#When Gray is getting his memories back that's the number he remembers and calls. It's V.I.L.E.'s number

[owlfacenightkit]

👀 what’s “43795255“?

Hehe

[cupidkenji]

killshot, baby

Pairing: Aaron Hotch x Doctor!Fem!reader Cw: Fluff (for real this time), LONGING (this is literally 9k words of pure yearning idek how I did that), mentions of blood, Hotch gets shot, Jack being adorable, Jack gets injured too :(, no explicit age gap, this is just rlly cute idk it's sweet I love Hotch so much I need him Summary: When you get hired as the BAU's stand-by medic, the team leader ends up being the hardest part of your job. Disclaimer: Reader is chubby! She's always fat coded, but like usual she's not described here. Just know a chubby person was imagined when writing this <3 WC: 9k (Hotch is the love of my life I could go on about him forever) This is definitely not medically accurate, please just enjoy for the sake of the story. I LOVE HOTCH I WANNA SMOOCH HIM

As weird as it was, band aids were the thing you remembered most from your childhood. You grew up as a canvas for any sort of scrape, cut, or bruise. Any wound that made your parents feel mildly worried to utterly terrified were ones that decorated your body frequently. You never tried to assign any meaning to why you became a doctor, simply crediting it as your call to the profession - to people. If you had to, though, your consistently bruised adolescent body is the best root cause you could think of. It seemed only right that the kid who couldn’t keep her skin in tact would grow to love helping others. You liked to think that’s how you kept your head an average size. Your bosses and co-workers had raved about your abilities no matter the job you took, and after a while you had to start prioritizing keeping your humility. You had started as just a kid with bruises. 

You tended to ground yourself with those same memories in times like this. For as long as you’d worked in the hospital, you held some disdain for agents. You saw many federal ones, being so close to the HQ for divisions like Behavioral Analysis, but some locals swung by too. You’d had far too many experiences of them being snappy, demanding, and usually inconsiderate to the team of people trying to save someone. You understood the individuals you were committed to helping often got there by doing monstrous things, but demanding to talk to someone when they were bleeding out and half-conscious always forced your tongue between your teeth in an effort to stay respectful. Especially now, pushing a stretcher with 3 other workers while trying to shake off the feds trailing after him. You recognized them, Agents Rossi and Hotchner, if you remembered correctly. 

“We’ll need to talk to him immediately.” The man - Rossi, you assumed, seeing as he was going gray and had less of a charge fueling his steps - spoke quickly as the two men followed your team.

“Be here when he’s out of surgery.” You didn’t bother to look back, trying to convey your annoyance and praying they got the hint. 

“He’s killed three women and has another one hostage. We don’t have time.” The other one piped up, easily keeping pace with you.

Abandoning your previous strategy, you let your team push the man into the operating room, shutting the door behind them and whipping around to face the duo. “I understand that, sir, believe me.” You were more elevated than you would have liked, years of unease unfortunately slipping through your efforts to withhold them. “But whatever happened when you found him left him barely breathing. You can’t speak to a corpse. You’ll have your time when he’s stable. Go do your job and let me do mine.” You tensed your calves planning to turn around, but quickly felt the guilt catch up to you. “I’ll call you if he wakes up.”

“If?” 

You sighed. You hated profilers. “I’ll call you.” 

“Call the headquarters.” He was scribbling down a number on the back of a hospital business card. “Ask for Agent Hotch. We’ll be waiting.” You nodded your head once, taking the card from his hands. He started walking away as he thanked you. “We appreciate it.” Sure.

–

The surgery to save the man had been a trip and half. One of the bullets had internally ricocheted, and the other two were lodged next to crucial arteries. You praised your mother for giving you steady hands as you inched them out of him. It took you and your team six hours and fifteen minutes to get his heartbeat steady, you estimated he’d be knocked out all night. You should call, you thought. You had no idea how late these people worked but they were more than likely expecting to talk tonight and you didn’t know if that’d be possible. You fished the card out of your pocket, his handwriting was impressively neat for how fast he’d written the number. You heard the line ring twice before someone picked up. 

“This is Penelope Garcia with the Behavioral Analysis Unit, who am I speaking to?”

“Uh- I’m Dr. L/n down at Quantico Med. I’m looking for Agent Hotch?” Your words tilted up at the end of your sentence. The casual nature of his shortened name left a weird feeling in your mouth after you said it. “I have an update on a patient he was asking after.”

“Is this about an unsub?” 

“A what?” She lacked professionalism. You wondered briefly if he had just given you the phone number of an employee.

“I’m sorry-” she laughed slightly. “Is this about a suspect? Hotch told me someone might be calling.”

“Um - yeah it’s about a suspect. He was brought in earlier. Is Agent Hotch there? I’m sorry ma’am but I've been in an operating room for the past 6 hours and I want to go home.” You hoped she’d respect your honesty, you really didn’t have the patience to explain yourself to someone new. 

She chuckled. “I got you honey, I’ll page you over.” The line went dead for a second before the ringing resumed. Please be quick, you prayed, get me out of this fucking hospital.

“Hotchner.” His voice was rougher over the phone. You guessed the long hours started to weigh on him by this time of night. You always felt it the most around this time, too.

“Hi, sir. This is Dr. L/n from the hospital. We managed to stabilize your guy, but it’s unlikely he’ll be up before tomorrow. I know it was assumed he’d be awake tonight but it took longer to operate than expected.” Your guys put 3 bullets in him, so sorry for the inconvenience. “I’ll be here all day tomorrow. You can come by at any time and I’ll let you in.”

“Are you positive we can’t talk to him tonight? I understand the situation is difficult but this case is extremely time sensitive. I’m sure that’s not lost on you.” You cursed the man for not being more condescending in his delivery. Thinking of the poor person either trapped or dead right now due to the guy you just saved made you sick. 

“I know.” Fucking hell. “I can wake him up.” A quarter dose of adrenaline works wonders. “Be here in fifteen minutes. You won’t have much time to talk to him.”

“Thank you.” He hung up. You put your head in your hands. Just a little kid with bruises.

– 

The layout of the BAU made you envious of the workers here. You’re sure they’d dealt with atrocities beyond what the average person could stomach, but you also worked within the belly of the beast and man were those hospital hallways claustrophobic. The daylight shone beautifully through the large windows, and you asked yourself if you’d be able to cope with all the paperwork in exchange for a feel like this. There weren’t any front desks, nowhere to sign in, so you sat in one of the chairs by the door and waited to see if something would happen. You had been specifically requested to visit the building , a note signed ‘Strauss’ being left with the hospital secretary. You didn’t like being called on by a stranger, it made you nervous beyond belief. You’re sure anyone walking by assumed you were being charged with something. Sweating like a sinner in church.

“Dr. L/n?” A woman was standing near you, having completely avoided your eyesight until now. “I’m the board supervisor, Erin Strauss. Thank you for coming.” The woman was nice enough, but she seemed rigid, clearly confident in her authority. She led you to her office and gestured to the chair facing her desk.

“I’ll cut right to the chase.” She smoothed her pencil skirt as she sat down. “The BAU is seeking a stand-by medic and I’d like to offer you the position. You’re revered highly by your previous places of employment and your current boss has only good things to say. Along with a personal reference by an employee of mine, you’re certainly a person of interest. You’d be working interchangeably with three other individuals, however you would be the first one called when needed.”

That is definitely not what you were expecting. You were almost immediately ready to turn down the offer. You didn’t work well with cops. You worked well in a hospital, going into the field to patch the wounds of both good and evil was a less than appealing deal to you. 

