If only it were that easy.

He took a deep breath. If he kept overthinking it, he'd be waiting at the den entrance forever. Forcing his paws forward, he ducked his head inside.

"Hey, Morningpaw?" He asked.

A light brown and white bundle at the back of the den lifted its head up suddenly. "Yeah?"

"Uh, hi. Would you - actually wait, first of all, good morning," Barleywave stumbled on his words. Well, at least he caught himself.

"...But it's sunhigh?" Morningpaw meowed.

Mouse dung.

"Er - right. Apologies. But uh, I was wondering if you'd like to join me for a spot of training? Could exercise those reflexes?" He said with a grin.

Morningpaw didn't seem enthused, but she dragged herself out from her bedding and stretched briefly. "Okay."

Barleywave gestured out the door, allowing Morningpaw to pad out first before following behind her. He noticed his apprentice's sluggish movement and drooping tail. His ears flattened briefly with concern before perking up again. "Alrighty, let's head out. Hey Redstar!" Barleywave called out across camp.

Redstar was having a conversation with Windfur. She seemed to be in a tense mood as she turned to look at Barleywave. Her blue eyes were glazed with boiling anger.

Dear StarClan, was everyone having the jitters this moon?

"I'm taking Morningpaw out training at the clearing!"

Redstar nodded and dismissed him with a wave of her tail before resuming her strained conversation with Windfur. Barleywave was glad that Redstar wasn't talking to him right now. He beckoned Morningpaw to follow him, and his apprentice complied without protest.

The forest had grown colder, and the trees had been stripped bare of their colorful leaves by this point in the season. It was always a dull time between leaf-fall and leafbare - too warm for rain to turn to snow, but too cold to enjoy much of anything. Barleywave's dark grey fur bristled out under the wind. 

"Brr," he chattered as he shook himself out. "Pretty cold out, huh?"

Morningpaw didn't respond. Barleywave stopped and turned his head, only to feel his apprentice bump into him.

"Oof - sorry!" Morningpaw squeaked as she scrambled backwards. Her amber eyes were nailed to her paws, and she repeated more quietly, "I'm sorry."

"Hey, no worries." Barleywave felt his chest tighten. Morningpaw was always a bit of a jumpy cat, but he realized that Hopechase was right - she was acting off. By this point, Morningpaw would've launched herself into an endless string of apologies, meeting his gaze with wide, pleading eyes. The fact that she refused to even look at him made him nervous.

Barleywave stopped for a second, lifting his tail to let her know. Morningpaw sat down wordlessly.

The warrior glanced around him, his hazel eyes wide with surprise. Wait, was he doing this now? Well, they weren't at the clearing, but they were far enough from camp. No suspicious plants or bushes, he couldn't smell anything. He guessed this was fine?

Barleywave sat down and faced his apprentice with a nervous expression. How…okay, how was he going to break this subject? How does one ask if someone's doing okay without pressing them? Did - no, SHOULD he press her? He was her mentor. Did he phrase it like a leader? Morningpaw, you must tell me - no, no, that was too pushy. She didn't have to. Yo, Morningpaw, I think - no, wait, who was he? Talonpaw? Well, maybe if -

Morningpaw had torn her gaze from the ground to glance up at her mentor. "...Barleywave?" 

"You good?" he blurted.

Fox-dung.

Silence fell on them like an eagle dropping dead into camp. Barleywave held his breath as he waited for Morningpaw's answer, and the longer she waited, the more anxious he became.

Morningpaw's amber eyes finally wavered with an unknown feeling. "You…you don't have to ask. It's okay."

"What?" he blurted. The air released from his chest and was replaced with jumbled words. "No, no, I'm - come on Morningpaw, I'm your mentor, I'm just asking if you're good. Cause, yannow, I stopped really suddenly and all, and you seemed rather down - not that I'm assuming anything, but, you know, just in case."

"I'm fine. Really."

Barleywave blinked, feeling like a rock hit his gut. He stayed quiet for a moment. "...Are you sure?" Barleywave surprised himself with how firmly he said this. But, he stood by it. It was fine if Morningpaw didn't want to talk to him - he was no good with feelings, everyone knew that after…

His mind muddled the image of a grey and white kit together, before blowing it away.

But…despite that, he wouldn't be a good mentor if he didn't try. He was no good talking about feelings, but maybe his apprentice just needed company, or a listening ear, or something else to focus on. He could spare ten minutes to be the bigger cat, for once in his dumb life.

Morningpaw met his mentor's eyes, and something changed. Maybe she saw something in Barleywave's eyes, maybe she was surprised by his honesty or maybe it was the last straw. But her amber eyes glazed over and flooded with fear and grief. Her lips curled into a fearful snarl as she lay on the floor, covering her eyes with her paws.

"I'm scared!" she wailed. "I'm scared of the woods! I'm scared of the Woodcrawlers, and the tendrils, and - and the Fake Twolegs, and I feel like no one else feels like I do!" Morningpaw's claws unsheathed into her forehead as she continued. "I don't want to die! I don't want to feed the woods! Everyone says that won't happen because Redstar is here, but what about Warblerkit? What about Olive's third kit? What about every single Clan that used to be around the lake?!"

Barleywave froze. His hazel eyes wavered as he stared at her.

"I thought - I thought with Tree telling me there's other territories, that we could leave! We didn't have to live in the woods! We could go somewhere else - where there weren't any Woodcrawlers, and we - and I wouldn't need to be scared anymore, but they told me that wasn't true! They're everywhere! I can't hide, and no one can, and we're all going to die! It doesn't matter if - if I become a kittypet, Woodcrawlers go after Twolegs too! It doesn't matter! There's no hope! I'm - I'm going to die, we're all - " Morningpaw choked back and let out a long, pained caterwaul.

Barleywave stared at his apprentice with wide eyes.

Oh. That was - yeah, that was bad. That was a lot to handle. He was woefully unequipped to deal with existential doom. In fact, he spent the majority of his life not thinking about it, otherwise he would have spiraled into despair. Well, fox dung, maybe that's why he was bad at feelings. But - what could he even say? Nothing he said could fix this. Because she was right. The Woodcrawlers were terrifying. Fake Beings were terrifying. And tendrils -

His face turned hot with repressed emotions. They rippled at the surface with wide open jaws.

Normally, he'd shove a rock in those jaws and kick them down to hunt later, but maybe, just this once, he could watch them. Not act. Just…watch. Morningpaw was scared of those jaws too. So, maybe…

Barleywave closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He didn't know what to say, so he didn't. He placed his tail gently on his apprentice's shoulder -

He should've opened his eyes before doing that. His tail landed on her ear.

"Sorry," he mumbled as he shifted to her shoulder. But Morningpaw…laughed. It was an exasperated and humorless laugh. One that could only be made in dismay. But still. He sat there quietly, letting her cry her heart out for as long as she needed. He kept trying to find something to say, but he never did. He eventually just shifted beside her, and purred sympathetically.

Sunhigh passed into the early afternoon before Morningpaw sat up, her eyes dulled with pain and her face ragged with marks of her own paws. Barleywave brought his purr to a slow stop, tucking his tail back around his paws.

They remained silent for a while, their environment filled with the sound of wind and the occasional shuffling in the undergrowth. Barleywave had time to think, and despite it all, he had found nothing to say. Finally, after being frustrated for so long, he thought - what would Hopechase do? If she had nothing to say, what would she do to comfort a young cat?

He slowly raised his paw and prodded at her shoulder.

Morningpaw peered at him from the corner of her tired eyes.

He poked her again. The tip of Morningpaw's tail tapped the ground. Barleywave blinked slowly and padded her again.

"Don't." Morningpaw hissed weakly. Barleywave did what she asked and stopped, his paw still half-raised.

The two cats stared at each other, until Morningpaw's eyes narrowed and she let out a defeated laugh. "You look stupid."

In response, Barleywave smirked and batted his paw at her shoulder again.

"Quit it!" Morningpaw whined. She batted back at him half-heartedly.

"Oowww, oof! I've been had! Defeated!" Barleywave yelled dramatically as he flopped to the floor, his eyes flickering.

"You're not taking me seriously!"

"But I am! And yeah, it sucks." Barleywave tried to squish her face between his paws, and Morningpaw pouted as she pulled back and swiped at his face.

"It doesn't just suck, Barleywave. It's over. I'm just going to be scared forever, and - mphff!" Morningpaw ended up with her mentor's paw in her mouth, somehow. She growled and spit it out before tackling him. "Stop it!"

Barleywave had an idea.

He started poking, prodding and play fighting with his apprentice - no training, no serious skill, just pretending like she was a kit in the nursery and goading her into fighting him. Despite her verbal protests, she never ran or distanced herself from him. She always fought back. After an hour of bouncing off trees, rolling into pinecones and Morningpaw yowling at him to get back here so she could bite his stupid fur off, Barleywave watched his apprentice's expression go from despairing to bittersweet. When Morningpaw finally knocked him off his feet one last time, Barleywave heard her yowl with pyrrhic triumph.

"Stay down!"

"Grraah, Morningpaw has bested her mentor! How could this happen?"

Barleywave heard Morningpaw force a laugh. That was good enough for him. He shuffled back onto his feet and started combing through the stray pines stuck in his fur.

"Sorry. Sorry," Morningpaw finally mumbled, looking at him with guilty eyes. Barleywave purred. That was the Morningpaw he knew. He stopped, then met the young cat's gaze.

"Look, Morningpaw. You're right. I didn't have to ask, and honestly, I'm not good at the whole 'feelings' stuff. But, that's 'cause I'm scared too."

Morningpaw gave him a bewildered stare.

"Hey, don't gimme that. I'm serious. I was never good with hiding my fears. So I just kicked it down the road instead. Left it as a problem for future me." Barleywave felt himself staring at the jaws on the surface of the water. His instinct to kick a rock at it was strong - but he couldn't. This time, he had an apprentice to teach beside him. So, he taught. He could do that. He could teach. "But, it's no good to run from them. I ended up running from…lots of other feelings. If I couldn't deal with it, then I avoided it. Avoided sadness. Grief. It, uh. It sucked." His throat tightened.

"You don't have to talk about it," Morningpaw mewed hesitantly.

"Nope. But I will." Man. He really, really wanted to shove a rock in that stupid ass jaw rippling over the water. What was it, a bass? A pike? Could it mind its own business? Was he comparing his emotions to fish? Yep. Whatever it took for him to deal with it.

After a while longer, he sighed and let the feelings pass through his back. "I get it. World's a scary place. It's hard to feel like there's a chance for something better. I grew up thinking that nothing mattered. But, that's why I followed Redstar. 'Cause maybe, if we really fought hard instead of being scared, things could be different."

Morningpaw's ear twitched. She waited for him to continue.

"I won't go into too much detail, but the leader before Redstar was…scared of a lot of things. Enough to prioritize it over caring for the rest of the Clan. We didn't want to live like that anymore and…well, here we are now." Barleywave took a moment to collect himself again. "...What I'm saying is, you don't have to stop being afraid, but you do have to do stuff while you're scared sometimes. It's way easier said than done, trust me. I mean, look at me. I'm still trying to figure out how to do that. I've failed at doing that. I failed to be better for…for Warblerkit."

Morningpaw seemed surprised to hear that name, then sad. Barleywave continued quickly. "But, it starts somewhere, right? I mean, you managed to put some of your fear down for long enough to best me in single combat."

Morningpaw pouted and her tail twitched. "I wasn't fighting you for real."

"But we had fun, right?" Barleywave asked. Morningpaw hid behind her whiskers and started grooming her chest fur. Barleywave suppressed a mrrow of amusement, then continued.

"I can't…really tell you how to be brave or stay calm, or whatever. I don't have the solution to that. I think Windfur or…heck, maybe Olive might be able to help more. But if you need a distraction, I got plenty of those. If you need to feel like you're running from something, we can go for a sprint and get that out of your system. It doesn't make you brave, but it does make you feel less cornered."

Morningpaw remained quiet. The air was tense and for a moment, Barleywave wondered if he said the wrong thing. But then, Morningpaw said tersely, "I need to run."

"What, like right now?"

"Please."

"Can do," Barleywave stood up and stretched his legs. His hazel eyes flickered. "Sprint to the border and back to camp as fast as you can. Let's not stray too far from each other."

And so, Morningpaw ran, and Barleywave followed.

He thought about Hopechase, and for a brief moment, he was glad she pushed him into doing something. It was like pulling his teeth out, but he hoped Morningpaw felt a little better. Or at least knew who to go to next. That's all he could ask for.

---

Barleywave overcame a tough challenge for him, and is really excited to tell Hopechase about it. Hopechase congratulates him and bats his ear affectionately.

(Barleywave, warrior, male, 37 moons) (Hopechase, warrior, female, 90 moons)

Talonpaw has a nice conversation with Olive. Olive reassures him about something that was bothering him.

(Talonpaw, apprentice, male, 12 moons) (Olive, mediator, female, 64 moons)

Olive had recovered from giving birth, and has relaxed a bit. She recognizes the insight and personalities her two kits have, and despite her best efforts, a creeping sense of hope fills her. She plays mossball gently with Branchkit and Perchkit, who are happy and exciteable. Olive wishes she could be more optimistic like her kits are. It's hard...but she'll try her best.

(Olive, mediator, female, 64 moons) (Branchkit, kitten, female, 3 moons) (Perchkit, kitten, female, 3 moons)

<PREVIOUS | NEXT >

[hermit-lover]

Hello! I love your writing so keep up the good work :D

I would like to request Ren, Doc and Scar (Separate or not) with a ftm reader, preferably platonic.

It's completely fine if you don't want to though!

(Also if you end up doing it, may I please be ✨️ anon?)

A Moment Of Calm

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

Character: DocM77 x Reader, Rendog x Reader

Type: Blurb (1.8k)

Theme: Platonic, Comfort

Summary: The grind of Season 8 and The Octagon have been wearing you thin, so you take a moment to recuperate after a great success.

TW: Dysphoria

A/N: Welcome ✨(Sparkle) Anon! Sorry it took so long, but I hope you enjoy. :)

It’s been a loooooooong couple of weeks, and that's almost an understatement. You thought joining in on Doc and Ren’s shenanigans this season would be entertaining, but didn't account for Doc’s affinity for shooting for the moon (heh). Seeing his projects in seasons past you should’ve guessed it would be equally as crazy, but something in you rationed that maybe he would take it easy. Big mistake. Considering it started with somehow creating a super-chunk of a horrifying amount of spawners. You have been endlessly grinding copper and logs to fuel the shops, hearing shulkers grumble in your sleep, and building up the centre of your new base of operations. The Octagon. It was honestly huge, with complex corners and shape lending to the mechanical aesthetic you’ve leant into this season. It wasn't one you typically built in, unlike the mad scientist, and you’d be lying if you said you didn't miss the ease of terraforming. Soft dirt and plants under palm instead of gritty redstone that has long since dyed your nails. But being part of this team was rewarding in its own right.