“You’d be on call while you worked your current position at Quantico Medical, when you’re at home you can remain there, but you’ll be flying with the rest of the team when they leave. You will be entered into a federal database, and employed as a stand-in for hospitals near you when working abroad.” She went on to explain you’d be paid salary, and when you heard just how much you could add to your monthly income by doing this, you took it. You were doing fine, you definitely didn’t need the financial boost, but you had family that could use it. Your niece had been close to turning down college because of the cost, so some extra money could really set her up. 

“Excellent. You’ll start your field training next Monday.” She was shuffling papers into a hefty stack as she talked. “Come back when you’ve finished this and I’ll arrange a team meeting.” The stack was even heavier than you expected when you picked it up. It was far too early to be regretting your decision. 

–

The first day of training had been easy enough. You weren’t an agent, so you avoided having to learn weapons or combat. It generally consisted of learning efficiency, along with how to work properly with agents and the expected etiquette when dealing with an unsub. You had met the team only once by now. Everyone had been nice - Garcia especially - but aside from her nobody had been particularly welcoming. The conditions of your job were a bit strange, basically capitalizing on the what ifs that came with the FBI title, and that created a bit of distance between you and the rest of the team. They questioned the necessity of you, they’d survived this long without a stand-by medic with them, why did they need one now?

Above any disregard for those in law enforcement sat your stubbornness. You knew they were on the fence about you, the most logical thing for you to do now would be attend every session required of you and prove yourself through pure accomplishment. Easy in theory, much harder to execute when Aaron Hotch is the one you’re learning from. He was a good teacher - you’d give him that - he had a confidence to him that easily dominated a room, attracted eyes in a way other men couldn’t manage. You’d ignored the initial stir in your stomach when meeting him in favor of attempting to scold him and his partner. Now, it was much harder to quell the slight pound in your head or the sweat on your palms. He was just standing up front, lecturing on the importance of a team, but his attire was the only thing able to break through the haze in your mind. Every time he’d shown up at the hospital, he’d donned a suit, a slightly baggy blazer worked incredibly well as a shield to your curiosity. That had clearly changed, as he shed the overcoat when talking to the class, having just a white button up adorn his torso. You took notice of the rolled up sleeves, clearing your throat quietly to snap yourself back into focus. You had the intention of snuffing out this little thing of yours but were a living contradiction at this point, setting on the goal of avoidance while barely ignoring the sight of the veins on his arms. You pondered the thought of sleeping with some man at a bar just to get this out of your system, but remembered how little projecting attraction onto someone else helps a situation. In other words, you were probably fucked.

– 

The first mission you worked with the team had you flying to a tiny Georgia town to investigate a string of bodies being found in ransacked homes. It seemed to be a simple motive, robbery turned to murder, but the team was called down to help once the kill count hit five. You had been expecting a long commercial flight, figuring you’d need to invest in a good neck pillow and some aspirin. Nobody had bothered to inform you the Bureau utilized private air travel, or that you’d be flying in one with people you’d known for two weeks. You’re sure you looked a little out of place, looking around the plane without being obvious you were doing it and adjusting to the sight of couches on planes. The others, having had this privilege for years now, took their respective seats. You had been nervous about that, unfortunately. The unsure feeling of where to sit reminding you painfully of high school cafeterias and inferior reputations. The only open seat happened to be right next to the man you’d been ducking away from the past two weeks. Lovely. He took a moment to look at you when you sat. You were prepared to talk to him, but for now you busied yourself with rummaging through your bag looking for nothing and pretending not to see him in your peripherals.

“Do you get sick on planes?” He seemed to have a deeper motive when he asked, like you saying yes would solve a puzzle in his head.

“Not really.” You’d only been on a plane a handful of times. “Turbulence can make me nervous, but I think that’s fairly normal.” You thought momentarily that perhaps he would blame your obvious anxiety on that instead of his proximity to you. He was a profiler, you’re sure he picked up on tells for nerves you weren’t even aware you had, but maybe he’d write it off. “Why do you ask?”

“You seem…” He trailed off for a moment, looking over your face to try and categorize your expression. “I don’t know, lost?” He smiled, light and easy, and you realized he was trying to reach out to you. The comfortability in the gesture made your head spin. It was like a shot of morphine, enveloping your body in a dull elation - an escape. You wanted that comfortability, wanted him to feel weightless around you. There had been a certain tension between the two of you since you started. He was warmer than the rest, but also more awkward. Your first real interaction had been an outburst, and it left you hesitant to talk to him. 

You chuckled at his remark. “No I -” You shook your head as you spoke, as if shaking off his accusation. “Nobody told me about the jet. You’d think exclusive aircraft would be in the job predecessor.”

He nodded in agreement, holding a slight upturn on his lips. “Yes, you would.” He glances away to check the time, looking back to you quickly like you were his homebase. “Strauss has a habit of getting ahead of herself. Plus, we’re all pretty used to it by now. I have to remind her sometimes that normal provisions don’t have a TI.”

“I’m sure.” It was clear she’d worked with the unit for a while. “Even if they did, though, they’d never find another Garcia.” You thought of the woman, bright and sparkly and incredibly good at her job. “You guys are lucky to have her.”

He stared at you, losing a hint of the lightheartedness and letting a wave of genuinity intertwine with it. “You have her too, Y/n.” His eyes were like a trap, rich pools of honey just begging to tug you down in. “You’re a member of this team. Don’t think your newness makes you inferior to anyone else on it. We’re lucky to have you too.”

Fuck, you were whipped. “I really appreciate that, sir.”

He smiled, shaking his head and waving you off. “Don’t with the sir, please. It’s bad enough when Garcia does it. You can call me Aaron.” Not even the other team members called him that, a thought that seemed to strike you both simultaneously. “Or Hotch, whatever you prefer.”

You just looked at him, letting a smile rouse your lips and trying your hardest not to let the effect he had on you reach your face. “Ok.”

–

The first case had been good training wheels, simply tending to a vic who needed stitches and getting a feel for the life of a field agent. You’d been adjusting nicely to it, quickly getting used to working random hospitals and waiting to be needed on an active crime scene. The others had warmed up to you tremendously after getting back, opening their circle for one more, and you couldn’t be more grateful. A team like this was something you’d wanted for a while, growing more and more unsatisfied with the callous ER workspace by the day. Ironically, there was much more life in jobs dealing with murder. He had also been warming up to you. The two of you hit the status of work-place friends nearly instantly. The endearing encounter on the plane simmered inside you for a while. The memory of it prompting you to keep talking to him, always searching for a fix of the painkiller you’d felt that day. 

You weren’t a profiler, but you were unfathomably infatuated, leading you to never miss his tone getting softer with you, or any one of his touches that lingered for just a second too long. It just barely bypassed the line of friendship, but you never lost sight of that linear barrier, so it was incredibly prevalent to you when he breached it. You scoffed at the idea of any reciprocity, brushing off every remark made by a coworker or the one horrific time you heard JJ refer to the two of you as ‘mom and dad.’ This wasn’t a plausible thing. This was a stupid workplace crush that was more of a hindrance than anything. The growing closeness between you and him would have it’s effects properly restrained to the confines of your head, only permitted to express themselves once you were away from the man. It was an odd dynamic, but Aaron wasn’t an obvious guy, so trying to define the edges of you two would only draw attention to the fact you had been looking at all. No thank you.

“Shit.” The team was sitting around the table going over their files. You were mainly there for support, as you were never a part of the lead up to the catch, the chase. You heard Hotch mumble the exclamation under his breath and looked over to see the trouble. He was looking down at his phone, jaw resting between his thumb and pointer finger. You got up and moved to sit next to him, the motion virtually ignored by everyone else as they continued searching for connections.