You settle into the wooden seat sat on the floor, grunting as your knees crack with effort, and your ribs protest. How long has it been since you’ve taken off your binder?- ah no matter. A sigh pulls from your lips at the chance to relax, a crackling campfire soothing your nerves. The seat isn't necessarily the most comfortable, but after a long day's work you were looking forward to the staple of your meetings. A barbeque. Stretching your shoulders against the tight fabric under your shirt, you look to your teammates as they arrive, chattering animatedly. Ren’s voice carries first, agreeing enthusiastically to something Doc was explaining. Ever the enabler, or hype man as he would prefer. An arm is strung across the goat-hybrid's shoulders, half tugging him into a hug. Doc responds, waving his prosthetic hand to help visualize the words- a habit of his you noticed finally being close to him this season.

“Then if we attach the redstone to the power core as shown in the blueprints-” Upon coming to the crest of the hill, Ren’s gaze catches your own, and his grin widens.

“Hey dude!” The werewolf waves exaggeratedly with his free arm, completely interrupting Doc mid-sentence. He sputters out something about manners, but rolls his eyes and nods in greeting. A rush of warmth splits your own face into a grin. It was nice to have them as friends.

“Took you long enough. I was about to dig in without you.” You tease, earning a playful swat from Doc as he moves to settle in the seat beside you, Ren already taking his place as ‘the meat master’ as he would insist the title be. Laying perfectly seasoned steaks on the grill over the fire.

“You say that as if you weren't late to our last meeting.” Doc grumbles, unable to hide his smug smirk at being able to hold it over your head. Groaning dramatically you flop further into your chair.

“It was one time! You try being on time when Scar has filled your starter base with pandas-” Ren snorts, and you shoot him a glare. Doc hums in debate, he of all people understands Scar’s menace. Doesn’t mean he won't find it funny. “We still have to enact revenge for that.” You remind the pair, causing Ren to perk. A dangerous glint in his eye.

“We should infest Boatem with those bot guys Doc designed.” He suggests, “Cover their landscape with mite-bots!” Arms swooping in a wide arc, you can picture it vividly; The tailored landscape of the builders covered in clicking, scurrying bots. Like chickens but harder to kill. Not a bad idea at all. Your so caught up in the visual it takes a second for it to click what exactly Ren has just called the bots-

“Mite-bots?”

“MITE-BOTS?!” Doc’s cry overlaps your own, so suddenly all you can do is blink. “They aren’t mites! I’ll have you know I modeled them after viruses- which happen to look very cool.” The goat’s instant defense of the odd robots makes you stifle a chuckle, especially when Ren simply flicks his tail sassily. Void, they were so childish sometimes. For as much as Doc tries to seem mature and scary, it wasn't hard to wind him up.

“Mites-viruses same thing my dude. ” The werewolf shrugs, flipping a steak casually with his bare hands. It sizzles loudly and your stomach clenches with hunger, gurgling in protest. The scent of cooking meat making your mouth water. Doc grumbles unintelligibly under his breath- but you get the gist of his complaints for ‘respect’. A common thing he insists upon, despite secretly enjoying the banter. Glancing back to Ren, his gaze is already on you, smiling slightly in knowing. “Hungry?” He asks gently, eyes twinkling with affection despite the bags. He was so chipper it was hard to tell he was as tired as you are. You’d guess having his body be mostly robotic this season meant he likely felt the effects less, but there was still evidence of wear-and-tear. His metal body was scuffed and dirty, not being polished like it should be, pale skin also covered in a thin layer of grime. The evidence of hard work across the three of you is a testament to how hard you were working to complete the project before the end of the season. It was a grind, all hands on deck as you all knew it would be a shorter one.

Blinking back to reality, you realize you’ve simply been staring back at him, neglecting to actually answer the question. You stumble to answer quickly-

“Ah- yea, it smells good.” You manage out, smiling sheepishly back to his patient look. For a brief moment Ren accepts your answer, and you all lapse into peaceful silence. The crackling of fire and sizzling meat overlaid the chirping of crickets and waves lapping on the shore as the sun descended over the horizon. You truly think you can be happy here- friends, good food, enjoyable projects- and then Ren clears his throat.

“I don't mean to nag at all my dude, but I’ve gotta ask…How long have you been wearing your binder?” You inhale sharply, suddenly aware again of your aching ribs and strained breathing. Ah, shit. Of course he would notice-

“Mm Ren’s right, I haven’t noticed you without it- or taking enough breaks for me to assume you’ve removed it.” Doc agrees, sitting up a little further to watch you carefully. The pressure from both of their gazes is almost a physical weight on your skin, prickling an embarrassed heat on your face. Deep down you knew they only cared about your well-being, but the thought of being without it- “Breathe. We wont force you to change if you truly don't want to, but it isn't safe to wear it for so long.” Doc’s reassuring rumble soothes your nerves a tad, as a clawed hand rests gently on your shoulder. Lingering just-barely there as to not spook you, but there enough to ground back to your body. Realistically you know you should change, but the thought of having to exist looking so unlike your true self-

“Here.” You tune back into the present, face-to-face with a plaid ball of fabric. There's a moment of silence as your brain lags behind- then it dawns on you what it is.

“Your shirt??” You glance mildly horrified at Ren- and see much to your relief he is still currently wearing clothing. He chuckles, waggling the shirt ball enticingly.

“You wish I was showing off my abs, baby” He teases, not taking to heart the disgust you can't stop from flashing across your face. Doc huffs a laugh at your reaction, squeezing your shoulder reassuringly. “But I don’t want to attempt to out-man the ultimate man, my dude.”

It's clear he's trying to flatter you, but you let yourself take the compliment. After all, it was clear he simply cared deeply. Finally reaching out, you grab the flannel being dangled in your face. It's impossibly soft and plush, clearly well loved. The deep red fading away slightly with how many washes it's been through. Ren smiles at that, placing both hands on his hips. “It’s even oversized on me, so I figured it would be comfortable for you to lounge in- if you want.” The offer makes your heart clench- they notice, and more importantly they care enough to try and find a solution where you can all be happy. This server is going to be the death of you- and you already feel a little choked up with emotion. After a moment of debate you nod, and Doc gently removes his hand. You miss the warmth of it, but he smiles reassuringly.

“You can change in the van, we’ll save you a steak.” He jokes lightly, and you scoff.

“You better!” Pointing a finger accusatorily at him, you rise from your seat. “This better not be a ploy to eat my share of the food.” Doc chuckles deeply, choosing to not answer as Ren pretends to look guilty. Feigning annoyance at their lack of an answer, you stalk to the van, nerves building with every step took away from them.

Stepping into the rocket-van the door clicks shut behind you, plunging you into an eerie silence. If you listened closely you could hear the fire- and the low voices of your friends just outside. If you truly wanted, you could just leave now and not change-and they would ignore it because of your emotional comfort- even if they did worry. Or…you could be comfortable physically with minor emotional discomfort. And they would be happy.

… That doesn't make it fair, huh? You pull off your shirt quickly, opting to rip it off like a band-aid. The struggle out of your binder was always a little embarrassing- but you shrug on the soft flannel in no time. It hangs on your frame, doing its job at hiding any shape of body beneath. Instead creating the illusion of one solid shape. You still knew your body was under there- but…it was as comfortable as you could get. Taking a deep breath, you step out of the van and trail back towards the campfire. Doc and Ren are talking in-between bites of food, both their gazes flicking to you at your approach.