“Everything ok?” You mumbled to him, trying not to disturb your friends who were nearly nose-deep in their files. 

“Yeah.” He sighed. “Jack’s sitter canceled. I wanted to stay here to go over the latest crime scene but I guess I’ll have to raincheck.” The killings of your latest unsub had been increasing. You knew the collective stress that was starting to boil within the team. Him going home would only slow them down, a horrible addition to a killer that was speeding up. 

You volunteered your night away before you even got a chance to think about it. 

“I can watch him.” 

Surprise was apparent in the raise of his eyebrows. “I appreciate it, but I couldn’t ask that of you.

You’re fairly certain you would do anything he asked of you, but the nobility of the man in this case almost made you roll your eyes. “No, please. I offered and I would love to. I’m not helping anyone just sitting here, and you leaving would slow them down. You know what to look for here, I don’t. I don’t want another girl going missing just cause your sitter flaked. I can do it.”

He seemed mildly speechless. “I -” He paused, trying to find the wording he wanted. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll send you the address, if you’re sure.” He looked at you with more adoration than you’d ever had directed at you, so intense your eyes instinctively ducked down. “Thank you, Y/n.” He was so touched by the action it made you slightly sad to think about. Had no one ever helped him? Maybe you were raised weird, this seemed hardly beyond common decency to you. 

“What are friends for?” He exhaled a slight laugh in gratuitous agreement, but you saw the glimmer of his eyes dull slightly. The notion surely reflected in your own eyes as the words burned your tongue. Friends.

–

Jack was a delight. A well mannered, clearly well raised kid. Parts of his dad shined so vibrantly in him that you’re sure you’d be able to pick him out of a crowd based on mannerisms alone. Hotch had called Jack’s daycare, verifying your identity and giving you the ok to go pick him up. He seemed quiet on the way home, but rushed to give you a tour of the house, and excitedly led you to his line up of toy trains once you’d entered the place. There was a shift between you and Hotch that happened when you gave the offer. A shift that was now only just settling in you. This was his house. His space, his stuff, his place of security. He’d invited you into it, gave you permission to enter it, to exist within it, and it was strangely intoxicating. He was intoxicating, and you realized quickly how much you ached for the permanence of it. You’d made Jack dinner, played for a bit, went out for ice cream per his pleading, and wished him a peaceful goodnight when his bedtime rolled around. He’d dubbed you his ‘best babysitter ever’ and you knew as soon as the words hit your ears that you’d be watching him again. You’re sure situations like today popped up frequently for Hotch, you could be a valuable asset to him when you had free time. He would be saving money too. No need to pay a sitter when you were being paid by the Bureau every second you were there. Aaron had gotten home a few minutes past one, utterly exhausted and uncharacteristically apologetic. He was sorry for being gone so long, making you stay so late, everything and anything the man could apologize for was pouring out of his mouth. He’d welcomed you to stay, but his hair was messy from messing with it all night, and he’d ditched the suit jacket for a gray long sleeve. You’d wanted to take the opportunity, wanted to bask in the safety of him for as long as he’d allow it, but those restrained thoughts were clawing the walls of your skull with a vigor unlike anything you’d felt before. It would be abhorrent to dream about the man while in the confines of his home. You couldn’t do that - you wouldn’t. You brushed off any apology he could conjure and let him escort you out the door. His hand was on your lower back, and his voice was low from the siphoning nature of the day. 

“Thank you, again.” He looked at you. “You’re a lifesaver.” You’d expected to hear some humor in his voice. The start of banter between friends, a casual appreciation for a job well done, but there wasn’t any. He sounded rough, slightly beat down, his eyes filled with a sincerity all aimed at you. A blend of pure adoration and a deeper level of dedication. Was this a commitment? What kind?

Heat bubbled in your stomach as you made eye contact. “Please.” You shook your head slightly. “Jack’s an angel. You’re clearly as good at this as you are profiling.” You nodded in the vague direction of Jack’s bedroom as you referenced the kid. “It was my pleasure. I’d love to do it again, if you’ll let me.” 

He sighed out a small laugh and broke your gaze for a moment, looking back to you as he spoke. “I’d like that.”

–

You’d seen Jack a multitude of times after that. Aaron was never particularly fond of asking you, claiming that he appreciated the gesture but it was mainly Jack’s begging that made him cave. That, and your persistence. You liked Jack a lot, and more selfishly, you liked being around Aaron’s stuff. It was a little creepy, yes, but you felt better acquainted with him after being around his things. An energetic type of understanding, the type that deepened a connection without words. He was needed late tonight, and as much as you hated denying an offer to see Jack, you had priorities at the hospital. The previous sitter wasn’t able to watch him, so she gave a personal recommendation, and Jack got stuck with a stranger. You thought about him while working, probing and patching people half-focused with the desire to be elsewhere. You’d felt mildly guilty about it, but it’s not like it altered your work, so you figured it was harmless. 

You wondered slightly if you manifested the event you were watching play out. You watched in pure disbelief as a sobbing Jack was being carried into the ER by a flustered blonde woman. There was blood staining the right sleeve of his shirt, pouring out of his skin in a surplus and completely soaking through the material. A jagged piece of glass was standing at attention in his wrist, having sliced through the fabric like butter. He was marked ‘urgent,’ who knows if the shard had hit an artery or where the glass had come from. 

Most other doctors were busy, either operating or tending to patients. You’d walked to the front desk, remaining as calm as your racing heart would let you, and told the secretary to assign the case to you. “I know this one. Let me take him.” She just nodded, marking your name down as the primary doctor and allowing you to take him back. 

Walking up to the blonde woman, you assumed this had been the new babysitter. She was a wreck, trying to explain what happened through her own hysteria while simultaneously having her words drowned out by the crying child. “It’s ok, ma’am.” You’d reassured her, obviously she hadn’t intended the injury. “Let me take him, I’m a friend of his father.” You saw the calmness dilate her eyes, making itself apparent in the relaxation of her tense shoulders. You removed the bleeding boy from her arms, holding him against you and cooing at him the way you would a baby. You took him to a stretcher a few feet away and laid him down, ensuring his wounded arm stayed flat in an attempt to slow the blood. He was on the brink of passing out, his body not having nearly enough energy for the sobbing on top of losing vital fluid. “Jack.” You addressed him directly, two more doctors aiding your transfer to an examination room. “I need you to stay with me, buddy. Just a little longer, I promise. You’re gonna be just fine.” You pushed with one hand, caressing his non-injured arm to emphasize your affection. “Just a little longer.” You looked at him in between looking forward to keep the stretcher straight, seeing that same adoration from his father’s eyes mirrored in his. You felt protective, realizing you cared for the Hotchners much more than you let yourself believe. Little kid with bruises, you skimmed through your origins in your mind in an attempt to center your focus. Just a little kid with bruises.

Two hours later, Jack was stitched up and sleeping soundly. You knew his sitter had called Hotch, probably as soon as something happened, and were not surprised to find him idle in a waiting room chair. He was leaned forward, head in his hands and knee bouncing violently. He heard footsteps getting closer, a feeling within him recognizing them as yours, and he looked up. His eyes were teary, tired. The look of a concerned father.

“How is he?” You’d never witnessed this type of worry in him, heard the amount of desperation in his voice.

You smiled lightly as a predecessor to Jack’s wellbeing. “He’s fine. Glass missed his arteries. We had him patched up in around an hour and a half. Gave him a lollipop and a light sedative to get him to rest. He should be all set to go in the morning.” 

He sighed, and the amount of stress that audibly left his body made you feel a little lighter from where you stood. “Thank God.”

“Hey man, give us a little credit.” You joked, relieved when you heard the slight laugh come from his downturned head. Pity laugh, probably, but it was a cherished sound nonetheless. 

“You have full credit, Y/n.” He shook his head, raising it to look at you. “Quite the hero.”

You almost physically recoiled from the term, rushing to correct him while maintaining the lighthearted nature. “Definitely not.” You rejected the praise. “Just doing my job. I’m glad I could help him.”

He leaned back in his chair, relaxing for a second before he planned to stand up. “Noble.” He chuckled. “But you helped my son. That’s about as heroic as it gets to me, doc.”

Blood rushed to your ears at your professional title being used so affectionately. “Go check on your kid, Hotch.” You waved back towards the direction of Jack, knowing that even though he was asleep, he’d want to see him anyway. You also hoped the slight distraction would draw his attention away from your increasingly flustered state. “You’ll have plenty of time to praise me.” You weren’t entirely sure you’d wanted the sentence to exit your mouth, but it was too late to bite your tongue.

He raised his eyebrows so slightly that you scolded yourself for having noticed. Such a minuscule action that seemed to move mountains within your brain. “Oh?”

“Shut up.” You rolled your eyes at your own remark. “I’m walking away. You know what I meant.”

“Mhm.” He smiled, nodding his head dramatically and rising from his seat. “Just name a time and place, doc. I’ll do good on that promise.”

You went momentarily braindead, hoping your eyes weren’t giving away the less than work appropriate feeling pumping through your veins. You stared baffled at him for what was definitely a millisecond too long before giving a half-shocked, half-flattered laugh and gesturing him away. “Say that when you’re not obviously sleep deprived and delirious and maybe we can arrange it.” The last thing you heard was him, laughing the way you do when you’re very serious but desperately trying to pass it off as a joke. You knew it well, having done it almost every time you were around him since you started. Comfortable, witty retorts between  friends. “Have a good night, Aaron.” 

Aaron, he thought. He’d remember that.

– 

That had been the second shift between the two of you. Felt immediately by both parties and tossing you both into the deep end of whatever you’d been building with him. He’d been much more touchy, seemingly subconscious on his part but noticed by every part of your body, mind, and soul. You thought about what it could mean, then sunk even further into your incoherent mind when realizing just how subconscious the actions really were. He was just drawn to you. You had viscerally fought that conclusion as it came to you but it genuinely could not be anything else. He was touching you more because - whether on the surface or deeper down - he just wanted to, and that fact was wrecking you. You were so fucking into him that it hurt. Hurt to look at him or be in his home watching Jack or have his knee pressed against yours in the back of car during a team outing. It all hurt because he wasn’t yours. He seemed into you, too. Of course, you didn’t know to what extent. You worried maybe he hadn’t said anything yet because he simply didn’t like you enough, and that hurt more than any other factor. It was a foolish notion - one you would have abandoned instantly had you peeked inside his head - but alas, no such luck.

He’d been more relaxed, too. The two of you reaching a point in your relationship you hadn’t ever let yourself dream about. He was funny, achieving that lightness around you that you’d wanted from the start. He’d gotten riskier, amping up the dial on his remarks a bit. Starting with those like the hospital, ending with ones that made you have to take a breather in the room where they kept the coffee. It hadn’t gone unnoticed, per say, but the others were certainly ignorant to the true depth of the change. You simply couldn’t measure it by witnessing, you had to feel it. And fuck were you feeling it. 

A week or so after Jack’s ER visit, you’d asked after him. You didn’t know if the regret was immediate, but it flooded through you quickly. Aaron got nervous, shifty, like you’d touched a live wire of his and he now had to patch it up before it blew. You got concerned, asking if something happened with his stitches or if Jack was now showing some sort of trauma response to the event. Was that even plausible? You weren’t sure, PTSD wasn’t exactly your strong suit. However, he quickly stated that wasn’t the case, noting that Jack was actually in perfect health and had been relentless about wanting you over for dinner.

“He’s grateful.” Hotch was smiling with paternal reluctance, proud of his son for having such good morals but also uncomfortable with the possibility of rejection he was facing. “He wants to see you, say thank you for “saving his life.” He emphasized the last bit in a sarcastic tone, both of you knowing his life hadn’t been in danger but also knowing that fact wouldn’t deter the boy from considering you some type of guardian angel. “Would you be up for it?” If you hadn’t been so focused on snuffing out the heat rushing to your face, you would have seen that same heat reflected in a slight pink across his cheeks. 

“Definitely.” You smiled at the thought of the boy bugging his dad about getting you to the house. “When were you thinking?”

“Saturday night?” Both of you were scheduled to be off that day, and you found yourself begging whatever merciful being would listen to not have some lead to chase that day. “He’ll want the day to prepare.” He chuckled.

“Oh no.” You joked. Prepare? You couldn’t even begin to imagine what that meant. “Well, I am extremely curious to find out what an eight year old boy has to prepare for. How about seven? Would that be good?”

Aaron felt his palms start to sweat. He’d never actually been around his house when you’d been there, only seeing you on your way out. “That’s perfect.”

“Great.” You smiled, checking the time and realizing you needed to get going to the hospital. “I’m looking forward to it.” You nodded slightly as one last confirmation and headed out, suppressing a giddy smile while trying to force yourself into a headspace you could work in. 

In the meantime, Aaron watched you walk off from where he’d been perched on your desk, entirely oblivious to the man watching the scene.

“As I live and breathe.” Rossi had crept up on him, not spooking him but rather suspending him in a state of immeasurable embarrassment. “Aaron Hotcher has a crush.” The man held his shoulder, patting him there like a father witnessing his son get his first girlfriend. “She’s a good one. Quite the eye you got, Aaron.” Then he was gone, walking away with Aaron’s dignity clasped in his hands. Closing his eyes in pure mortification, Hotch simply thanked God that nobody else was around for that and walked away with the intention of fusing to his office chair to avoid ever looking at Rossi again. At least you’d said yes, he thought. He didn’t know how he’d cope with his friend watching him swing and miss.

–

The daylight seemed to be anticipating this more than you were, hours passing by like minutes until eventually the sun woke you up on Saturday morning. It was blazing through the cracks in your blinds, settling in slim lines across your floor, as light and gentle as snow. You’d been rehearsing your poker face in preparation for tonight. Writing safety manuals for any ungodly situation that could happen, everything from a fire to Aaron gaining the ability to read your mind and unearthing what you really thought about him. You were so happy that Jack held you in such high esteem, but your hands were shaking at the thought of sitting down with him and his father and acting like it wasn’t the dynamic you fucking dreamt about. You knew it was a good sign of compatibility if someone’s cat liked you - did their child liking you mean the same thing? You hoped Jack’s seemingly innate approval of you gave you at least a couple brownie points. Aaron had called you a hero. Swiftly ignoring the memory of what he’d said after he called you a hero, you pulled out your phone. You and him didn’t really speak outside of work and babysitting schedules, but you were pacing around your room and needed something to give you a semblance of structure, a reassurance - even if it was just for the time. You texted, asking if you were still on for tonight, then went to go make breakfast and inevitably pace some more. He’d gotten back to you about twenty minutes later, confirming the time and giving details of how excited Jack was about it. You smiled at that, praying tonight would be as smooth as humanly possible and you could walk away with an ounce of emotional control. You set an intention, this wouldn’t deepen your feelings for Aaron. Was it a pointless goal? Yes. Was it also highly unlikely to prove true? Yes. But the loose plan you worked around the resolution almost completely extinguished the anxiety that had been blazing for hours now. It would be fine, you thought. Completely and utterly fine. 