You brace for a comment, of any mention of you wearing the flannel and accepting their offer- but Ren simply extends a hand out, holding a steak.

“Dig in! It's not getting any fresher.”

It's that simple moment of acceptance that solidifies it for you; Doc and Ren are true friends.

[cyberneticfallout]

Chapter Four: Knight Titus

Ch 1 - Ch 2 - Ch 3 - Ch 4 - Ch 5 - Ch 6 - Ch 7 - Ch 8 - Ch 9 - Ch 10 - More Coming Soon

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Fem!Reader Summary: A chance encounter with the Brotherhood of Steel allows you to escape the gulper and continue your journey. Tags: Slow burn (and I mean SLOWWW), angst, eventual smut, language, canon-typical violence, more tags will be added Posted on AO3: Smoothie and The Ghoul Word Count: 1.4k

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“My lord! I’ve got you! Knight Titus!”

“I’m going in! I got you!”

Muffled shouts and piercing screams echo through the air as the gulper you've been trapped inside starts to emit a deep rumble. Suddenly, the creature violently regurgitates you, along with its stomach and its contents spilling out. Gasping and retching, you find yourself drenched in gulper bile.

"How the hell am I still alive?!" you shout, bewildered. "And why does it have so many damn fingers?!"

"Who are you?" a nervy man asks, clutching the head of the doctor.

"That's my head, give it back!" you demand, reaching for it, only to have your hand swatted away by another man. Looking up, you see a towering Knight of the Brotherhood standing over you.

"Oh, it's the flying garbage can," you remark nonchalantly, recognizing the distinctive power armor of the Brotherhood from the claw marks you had observed when the knight had soared above you a few days earlier.

"Do not show disrespect to my lord! This is Knight Titus of the Brotherhood of Steel! And I am his squire, Thaddeus!" the squire interjects, his voice filled with righteous indignation.

"Shut up, you little weasel," you retort.

"What's a weasel?" Thaddeus mutters to the knight, his confusion evident as he seeks clarification on the insult hurled his way. In response, the knight simply gives a shrug.

"Who are you, and how did you end up inside that gulper?" Knight Titus demands, his voice resonating with authority.

"I don't have time for you tin cans!" you dismissively huff, frustration evident in your voice as you lunge at Thaddeus, causing him to shriek in terror. The dog, miraculously still present, begins barking loudly at the commotion. Amidst the chaos, Knight Titus remains motionless, silently observing the scene.

“My lord! She’s feral!” Thaddeus cries out in fear, clinging to the head.

"Just give me the damn head! And stop squealing like that," you demand, your voice laced with irritation as you mindlessly slap Thaddeus in your disoriented state. As a seasoned bounty hunter, you are typically much more composed and intimidating, but the ordeal of being trapped inside a gulper's stomach has left your mind foggy and your actions uncharacteristically erratic.

You hear heavy footsteps approaching, unmistakably the sound of power armor. Knight Titus lifts you up by the collar of your shirt, leaving you suspended in the air while Thaddeus manages to stand up.

“Why are you so mean?” Thaddeus exclaims earnestly.

“She’s a bounty hunter,” Knight Titus confirms, his tone steady and authoritative as he presumably looks you over. It’s always so hard to tell what those damn Brotherhood Knights are thinking. Without warning, he offers a brief apology before delivering a powerful punch to your face, sending you spiraling into unconsciousness.

Head pounding, you gradually sit up and survey your surroundings, realizing that the two men and the head are nowhere to be seen. Even the dog has skipped out on you, leaving you alone. Luckily, your bag is still with you, and you begin to rummage through it in search of any meds. Upon finding the vials you used to bribe the ghoul, now broken and rendered useless, you let out a frustrated breath. "Yeah, he definitely wasn’t coming back for me," you mutter.

With a sense of relief, you salvage a single stimpak and a supply of rad-away from your bag and use both items. Covered in a grimy mixture of gulper bile, dirt, and dried blood, you realize that it's definitely time for wash. Seeing no signs of any creatures around, you determine you’re in the clear to safely wash.

Without bothering to shed your soiled clothes and armor, reasoning that they could use a good wash as well, you wade into the cool waters of the flooded ruins. The water envelops you, washing away the layers of grime and filth that cling to your skin and clothes. The coolness soothes your aching muscles and clears your mind.

After what feels like an eternity, you emerge from the water, feeling slightly refreshed. As you step out onto the dry soil, the sun begins to set, casting a warm glow over the wasteland. You begin to wonder where the ghoul could’ve gone. He obviously dragged the vault dweller with him and needs more of those vials. Unfortunately the few vials you had you scavenged off of feral ghouls you took down so you truly have no clue where one goes to purchase them.

Your boots squish with every step, a sensation you despise, but there's little you can do about it. Glancing down, you notice that your clothes are worse for wear, prompting you to make a mental note to buy something new, by wasteland standards, at the next settlement you come across. You sort through your bag, discarding any broken or unnecessary items. All that remains is some ammo, a canister of somewhat purified water, a small stash of caps, and the Pip-Boy you seldom use. I wonder if there's a Super Duper Mart nearby, you think to yourself.

Throwing the bag over your shoulder and ensuring your weapons are secure, you set out in search of a store to scavenge. Concerned that your weapons may be too soaked to function properly, you make sure you still have the large hunting knife strapped to your thigh. The darkness begins to descend, but you remain determined to press forward, keeping a watchful eye for anything dangerous.

As you navigate through the fading light, your eyes scan the horizon for any signs of civilization. The wasteland stretches out before you, a desolate expanse of ruins and decay. The only sound is the distant howling of the wind, carrying with it the haunting whispers of the forgotten world.

The landscape begins to change, the remnants of buildings becoming more frequent. You spot the crumbling remains of what was once a small town. You check each building cautiously but nothing of value is found. In one building, you come across a dead ghoul with a gunshot wound to the head and… whose ass cheeks have been stripped for meat. This world is unforgiving but the idea of resorting to cannibalism is something you simply cannot fathom and hope to never encounter.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot a decrepit stairwell and carefully head upstairs. At the top, a cozy setup greets you - a dirty mattress, an oil lamp, and a few old yum-yum deviled eggs. This must have been the makeshift home of the ghoul from below. Despite his grim fate, you're thankful for the somewhat snug spot to rest for the night. You aren’t too concerned about whatever cannibal stripped him of meat since they are most likely long gone by now. Settling down on the mattress, your eyes grow heavy and you swiftly fall asleep.

As you slowly awake to the morning light filtering through the boarded-up window, you feel a tugging sensation on your left leg. Startled, you look down to see a tiny radroach attempting to nibble on you. Reacting quickly with a loud shriek, you kick its face and draw your knife, stabbing it repeatedly until it stops moving. Taking a deep breath, you lean back against the wall and open the yum-yum deviled eggs. Chewing through them, you defiantly welcome the day with a loud “Good fucking morning to you, too, wasteland!”

After finishing the deviled eggs and taking a swig of water, you prepare for the day ahead. Double-checking the contents of your bag and inspecting your weapons that had gotten wet the day before, everything appears to be in working order. Satisfied, you descend the stairs and step out through the front door. The scorching heat of the day is already intense, with the sun's rays beating down on the sandy ground. Your attention is drawn to a trail of footprints, two distinct pairs, which prompts you to follow out of curiosity.