The same words were looping through your thoughts when you got to his front door. Casual - but still minorly more dressed up than he’d seen you. You’d put a little extra effort into your appearance, mainly to pass the time if you were honest, and you walked in with mild confidence fueling your steps. You did your best not to ogle him, he was in an attire that was already threatening to unravel the safety net of the goal you set. You were used to the suits hidden beneath blazers you cursed the existence of, maybe a snippet of his forearms when he rolled up his sleeves late at night. Now, though, he sported a simple black tee, more comfortable than you’d ever seen him. Domesticity was practically oozing from the entire situation. You felt the pieces slip into place as Jack ran up behind him, and you almost cried with how badly you wanted this feeling to be your normal. 

“Hey, buddy.” You laughed as he hugged you, reciprocating the act as well as you could from the multiple feet you had on his height. “How’s the arm?”

He raised up his wrist, now gauze free and proudly showed off the scar there. You played up the genuine admiration you felt for him. “That’s a pretty gnarly scar.” He nodded in response, probably feeling cool for the evidence he handled such an injury. “I don’t want to see you back in my operating room, you hear me? Scared the life out of us.” The scolding was playful, and he giggled at your words.

Aaron huffed in agreement, cocking his head to the side slightly. “You can say that again.” Jack looked between you two, smiling and seemingly thinking something neither of you could decipher. To break the moment of silence, Aaron patted his shoulder. “Why don’t you tell her what’s on the menu, buddy?”

He told you, and you hummed along to his words, commenting that it sounded delicious and actually meaning it. He ran away a second later - presumably back to whatever he’d been doing before you got there - and left you and Aaron alone. Venturing into the kitchen, you saw multiple pans and pots sitting neatly on the stove, table set and ready to be utilized. Everything was being kept warm, and you finally gained an appetite after having wrestled with nerves all day. 

“Do you want a drink?” He asked it while entering the kitchen, pausing to look at you. 

“Please.” You were desperate to calm yourself, eager to subdue the shaking of your hands. “Do you have any wine?” You weren’t the biggest fan, but you couldn’t think of a drink more fitting for the evening.

He nodded slightly. “Red or white?”

“White.”

He chuckled. “Thought so.” It was quiet, more to himself than you as he was already walking away from you when he said it. He’d thought about what kind of wine you liked, you thought. He’d thought about you. He pulled two wine glasses down from the cupboard, then walked over to the fridge. He reached above it, barely having to stretch, and pulled an uncorked bottle from the storage up there. You felt your legs tense looking at how tall he was, how sure he was of his actions. Jesus. It’s been five minutes and you were crumbling. You watched his hands as he uncorked the bottle, reading the label and realizing the brand.

You furrowed your eyebrows. “Seems a little fancy for a dinner.”

He laughed under his breath as he finished pouring the glasses, walking back over to sit next to you on the island stools. “You’re a guest of honor.” He placed yours in front of you. “I thought it was fitting.” 

You searched, but couldn’t find the humor in his tone. You raised your eyebrows slightly. “Am I?” It was sarcastic, you needed to stop the heat in your stomach from spreading. “I didn’t know doing your job earned such a title.”

He was drinking as you spoke, finishing his sip before joking back. “You’re a doctor.” He said. “I thought you knew that better than anyone.”

You sucked air through your teeth as if wounded by his words. “Touche.” You took a sip of your drink, relishing the taste. Damn, he didn’t come to play. He laughed, and you set your glass back down. “Ok, I have to know.” He drew his attention to you. “What the hell did Jack need the day to prepare for?” The question had been on your mind since he asked you.

He took a drink, chuckling with a mouthful then swallowing so he could reply. “He actually helped cook most of this.” He nodded towards the stove full of different dishes. “That was what he needed the day for. Time for trial and error.”

You grinned at the thought of Jack and Aaron spending the day in aprons, making sure everything turned out perfect. “That is the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He looked back towards Jack, coloring in the living room, close enough to see but far enough to miss your discussions. “He gets nervous around you.”

That surprised you. “Why on Earth would he be nervous around me?” You took your turn looking at the boy, an idea hitting you and making you feel sick. “Wait, I didn’t do something did I?”

He looked back at you, smiling. “No, no. Nothing like that. He gets nervous because he likes you. He knows who you are to me, too, so he wants to make a good impression.”

Your mind latched onto that sentence and played it like a broken record, bouncing between your ears over and over. “Oh?” Your lips were curling up at the corners, eyebrows furrowing as you got ready to hold him to that statement. “And who might I be to you, Aaron?”

Fuck. He’d let that slip past his lips without even thinking about it. So used to being in the confidential company of his son. Good thing he used to be a lawyer and could lie his ass off. “Most of his sitters aren’t also my coworkers.” He delivered it the smoothest way he could, smiling and drinking to hopefully exude a false comfortability that he certainly wasn’t feeling.

“Mhm.” You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to look sarcastic but in truth downplaying the sting you felt. What if this had been one-sided all along? You hadn’t prepped a safety guide for that.

Luckily, Jack came sprinting into the kitchen a second later, pleading with his father to eat now. Clinging to his leg and declaring how hunger was killing him by the second, dramatically threatening to wither away before your very eyes. You both shared a look, agreeing silently to put the kid out of his misery. The instinctual nature of the act hit you like a bolt of lightning. Both of you so in tune it was comical. The dinner had been lovely, and you reminded yourself to encourage Jack to keep up his cooking hobby. Maybe you could foster a professional chef. You’d talked with them both, light and the happiest you’d felt in a while. There it was, you realized. That weightless feeling you wanted to give him. You felt it in yourself too, and you could only pray it was because he felt it first. When dinner concluded, you’d help clean up while Jack resumed his coloring. His bedtime was soon, and you didn’t want him to spend his last hour washing pans. He was nearly delirious by the time 9:00 graced the clock, tired from the preparation of the day and needing to get to sleep. He’d given you a hug goodnight, thanked you for coming like the gentleman he was, and that was the last you saw of him. The rest of your time there was spent on the couch with Aaron, you both held a second glass of wine, and you noticed it manifest in the blush on his face. He was gorgeous, and you were staring. You know your eyes went to his lips a couple times as he spoke, low and rougher as the time ushered more light out of the sky. You saw his eyes slip down a few times too, this sort of unspoken, agonizing rule of look don’t touch. He’d walked you to the door, thanked you for your attendance, and then you were leaving. Sitting in your car, warm on the inside from both his presence and the anger you felt at yourself for not just kissing him. You were so incredibly needy for this - for him, and that fact just sat with you, like a raincloud constantly in a state of downpour, never letting you forget the pure fucking craving you had for him.

–

You think the start of your blackout was Morgan’s panicked voice over the speaker. You’d been stationed in your typical hut, equipped with medical gear and waiting on someone to need you. It was almost never your team in need of service, typically you were tending to an injured hostage or sometimes the unsub themselves, but never your friends. Your breath had been baited since you’d heard the gun go off. You knew the case was dealing with an aggressive attacker, you’d been expecting a fight, but nothing is ever more excruciating than waiting to hear who the shot was meant for. Derek crying out your name followed by a “get in here. Hotch is down, we need you in here.” had you ready to run the soles of your shoes down to dust just to make it in time. In time. God, in time for what? You’d ran past Emily and Rossi hauling out the unsub, anger evident in their treatment of him. How bad was it? How bad had he got him to have them acting like that?