With each step, the trail of footprints becomes more defined, leading you closer to the ruins of a city. The skeletal remains of skyscrapers loom ahead of you, their shattered windows like hollow eyes, observing your progress. The trail winds its way through the eerie maze of desolation, navigating past rusted cars and collapsed structures. Before you know it, you hear a man and woman talking up ahead in front of a Super Duper Mart. You quickly hide behind a nearby building and peer around the corner

It’s that fucking ghoul and vault dweller.

Tag List: @fallout-girl219 @ellabellabunny123 @sunnexaltation

[marks-bby]

for da pookie @mordeiswrld

⇆ give dat boy a chance !🙏🏾 i don’t feel like he’s educated in other ethnic groups and cultures . but if he had the time to, he would know it all.

⇆ i don’t know about you, but i hate when white people touch my hair. so the first time you swat his hand away from your hair, he’d feel offended and almost hurt. are you upset with him? what did he do?

you had the bathroom door closed; the counter covered in product and a few combs. “babe! i like—really have to use the bathroom!” mike whines from outside the door. you’ve locked yourself in the bathroom since 8 AM. it’s now 11. “fine.” you grumble, opening the door. mike’s eyes widen in shock. not in a bad way, he was just surprised. “wow…i didn’t know you had so much hair…” his hand inches to your hair before you had the chance to slap it away. “no!” you slap his wrist, making him wince and retract his name. “ow! what was that for?!” he shakes his hand, trying to reduce some of the pain. “it’s not done yet.” you turn to the mirror, combing out a section. “well it looks beautiful. you should keep it out like that.” you smile, chuckling a bit. “you mean an afro?”

⇆ eventually, you let him touch your hair at least once. his eyes lit up like a child on christmas day. sometimes, he offers to wash and help keep your hair kempt. always asking if the water is too hot or cold or if he’s hurting you. we love an attentive bf

⇆ i think he fits the stereotype of no seasoning in his food whatsoever. just salt and pepper. now imagine if you gave him some jambalaya…you’d have this man dancing like this. and Abby—she’d beg you to be the cook. no more pizza and spaghetti😈

⇆ on the topic of food…this mf enjoys chitlins…disgusting, ik. but you dragged him and Abby to a cookout for the first time and it was an experience for him. his plate was full of every dish on the table. even your aunties dry as macaroni.

you watch in horror as mike picks up his fourth fork of chitlins, bringing it to his mouth. “what?” he asked. “don’t kiss me until you brush the fuck out of your teeth and disinfect your lips with a clorox wipe.”

[beachy--head]

Drabble, japril, season 8, based on a silly idea that keeps popping up every time I rewatch this scene.

___

Zola Shepherd is one adorable baby.

April’s living with her and her parents, so she has a front-row seat to all things Zola, but as she watches Meredith enters the room with the little girl in her arms for her first birthday party, she’s reminded of how cute the little girl can be.

“Hey, girl!”

“Look who didn’t just wake up, uh?”

Next to her, Jackson seems under the little girl’s spell too, and it’s a sweet thing to witness. It’s not a surprise, because even Alex softens when she’s around, but she still enjoys watching her best friend interact with their friend’s daughter. 

“Look at you! You look so beautiful, look at that bow!”

She would gladly spend her entire evening playing with Zola (parties, even for a child’s birthday, aren’t completely her scene). But Meredith, having spotted Dr. Webber, is quick to move, and April is left with a kind of longing she mostly gets after phone calls with her mother (Karen Kepner is, not surprisingly, a big proponent of having as many grandchildren as possible). Maybe that’s why she shakes her head and speaks before she can think.

“Uuugh, I want one.”

“Not tonight, honey, I’m tired.”

Jackson looks way too proud of his stupid joke, so she swats him.

“Hey!”

“You’re watching too many Friends re-runs.”

“It’s because Zola kept everyone up all night last week when she was teething. We don’t all sleep with earplugs, like someone.”

“You would, if your room was next to Alex’s, which is another reason I need to move. And I wouldn’t wear them if I was taking care of a child.”

“I would. I need my beauty sleep.”

She resists the urge to swat him again, because he’s being impossible today, but opts to pick up on what he just said, because they’ve never really discussed this topic before.

“Hey, you want children in the future?” 

“One day, maybe. Though I don’t know how I’d fare as a dad.”

Jackson complains all the time about his mother (April doesn’t know why, because she still mourns the day she had to unfriend her on Facebook, per her best friend’s forceful request), but he never talks about his father. Up until a drunken night a few months ago, where he mentioned briefly that his father left them and the Avery legacy, April was not even sure if the man was still alive, and there never seemed to be a good moment to ask. She doesn’t need to know his whole family history to give her opinion on that subject, though.

“What? You’d be brilliant. Zola adores you, and all the kids you treat in peds love you. Well, their moms do, too. But mostly the kids. You know how to talk to them without patronizing them.”

Jackson shrugs, a shrug that frustrates her, because God forbid Jackson Avery should accept a genuine compliment about himself. He acts like she’s just said these things to flatter him and not because she genuinely meant what she said.  

“You want kids too, right?”

Redirecting the conversation is another classic Avery move, but she lets it slide for now, because she doesn’t want to argue with him, not when they’re at a party and he seems so relaxed.

“Absolutely. Though, for that, you kind of need to find a partner first, and it’s not like I have a vast array of choice here.”

He opens his mouth to answer, but she cuts him off.

“Please tell me you’re not about to say something cliché like any guy would be lucky to have me. Or suggest that we should do one of these pacts when if we’re both single by the time we’re 33, we have a baby together.”

He chuckles.

“I wasn’t, but hey, it worked for Sloan and Torres. Also, not to brag, but with our genes combined? That kid would be so good-looking. And hella smart.”

April smiles at his assessment, and adds her own input. 

“And… So incredibly stubborn.”

She can’t help but chuckle, trying to imagine a baby Jackson refusing to do what is asked, and a weird, warm feeling spreads through her body.

“And bossy.”

“Hey!”

“What? It’s a good quality. When not aimed at me. Helped you become Chief resident.”

“Yeah, because Averys aren’t bossy at all. Have you met your mother?”

He tilts his head and raises his eyebrows, an acknowledgment that the Kepner genes wouldn’t be entirely to blame for this, and it makes her think of something else.

“Your mom would so buy them their first doctor coat on their first birthday.”

“First birthday? Try at birth. Their spot at Mass Gen would be reserved from the first sonogram. Surgery specialty chosen at 2. Also, you’re one to talk. Your parents would buy them a pony.”

“No they wouldn't! Well, first a cat. Then a dog.”

“And then…?”

“Okay, probably a pony.”

They both stay silent, contemplating a life with tiny tornadoes running everywhere, bolstered by extravagant gifts given by two very different, but equally frightening, sets of grandparents, and she can actually fell herself shudder.  

“... Yeah, we can never have kids together.”

“Right? I’m going to make an appointment for a vasectomy right away.”

He laughs when she rolls her eyes, and goes to refill his drink, still chuckling. 

She’s always thought of children as an abstract matter, something she definitely wants (two boys, one girl, with a boy first, then the girl, and a little brother to round them up), but has never actually truly pictured, because it felt so far away in her future, a “someday” thing she has never been close to reaching. But for a few seconds, she lets herself smile at the idea of a mischievous, curious toddler with curly hair and green eyes, full of life and quick-witted, a sight so real she could almost see it. A few more seconds, and she shakes her head, chasing the vision away, and follows Jackson on a quest to find something to drink. 