The scene was bloody. Your brain switching off and forcing you into autopilot as you registered the pool of Hotch’s blood that Morgan was kneeling in. He was putting pressure on the wound, an attempt to stop the bleeding but it was flowing like a river. He wouldn’t make it to the hospital like this, you realized. He wouldn’t make it to the fucking hospital. You were holding his life in between your hands right now, the slightest tremor could sever that chord and you were feeling the pressure hard. Aaron was leaned against the wall, slumping down slightly which was only making the bleeding increase under the internal pressure. 

You looked at Morgan, putting on the bravest face you could muster and effectively seizing control of the situation. “Morgan.” You got his attention quickly. “On three I need you to lift him away from the wall. I need to check for an exit wound.” He just nodded, doing exactly as you’d told him when you reached three. You checked the area, finding an exit wound in nearly the same spot. It’d been a straight line. You sighed in relief. Thank fucking God. “Ok, Morgan, I need you to put pressure on the wound on his back. I’m going to stitch the front to give us the time we need for the hospital drive but I need you to hold it. You got me?” 

He nodded once. “I got it.” He moved his hand from the front to the back, Aaron wincing at the switch.

You took out the numbing cream from your pack, knowing it wouldn’t do much for a gushing bullet wound but hoping it would at least quell the sting of a needle. You took out the needle, threading it with hands frighteningly stagnant as the adrenaline gave you tunnel vision. You had to save him. “Aaron.” You looked at him as you prepped his skin for the procedure. “I’m gonna need to double stitch this, and it’s gonna hurt like hell. I need you to stay with me.” 

The man just nodded, exhaling in exhaustion. “Do it.”

You worked as quickly as possible, gaining hope as you listened to the ambulance approach. “There you go.” You said under your breath, at this point you couldn’t tell if you were reassuring him or yourself.  You looked to Morgan, who was still sealing the other injury. “Help me get him up. Keep your hand on there. These stitches are gonna give us twenty minutes tops. Hold his shoulders straight and walk quickly.” You counted again, both of you rising when you hit three, taking the man with you. The walk to the ambulance was the longest of your life. Aaron was clinging to his consciousness but you knew he was losing grip. Finally getting him to the stretcher and slamming the doors was a relief like nothing else. There was no time to debate anyone else going, you rushed him in and sat right down beside him, taking off almost immediately after. The bleeding had slowed, and your hand took the place of Morgan’s on his back. Since he was laying down, his full weight was on it, and you felt the circulation lessen more and more as it remained there. You couldn’t care less, you’d let the blood drain from your entire arm if it meant Aaron’s survival. He hadn’t passed out, which you thought was miraculous, simply walked the line of decently delirious. Groaning under his breath at every slight bump in the road. 

“Why am I always having to save you Hotchner men?” You knew now wasn’t the time to be humorous, but you would have done anything to deviate from the tears in your eyes, the ball in your throat. You finally understood why it was frowned upon to date coworkers - it should be illegal to care this much. 

“I don’t know, honey.” The pet name was the kicker, allowing a tear to break the dam and roll down your cheek as he chuckled. “You seem to be pretty damn good at it, though.” You laughed too, fighting the devastation you felt at the sight of him with the fact that he was clearly well enough to still be joking. “I should have kissed you when you came for dinner.”

Fuck. “Aaron, now is not the time.” You chuckled slightly as more tears fell. This is absurd.

“I know but-” He flinched as the ambulance hit another bump. Almost there. “I might as well say it now.” You wondered if there was genuinely something wrong with him. “You’ve been all I can think about since the moment-'' He paused to breathe slightly in exertion, you giving a disapproving look as his confession took it’s toll. “since the moment you started, you know that?”

“You are dying! Please, for the love of God, Aaron. Use this energy to prevent that from happening.” Your scolding was dramatic, but your actual concern shone brightly through your ruse of sarcasm. 

“Exactly.” He was being equally as sarcastic. How on Earth did he manage this with a rapidly declining life force. “Give a dying man a chance. How unfortunate would it be if the last thing I hear before I go out is the woman of my dreams rejecting me?”

“Jesus Christ.” You shook your head in pure amazement. This was by far the most goal oriented man you’d ever met. “I’ll let you take me out if you shut the hell up and save your energy.” He smiled, letting his head hit the reclined back of the stretcher. “After you get better.” You added, reminding him that his recovery took priority. “Deal?”

“Deal.” This was probably the most insufferable man you’d ever met. “Such a good motivator.”

Scratch that. Most insufferable man ever.

[mangostarjam]

one night (fruit) stand — bnha, todoroki shouto x gn!reader, fluff, "love" as a pet name, fruit puns sorry, pro heroes, aged up, no quirks mentioned for reader, 2.2k words

written for andie's pretty boy summer collab!

"This is for you."

The low, measured tone is a welcome respite from the joyful chaos of the farmer's market, but you balk as you look up from a basket of oranges — straight into the eyes of your one night stand.

"Wait," you say. Your brow wrinkles. The man — tall, ridiculously handsome, way out of your league — merely blinks his dichromatic eyes and lowers his hand slightly. He sets the cold can of milk tea on the table and reaches up to tilt his bucket hat a little further up his head, revealing a shock of red and white hair that looks vaguely familiar. But that's not the only thing — "You have the same bucket hat as one of our regulars. But he said it was exclusive."

"I do have the hat," the hottest guy in the world says. "I'm Todoroki Shouto. Do you remember me?"

You feel the flush burn in your cheeks and up the back of your neck as hazy memories from last night leap unbidden to your mind. There was the warm buzz of alcohol in your veins — the intimate, cozy izakaya — a flash of a charming smile and mesmerizing dichromatic eyes — your quietly giddy giggling as you twined your arms around a smooth neck to stretch up on tiptoes for a kiss — stumbling into a door, tripping over shoes in the genkan, wrapping your legs around a trim waist as your partner groaned into your mouth —

Of course you fucking remember Todoroki Shouto. That was the best night of your entire life, and he was the cause of it. But why is he standing at your farmer's market stall looking like the world's hottest model for bucket hats?

You left his beautifully rumpled bed this morning way before dawn, yanking your clothes back on and mourning the loss of his strong body curled up around your own, positive you'd never see him again. You know for a fact that he doesn't have your number or any contact info.

But now he's here. At your farmer's market stall. Wearing a disconcertingly familiar bucket hat.

Maybe it's one of those new trends? You don't keep up with heroes and wouldn't recognize their branding if it smacked you in the face, but at the very least you know that when a hero starts rising in the rankings, their merch starts popping up more and more often. The hat looks like it could be one of those — it's a solid black with orange on the inside (that clashes terribly with Shouto's hair, except he still looks unfairly good), a thin line of orange along the edge, and an embroidered… grenade… patch centered in the middle.

Why anyone would walk around wearing a grenade bucket hat, you don't know, but if it's hero merch then it makes more sense. So Shouto must be a fan of this rising hero — a huge fan, to get an exclusive hat like this, but — wait, he's staring at you and gosh, his blue and gray eyes are so gorgeous and when his lips quirk in that little lopsided smile your heart feels dangerously like it'll leap out of your chest.

"I take it you remember me," he says, still in that even tone but with an edge of laughter this time.

Your face heats even more and your hands clench around the basket of oranges. "Sorry, sorry," you clear your throat. "I just… wasn't expecting you."