[kaiijo]

SUGARY SWEET — GOJO SATORU

pairing: gojo satoru x gn! reader content: pining, confessions, mentions of eating notes: highly unedited, this has been in my drafts for ages so

you really couldn’t understand why gojo was staring at you (well, is it staring when he wears his blindfold?), slack-jawed and obviously scandalized. “what?” you ask him. “all i said was that i never really had sweets growing up.”

it’s true; you grew up in one of the lesser clans, one that bowed to the whims of the great zen’in, kamo, and — of course — gojo clans. your parents had been pretty strict about what you did, including what you ate, with your mother always going on and on about how the artificial sugars were unhealthy and would rot your teeth so most of your desserts consisted of fruits in season. you didn’t really mind, but gojo’s making you think that you’re mildly insane for that. 

“so you’ve never tried raindrop cake?”

“no.”

“taiyaki?”

“no.”

gojo pauses and takes a deep breath. “what about mochi?”

“nope,” you say with a shrug. “i’ve already told you, gojo, i wasn’t allowed to eat sweets. my mother always said it would have messed with my cursed technique or something like that.”

gojo frowns. “well, that’s just bullshit. clear your schedule, we’ve got a field trip!”

you reply, “we have classes to teach.”

in an instant, gojo whips out his phone and taps out a message with lightning-fast fingers. when he ceremoniously thumbs at the screen one last time, he flips his phone around to show you a text blast he sent to all your students. 

YOUR FAVORITE SENSEI [8:23 AM]: classes canceled today! don’t do anything i wouldn’t do!

you give him an unimpressed look and say, “yaga’s never going to let that fly.”

gojo leans closer with a conspiratorial smirk. at this distance, you can smell the mint gum he had been chewing earlier on his breath. he lifts his blindfold off with one finger, showcasing those bright blue eyes and says, “who said anything about telling him?” gojo grins when you feel your cheeks start to heat and continues, “change into something cute and meet me at the front gates!” 

with a pat on the head, he turned on his heel and went whistling out of the school building. you obey gojo’s instructions, changing out of your sorcerer’s uniform and into something more casual. gojo’s already at the gates when you arrive, leaning against the structure. he swapped his blindfold for his signature black sunglasses, the frames sliding down the bridge of his nose as he looks you up and down. 

you feel suddenly self-conscious as you surreptitiously glance down at your clothes. “something wrong with my outfit?”

he shakes his head. “no, no. i just don’t think i’ve ever seen you out of your uniform.”

“ah.”

he straightens up and bows in a grand gesture. “onwards to the city!”

you walk past him and towards the train station that would take you to tokyo’s metro area. as you trudge ahead, you completely miss the redness to gojo’s ears and the extra bounce in his step. 

you buy your tickets at the station and when you board, gojo sits across from you, long legs bumping into yours as he stretches. you swat them away and ask, “couldn’t you have just teleported us to tokyo? why’re we on the train?”

gojo replies, “what’s the fun in that? it’s the journey, not the destination. besides, train travel’s romantic, don’t you think?” he looks over his frames at you and you try to calm your quickening heart.

the train pulls into tokyo metro station and gojo practically drags you out, weaving through the tourists and tired salarymen (“hey,” he says, pointing at one that looks particularly fed up, “doesn’t that guy look like nanamin?”) until you reach a storefront that’s a pale, bubblegum pink. the chalkboard outside has a cutely drawn manga cat girl and boasts “japan’s best treats!” in bubble letters. 

gojo throws the door open and stands in front of the hostess. you definitely don’t miss the way her eyes light up, practically vibrating with excitement as she eyes him unabashedly. something sour courses through your body as she chirps, “haven’t seen you here in a while, sir.”

you make a face. sir? gojo offers her a charming smile, tilting his head and letting his sunglasses slip down his nose again. “i’ve been busy,” he says, throwing an arm around your shoulder. she startles a little when her eyes land on you, like it’s the first time she’s realizing there’s another person here. 

her smile tightens when gojo asks, “would you mind finding us a table?”

you can feel the animosity radiating off of her as she gives a much less cheery, “sure. right this way,” and brings you two to a table at the wide window that looks out onto the cherry-blossom lined streets. she practically slams your menu down while passing gojo one politely, bowing woodenly and scurrying back to the hostess podium. 

gojo doesn’t even bother looking at the menus when the waiter comes over to the table. before he can even say anything, gojo declares, “we’ll take one of everything, please!”

you gawk at him. there had to be at least twenty items… there’s no way— “coming right up!” chimes the waiter as he goes off to place your orders before you could stop him. 

“why would you do that?” 

gojo answers, “we have to make up for years of a sugarless childhood!”

“but this is twenty-seven—”

“just trust me on this, okay?”

“fine.”

the desserts all come out together — plates and plates of pastel-colored sweets and clear jellies injected with vibrant colors — and you’re a little embarrassed as the rest of the establishment watches your waiter pull over another table to fit everything. 

gojo claps his hands together, grinning like a kid in the candy story (technically, he is). “which one do you want to try first?”

your eyes take in all the items and you want to be excited to try them, but it just looks like a pastel color wheel threw up on your frilly tablecloth. instead, you tell gojo, “you choose. you know better than me.”

stroking his chin thoughtfully, gojo points at a pink mochi shaped like a cat. “these are limited-edition! try these!”

you gingerly pinch the little rice cake between your fingertips, examining it from paw to whisker before you (savagely) bite off half the cat-mochi’s face. the taste of strawberries bursts across your tongue and spreads through your mouth, paired with the undeniable sweetness of way too much sugar. 

you can’t stop the pleased hum that leaves your lips and you pointedly ignore gojo’s proud simper as you chomp away at the second half of the cat. he practically pushes a raindrop cake at you next, a refreshing coolness from the cloyingly sweet mochi and the following bitterness of the melting matcha ice cream. 

you don’t know how much time has passed until you and gojo have eaten through the twenty-something sweet treats he ordered. (it’s twenty-nine, but who’s counting). you feel like your teeth might just fall off from the sheer amount of sucrose you consumed — maybe your mother hadn’t simply been trying to scare you off when she mentioned your teeth rotting from sugar… 

still, you as you two make your way back to the train station, you concede: “okay, i’ll admit the sweets were pretty good, but i think my mouth needs a month to recover.”

you mentally applaud gojo’s restraint in not making a ‘that’s what she said’ joke, a habit he passed to yuuji recently that you’ve made a mental note to break. instead, he replies, “guess you’ll have to start that recovery a little later because…” gojo pauses for dramatic effect before he reaches behind him and produces a small white cake box wrapped in blue string. “i’ve still got one more thing for you to try!”

“gojo, i think we tried all their cakes there.”

“no, no, no! this one’s special! open it!” he shoves it into your chest. 

cautiously, you let the strings fall away and you crack the lid open to see a neatly frosted blue cake with white lettering that asks: “go on a date with me please?” and beside it is a chibi-headed version of gojo, rendered in blue frosting, with a pleading look on its face. 

you glance up at him from the cake in suspicion. “are you joking?”

he raises an eyebrow. “no. these are my feelings. i really mean it. i want to take you out on a date.”

you blink at him and then the cake and back at him and the train in pulling into the station. you both wordlessly step on and it’s a surprisingly silent ride back, boring without gojo’s constant commentary about the going-ons around him. you don’t particularly mind the quiet, save for the whooshing of the train, as you mull over gojo’s proposal.

it’s… flattering. really, really flattering.

you bite back a smile, still staring down at the cake box. 

it’s only when you return to the schoolgrounds that you say, “i’d love to go on a date with you, gojo.”

he snorts, “it took you that long to consider?”

“on second thought…”

“no, wait! there are no take-backs!”

[homelanderbutbig]

His Very Own All-Star Chef (G/T Homelander x Reader)

810 words. Pure fluff. Homelander is 8 feet tall. Reader is non-descriptive. Established relationship.

You made soup and he likes soup.

It's been a quiet evening for you, cooking dinner alone in Homelander's penthouse. You have the day off today, so you thought you'd try making a new recipe, something special. You are thankful Homelander put the large pot on the stovetop for you before he left for work this morning, as it's far too heavy for you to lift by yourself.

You've had a peaceful day by yourself preparing a hearty beef and vegetable soup, making triple the recipe called for as you are aware of how much Homelander can eat.

Regardless of having a state-of-the-art custom kitchen, you know for a fact he's never cooked a day in his life, preferring to have his food catered by the Vought chefs and brought up to him. But he is deeply touched by you taking the time to cook homemade meals for him, even though during the first instance you didn't make nearly enough to satiate his hunger. You've since learned to adjust the recipe sizes to make sure he always has enough to eat, and in turn he always makes sure to shower his very own all-star chef with his most fervent praises.

Standing up on a set of steps, as Homelander's kitchen is too tall for you to reach on just your feet, you add in the final seasonings to the soup as it nears completion. You're enjoying the relaxing ambience, listening to the soup bubble as you stir on autopilot, hoping that your dinner tastes as good as it smells.

Suddenly, you jump as you are startled by what feels like a brick wall behind you. There is a laugh coming from above you as the 'brick wall' expands and contracts from the jest. You sigh as you look straight up, seeing Homelander grinning as he gazes down at you, although his face is slightly obscured by his pecs.

"How many times have I asked you not to sneak up on me like that?" you attempt to scold him, even though you can't hide the smile forming on your face. As annoying as he can be sometimes, you are always happy to see him when he comes home from work.

"I couldn't help myself," he chuckles, as he rests his big ungloved hand on your shoulder. "You're so cute when I scare you."

You place your hand on top of his, wrapping it around his fingers. Away from his penthouse, he very rarely takes his gloves off as he prefers not to touch the undeserving outside world. But when he is alone with you, he adores feeling your gentle touches on his hands, and returning his affections by caressing every inch of your face.

"And what do we have here?" Homelander asks, leaning down a bit closer to you. He is all smiles as he smells the air, closing his eyes while he takes in your hard day's work. Your efforts that were all for him.

"It's a beef and veggie soup," you tell him, still stirring the pot with your other hand. "It's a new recipe, I've been busy chopping all day. I'm not sure how good it turned out though."

"Well, it smells great," he says as he moves his hand from your shoulder to your thighs, lifting you up to his chest. You weigh absolutely nothing to him, but he loves to feel your body cradled in his arm with your head up close to his own.

"Hey!" you squeal as you are abruptly brought up into the air, giving him a playful swat on his pecs. "I can't finish cooking from up here!"

He can't help but laugh. He is so fond of how you do such simple things to remind him of his humanity, how easily you bring him back down to earth after a grueling day of being Vought's supe poster boy.

"I think it's done babe," he smirks. "Here, let me see."

He reaches down and grabs the pot with his free hand, completely unfazed from the strong heat on his bare skin. After one last smell, he brings the pot up to his mouth to take an ample sip. He tilts his head back as he swallows, his eyes closed while he licks his lips, savouring the soup you made special just for him.

"Is it good?" you question, even though you're pretty sure you already know the answer.

Opening his eyes, you spot the sly expression on his face as he brings you in for a kiss. Homelander kisses you so warmly and softly, letting you taste the soup on his lips. When he finally parts, your noses are still touching allowing you to feel his deep breaths dance across your face. You can see how dilated his pupils are, his fluttering eyes solely focused on you, on how much he loves you.

You take that as a yes.

[userautumn]

Can I ask a genuine question though, especially after this episode? Did you fall for the Buctommy of it all because of the relationship itself, or what fanon has created of the relationship? I just feel like I see a lot of projecting sometimes in this fandom of a relationship/character that we didn't actually see on screen. Which the same can be said of buddie too in many respects!

Ooh, I like this question! But I can honestly say I fell for the relationship itself.

I don't know how long you've been following me but I hit a major switchup when it came to Tommy. It's actually fucking hilarious, but I remember when we started getting hints etc that Tommy was back, I was like "fuck, I've already had enough of this guy! 🙄 Let's just have him do his little dance and then get out of the way so we can have Buddie <333." But then 7x3 happened with the shoulder touch, and I was like "oh, this is intriguing to me" (because, at this time, I fully did not believe we would EVER get a Queer/coming out arc for either of the boys, I thought they were just going to get together ala Trapped Dads). And then 7x4 happened and Tommy was so sweet and gentle and kind and I just... fell entirely in love. I'd already loved his character back during the Begins episodes (fun fact, when I started watching SWAT back in 2021/2022 or so, I liked looking for LFJ/Rocker because I liked pretending it was Tommy lol) but after he came back for Season 7, I was just... instantly taken by him way more than I intended to be. So embarrassing, lol.

Anyway, then Buck and Tommy's honeymoon era happens and it's so swoonworthy. Sweeps me off my tiny little feet. They were just fun and kind and good to each other and I enjoyed that.

The fanon projection mostly started around Season 7 - Season 8 hiatus, but I remember saying last summer before the show came back that we only had a couple of weeks before Tommy was made a "real boy" and all our fanon projections/theories would either be confirmed or denied. I can't speak for anyone else but, for me, with BuckTommy, I've always been aware of the distinction between fanon and canon.

With Buddie. Well. That's another matter entirely haha. They owned such a large chunk of my heart that it was impossible for me to see past that sometimes. But I don't have that problem with this relationship. I love Buck. I love Tommy. I love BuckTommy. I love what they are in canon and I adore the way we play with them in fanon. But I know what's real and what isn't!

[massivedrickhead]

Bechloe Week Day 3: Reality TV

Words: 1761

Read on AO3

-

“What the hell is ‘Celebrity Bake Off’?” Beca asked, her eyes briefly flicking up from the dough she was kneading. 

“The clue is kind of in the name, Beca,” Theo replied, taking a seat up at the kitchen island and accepting the coffee Chloe handed to him with a nod. “It’s the celebrity version of ‘The Great British Baking Show’.”

“‘Great British Bake Off’,” Chloe corrected. “That’s what they call it over there.”

“Yeah, c’mon Theo, aren’t you meant to be British?” Beca asked. She dropped the dough into a glass bowl and covered it with a dish towel, before washing her hands and drying them on the front of her apron.

“I was just testing you,” Theo said. “So in a few minutes when you try and tell me you’ve never watched the show, I can call you a liar.”

“Why would I say I’d never seen the show? We watch it every year,” Beca asked. 

“Because they want you to appear on the next season of Celebrity Bake Off.”

“Me?” Beca asked, eyebrows shooting into her hairline. 

“No, Chloe,” Theo said, rolling his eyes. “Of course you. You’re the only celebrity in the room.”

Beca pulled a face. “I’m hardly a celebrity.”

Theo sighed and turned his head to where Beca’s platinum record hung on the wall before turning back to look at her. “Are you interested or not?”