Shouto nudges the can of milk tea closer to you. "I wanted to see you again," he says carefully. You glance at the can and blink. It's your favorite drink to pick up from vending machines. Did that come up last night?

"And you came here to… give me a drink?"

He nods. A light breeze ruffles the collar of his shirt. His smile tugs a little bit higher on his handsome face.

Well, then. That smile is dangerous.

Shouto waits patiently as you get called to deliver the basket of oranges you're clutching for dear life. He hovers at the side of your stall, looking woefully out of place in his bucket hat and crisp, clean clothes. You can feel a streak of dirt along your cheek and your clothes are all dusty, but every time you glance back at him, he's looking at you steadily and completely unabashedly.

It's embarrassing, but you can't deny the little thrill that shoots to your toes every time you meet his gaze. "Todoroki-san, you really don't need to wait here," you say, slipping back to him during another lull in customers. "Thank you for the milk tea, though! It's my favorite."

Shouto blinks slowly as he observes you. The scrutiny does nothing to help your nerves — it takes two tries to pop the can open, and Shouto looks endlessly amused the whole time. "I would like to wait for you," he says. A pause. You bring the can up to your lips for a sip. "And you may call me Shouto. I appreciated the way you said it last night."

You choke on your drink.

The way you said it last night — gasping into his ear, moaning into his steadily fraying kisses — oh, jeez. "Ah, fuck," you blurt out, eyes widening with horror at the stray flecks of tea you've splattered on his shirt.

"It is alright," Shouto says. He pats at the small spots delicately with his sleeve and then seems to deem it unimportant. You blink as he looks up at you from beneath messy bangs. "Are you feeling… well?"

What a question. What a look. Does he know how lethally attractive he is? You take a very careful sip of your drink. "I'm… sore."

Shouto hums in response and carefully begins rolling up the sleeves of his button up. You watch, mesmerized, as the corded muscles of his forearms and biceps flex with the sure movement. You take a slow sip of your drink with wide eyes as he finishes and sets his hands on his hips. "Let me help."

Jeez, the shoulders on this guy. You can't help staring at the breadth of him as he comes around the table and into your space. A breeze of minty cool air washes over you with the movement and suddenly your brain catches what he's said.

"W-wait, Todoroki-san," you yelp, setting your can down and reaching for him. He continues bending for the large crate by your feet, hefting it up with barely any effort at all, and you're caught standing there holding onto the edge of his shirt. "Todoroki-san, you don't need to help!"

"Call me Shouto," he says. You gape up at him uselessly. "I would not want you to injure yourself because I made you sore."

"I — you — Todoroki-san," you huff, tugging even harder on his shirt. Shouto pouts and moves to bring the crate to the small truck parked behind your stall. You're forced to follow him, wary of accidentally messing up his shirt even more, though you feel a little dazed with his pout etching itself into your brain.

"This goes here?" Shouto asks. You nod wordlessly, still processing the cutest fucking pout you've ever seen on a grown man. "Would you like to hold my hand instead, love?"

Whoa, what?

Shouto sets the crate in place and dusts off his hands before reaching down to very gently detach your death grip on his shirt. You should get your hearing checked. You're clearly hearing things, because the hottest man you've seen in your entire life couldn't have possibly just called you 'love'.

"Love?" you repeat.

Shouto's lithe fingers squeeze around yours briefly. "Would you prefer a different pet name? I recall you mentioning that you liked that one."

You snap your jaw shut. "I… did…" you say slowly. But you said that to your regular, the other bucket hat wearer, the guy who always came wearing a face mask for pollen and dark sunglasses and that exact same bucket hat that you've… never seen anywhere else…

Several things fall into place at once. You stare up at Shouto with slowly mounting horror.

"Todoroki-san, are you… Helpless Produce Guy?"

Shouto laughs. Oh. Oh, you're so stupid. That's the laugh that's plagued your dreams every day for months as you've nursed your silly crush on the worst grocery shopper you've known. "So that is what you call me."

"I've never met someone more hopeless about buying fruit and vegetables," you say blankly. "I remember teaching you how to choose carrots the other day. I can't believe this. I've been teaching you how to pick watermelon for ages and I never knew your name or face. Just that bucket hat."

"Oi, Icyhot," a rough voice suddenly speaks up from behind the two of you, and you spin around to find yourself face to face with a spiky blonde guy who is undoubtedly a hero if the huge, bulky muscles are any indication. He's wearing a face mask and sunglasses, but he's got several reusable tote bags stuffed to the brim with leafy greens and potatoes and apples hanging off his arms.

"If you don't finish flirting with your new partner soon, I'm not gonna teach you how to make my famous curry recipe," the newcomer says. Shouto seems unfazed, simply tugging you closer with your intertwined hands. "Didn'tcha say you wanted to impress 'em?"

"I believe they are impressed," Shouto says evenly, glancing down at you with the ghost of a smile flitting across his lips. "I am helping because they are sore."

It's just the slightest emphasis on "sore", but it makes you itch to kiss that stupidly handsome smug smile off his face. "I'm fine," you say.

"Gross," the other man says decisively. You snort as he spins around and stomps off to look at a particularly enticing basket of celery stalks.

"Sorry, Todoroki-san, I promise I don't call you 'Helpless Produce Guy' that often," you say.

Shouto squeezes your hand. Warmth tingles up your arm and melts your heart into giddy mush. "I don't forgive you." You gape at him. He tugs you a little closer. "I will not forgive you until you agree to call me by my name."

Is he serious? The slight wrinkle in his brow makes you think… yes.

"That's… I don't know if I can," you blush.

Shouto hums. "Then you may call me your 'boyfriend' until I can remind you how to say my name."

Holy moly. This guy.

"Alright, boyfriend," you cannot say it without ducking your head. Almost immediately, his long fingers tip your chin back up. "Are you secretly a five star gourmet chef and you've just been acting like you've never seen a basket of strawberries before?"

Shouto cracks a tiny grin that pierces your heart. "I assure you, the produce help was invaluable. However, I frequent your stall the most because I find you… lovely."

Oh, dear.

"I do not wish for our relationship to remain limited to your stall at the farmer's market," he continues, as if he isn't blowing your mind with every word out of his perfect mouth. "Hence, why I could not help but approach you when I realized we were both at that izakaya last night."

"And you… knew it was me. Even though I didn't have my work apron."

"You were telling your friends about Helpless Produce Guy," Shouto says drily. "I had a feeling I knew the subject — but yes, I would recognize you anywhere."

"Jeez, Shouto," you breathe. Those dichromatic eyes widen a fraction before narrowing as you take a step closer to him. "I didn't realize… where are your sunglasses and mask?"

He pats the front pocket of his button down assuredly. "I am prepared."

You cast a quick glance around. Your coworkers are handling the stall well, and fruits are practically flying off the shelves as Shouto's friend gives a lecture to a captive audience about the importance of fresh fruits and vegetables in a healthy diet. The two of you are tucked out of view, mostly hidden behind the truck.

"And this…" you gesture between the two of you with your free hand. "We're… dating?"

Shouto nods solemnly, but there's a sparkle in his eyes. "Yes, my love. You make my heart beat berry fast."

Your lips twitch before you can help it. "No."

"I think we make a good pear," he says. "I find you very a-peel-ing."

You burst into giggles and Shouto tugs you into his firm chest. The sturdy, steadily increasing heartbeat beneath your ear isn't quite loud enough to drown out your own rapidly leaping pulse.

"If you were a fruit you'd be a fineapple," he says into your ear. You shudder lightly at the low, even tone but snort at his deadpan delivery, soft as it is. "Is this okay? You said once that you liked these puns."