“Of course not,” Beca said. “Why would I want to go on reality TV?”

“It’s hardly reality TV,” Theo replied. “It’s not like I’m asking you to go on that show where they make you eat bugs and shit, this is Bake Off we’re talking about. It’s cosy and inoffensive and everyone loves it. It’s not like it’ll be a big time commitment, you’d only be in one episode.”

“Yeah, not a big time commitment other than that I’d have to travel to England.”

“Well it just so happens that the filming coincides with your UK tour dates, so you’ll be there anyway,” Theo said, grinning smugly. 

“I’m not going on TV, Theo,” Beca said. “I’ll make an idiot of myself, I can barely handle doing interviews let alone something like this.”

“You’ll do great,” Theo said, waving a hand at her as if he was swatting away her arguments. “And you won’t make an idiot of yourself because you happen to be a pretty good baker.”

“I bake as a way to unwind,” Beca counters. “I find it relaxing and what goes on in that tent is anything but relaxing.”

“Yeah, to normal contestants,” Theo said. “It means something to them, they’re baking for their lives. There are no stakes for you. You turn up, bake three things and then leave. If it goes bad, who cares?”

“Why are you pushing for this? Why do they even want me in the first place?”

“Because you suck at self-promotion and this is a great opportunity for people to see your face,” Theo said. “They want you because you’re a big deal. They want people to tune in and donate and all that shit. Plus you had that whole Twitter exchange with Paul Hollywood, the seed has already been planted.”

Beca sighed. She knew she’d come to regret that drunken tweet sent to Paul Hollywood where she’d asked if she could hang out in the tent for a day “just to help take care of any leftover cakes”.

“What did you mean by donate?” Chloe asked, trying not to smirk at the look on Beca’s face as she contemplated actually having to do this.

“Oh,” Theo said, his voice brightening. “That’s the best part! It’s all for charity!”

“What charity?” Chloe asked.

“Um, let me check,” Theo said, pulling up his phone as if he didn’t already know off the top of his head. As if he didn’t know this would be the final thing to convince Beca to do this. “Stand up to Cancer,” he said.

Beca looked at him and then turned to look at Chloe. Chloe shrugged and smiled.

“God dammit, Theo.”

-

“On your marks, get set, bake!” 

Beca looked down at her carefully typed-out recipe and told herself to breathe. 

They wanted 8 of her signature brownies. Easy. She could whip up a batch of brownies in her sleep.

So why did she feel so nervous?

She shook herself out of it and focused on mixing the batter, hoping that her hands would have stopped shaking by the time Paul and Prue made their way to her. 

The morning passed in a blur. Her brownies got rave reviews though were not quite handshake-worthy. 

Beca had recognised two out of the other three contestants - a teenage member of a boy band that she met at the Grammys last year, and a talk show host who interviewed her during her first UK tour a few years before that. The final contestant was a Scottish comedian whom Beca wasn’t familiar with, but whom the others in the group seemed to know well.

After a break to film some interviews outside the tent, they were ushered back for the technical challenge and were told they’d have to make 12 identical pieces of shortbread. 

The Scottish comedian cheered and clapped his hands. 

“Do we have to even bake now?” The talk show host asked. “Can’t he just have first place and save us the time?”

Beca looked down at the provided recipe and tried not to smile

“Beca, how are we feeling about shortbread?” Host Noel Fielding asked as he approached with co-host Alison Hammond. 

“I’m feeling okay,” she said. “Shortbread is like my wife’s favourite thing, I make it pretty often for her.”

“Ah, so we’re quietly confident?”

“Sure, let’s go with that. James over there is loudly confident, I can be quietly confident.”

“So, Beca, tell us why Stand up to Cancer is so important to you?”

Beca knew they were going to ask that question. Before filming started they were told that they’d all be asked it at some point during the day and that the producers would hand-pick a couple to air on the show, but it still seemed to catch her off-guard. 

She felt a lump in her throat and found it hard to raise her eyes from her shortbread dough. 

“Well my, um, my wife Chloe was diagnosed with breast cancer about five years ago,” Beca said. “Thankfully she managed to beat it, but if it wasn’t for charities like Stand up to Cancer, then she might not be here and that’s… well, it’s unthinkable really.”

They thanked her for sharing and wished her good luck with the bake, and Beca had to shake herself out of the memories before she got lost in them. 

She turned her attention back to the shortbread and hoped that she’d have enough left over at the end of the day to take back to the hotel room where Chloe was waiting for her. 

“And that means first place are these,” Prue said, gesturing to Beca’s stack of perfect shortbread.

The other contestants clapped and someone patted Beca on the back.

“This is cultural appropriation!” The comedian called out, head in his hands after his shortbread landed him in last place.

“First place,” Beca said to the camera during her last interview of the day. “Not bad.” There’s a hint of surprise in her voice and a small smile on her face. 

When she makes it back to the hotel that evening, Chloe is lying on the bed reading. 

“How did it go?” She asked, smiling and putting her book down. 

“Yeah, pretty good,” Beca replied. “I brought you something back.” She hands Chloe a box filled with her leftover shortbread. 

“Are these yours or did you swipe them from another contestant?” Chloe asked before taking a bite. She let out a small moan as her eyes closed in pleasure. “Forget I asked, I know these are yours.”

Beca laughed and joined her wife on the bed. When they kissed, Beca could taste the sugar on her lips. 

-

The next day passed quicker than the first with only one final bake left to do, and Beca got back at the hotel by dinner with a box of profiteroles, macarons, and a slice of thick rich chocolate cake.

“Well?” Chloe asked, biting into a macaron. “How did you do?”

Beca shrugged. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

“Come on, you’re really not going to tell me?”

Beca mimed zipping her lips. “The show airs in three months, I think you can wait until then.”

-

“And the winner of the Star Baker apron is… Beca!” 

On the couch beside her, Chloe squealed and wrapped Beca in a hug. “I knew it!”

On the TV Beca is being interviewed in her Star Baker apron, but neither Beca nor Chloe could hear over the sound of their other friends cheering in the background. 

Chloe insisted on having a watch-along party for Beca’s episode, Beca had insisted that she’d rather die than have to watch herself on TV, but as usual, Chloe won.

“I was honestly pretty pleased when I won it, but after watching the episode back it looks like I was the only one who even knew how to turn an oven on,” Beca said, rolling her eyes but grinning as Chloe pressed another kiss against her cheek. 

“I knew you’d win,” Chloe said. 

“Told you you wouldn’t embarrass yourself,” Theo said. 

Beca waved him off. “You were bound to be right about something eventually.”

“What made you decide to do it?” A co-worker asked, grabbing one of the cookies Beca had made for the occasion.

“I mean, you heard me on the show,” Beca said, referring to the segment when Beca had talked about Chloe’s diagnosis. She hadn’t expected they’d use her soundbite, or even that they’d throw up some photos Beca had taken at around that time. The room had gone completely silent, and her hand had found Chloe’s quickly. “My wife’s here because of a cancer treatment that might not exist without charities that fund research. Once I heard it was raising money for that, it was a no-brainer.” A few people nodded and murmured their understanding, but the room was still quiet. “Plus I knew Chloe wanted me to, charity or not, and Chloe always gets her way.”

“It’s true,” Chloe agreed. “Though you didn’t tell me that you’d won, even though I was pestering you for weeks.”

“And ruin the surprise?”

“Babe, I found that apron in your suitcase the second we got home. I’ve known for months.”