"I do," you nod. "And I'd love to date you. Since you have a peach of my heart."

"Good," he murmurs. You tip your head up to look at him and beam at the gentle blush rising on his cheeks. Shouto leans down to press a careful kiss to your lips, drawing back after a moment with a shaky breath. "I was running out of lines."

"Don't you mean you were running out of limes?" you snicker.

Shouto stares. And then, still with that soft, deadpan tone — "Every day with you will be mangonificent."

[munson-blurbs]

Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9

Summary: It's finally time for your coffee date with Eddie, leading the two of you to fall even harder for each other.

Warnings: brief mention of drug dealing, Reader's grandma has dementia, character death

WC: 6.5k

Chapter 9/20

Divider credit to @saradika

The lime green numbers of the microwave clock reads 11:57, which means that Eddie will be here any minute. You drag your palms on the thighs of your boot-cut jeans, triple-checking that your perspiration hasn’t left a visible stain on the light-wash fabric.

“Okay, her lunch is in the fridge. And the number of the coffee shop is on the counter,” you tell Jess, pointing to the scrap of notebook paper in front of her. “If you need something, just call, and I’ll come home.”

Jess waves away your concern with a kind smile. She’d been pleading with you to get out there and date for ages now, and she was just glad you’d finally taken her advice. Though, you note wryly, she would not be happy if she knew who that date was.

“We’ll be fine,” she reassures you, bracing a hand on your shoulder. “If anything, we’ll need to check on you. Who is this mystery date, anyway?” 

“Just a guy,” you say, trying to remain light and casual while simultaneously fighting down the barrage of nerves in your stomach.

Jess takes a step back, wrinkling her nose and crossing her arms over her chest. “Oh, God, it’s not one of those creeps from a dating hotline, is it? Because I’ve never heard of one of those that didn’t end up on 48 Hours.”

“No, no, don’t worry,” you shake your head, spotting a piece of lint on your cable knit sweater and plucking it off carefully. You flick it off of your finger, silently berating yourself when you remember that you’ll have to vacuum it later. “It’s a guy from around here.”

Your friend wipes imaginary sweat from her brow as the buzzer rings. You race to the intercom to let him in before he can say anything, but your reflexes are too slow.

“Hey, it’s me.” The sound of his voice has your body pulsing, an eager grin tugging at your lips despite your intentions to keep calm. His slight rasp has you craving the sting of tobacco just to flatten your nerves.

You clear your throat before speaking. “Okay, I’ll be right down.” Grabbing your jacket from where you’ve haphazardly thrown it over the back of the couch, you’ve almost made it to the door, when—

“No. No.” You cringe at the way Jess’s words bite into your excitement. “Please tell me that your date is not Eddie Munson.” You can only offer her a sheepish grin, and she rolls her eyes. “Seriously?!”

You huff out a sigh, both impatient to go on the date and flustered at being caught. “Look, he’s changed. A lot.”

“Oh, you mean he stopped calling you a bitch and making shitty comments about your grandma?” Jess snorts. “How chivalrous.”

There’s no time to explain everything that’s happened, so you simply say, “I’ll be back in two hours,” before closing the door behind you, making sure that it latches before you start down the hallway. 

Eddie is waiting in the tiny lobby. He’s leaned up against the double doors, tapping one Reebok-clad foot and examining his fingernails anxiously. A memory crashes over you; one where his nails are painted jet black, though there hasn’t been any polish on them in some time. 

He smiles as soon as he spots you, standing up straighter and walking to meet you before you can get to the door. “Hey,” he says softly, letting his hand brush yours as he kisses your cheek. 

“Hey, yourself.” You want to kiss him back, but not on his cheek. Your lips yearn to crash against his once more; this time, anchored in belonging rather than lust. Instead, you manage a compliment. “You clean up nice.”

It’s the truth. His gray jeans are free of any holes, sometimes intentional but often the result of overwearing. The sleeves of his red sweater are pushed up slightly, exposing the litany of tattoos on his arms, and it occurs to you that you want to know each of their origins. 

“Can’t lie, Harris helped pick out my clothes today,” he admits. “He caught me trying to figure out what to wear and we finally agreed on this.” He sweeps a hand down his side to emphasize his point. 

“Was the ponytail his idea, too?” His curls are pulled back and rest at the nape of his neck. 

Eddie shakes his head with a laugh as his cheeks tinge pink. “Nah, that was all me.” He pauses, gaze briefly landing on your mouth before his eyes are drawn back to yours. “You’re…you’re beautiful.”

You try to shrug off the compliment, still caught off-guard by his kindness. You wonder when—or if—that unease will dissipate. “I think you’re just used to seeing me with Play-Doh stuck to my shirt,” you tease, but he doesn’t break his trance. 

“You’re always beautiful.” The sincerity of his statement clings to a silence that should be awkward, but is somehow comforting. After a few seconds, he clears his throat, lifting the fog of budding romance that clouds the lobby. “Let’s go get some coffee, yeah?”

Eddie takes your hand in his when you nod, leading you to his car and opening the passenger door for you. He sweeps his hand in the direction of the seat, and you giggle.

“Such a gentleman.”

He doesn’t divulge that Wayne reminded him to open doors for you when he’d come over to the apartment for dinner last night, or that the older man had slipped him a crumpled ten dollar bill and whispered, “get her something to eat, too,” punctuating his statement with a wink.

His left leg bounces as he starts the engine and he grates his teeth over his lower lip. He doesn’t even realize that he’s doing either of these things until you timidly rest a hand on his right knee and ask, “You okay?”

“Mhm,” he mumbles, gliding the gear shift from ‘park’ to ‘reverse’ as he backs out of his spot. “Just, uh, been a long time since I’ve gone on a date.” And never with someone so goddamn perfect, he wants to add, but he’s stopped by the fear of coming on too strong.

You graze your thumb over the gray denim and smile at him. “Well, you’re doing great so far.”

“Yeah?” Eddie grins at your reassurance, the soft dimples at the corners of his mouth deepening. 

“Yeah.”

He turns on the radio with a slight snap of his wrist, shifting the skull ring that wraps around his middle finger. A metal song comes on that you don’t recognize, drumbeats thumping through the old speakers. Eddie winces, nudging the volume down so he can hear himself speak over the impending guitar solo. “You can change it to something you like better.”

“Nah, this is fine,” you shake your head. “Kinda warming up to heavier music since someone gave me a Guns ‘N Roses tape.”

Eddie’s eyebrows brush the edge of his tousled bangs in surprise. “You really listen to it?”

“All the time,” you confirm truthfully. It’s quickly become one of your favorites; each time you play it, you’re reminded of Harris dressed as a miniature Axl Rose, drawing a picture of you and Eddie holding hands. Not to mention the way that Eddie adoringly gazed at you while you calmed his son down, quickly throwing together an art project and saving the day.

“How’s Grandma?” he asks now, pressing on the brake as he approaches a stop sign.

“Same as always. Her aid had to take her to the hospital the other day because she fell, and she’s been losing more language.” You try to play it off like it doesn’t bother you, but your heart pangs as you speak. When she was initially diagnosed, you’d known that she’d forget who people were, but you hadn’t realized that she would eventually forget how to talk. “Good news is, she hasn’t lost her appetite for Oreos. I have to keep the package you brought over hidden away so she doesn’t eat them all.”

Eddie laughs at this. “Told you; there’s nothing Oreos can’t fix.” He pulls into the cafe parking lot and snags the first available spot he sees. “I really am sorry that you have to see that, though. It can’t be easy.”

You keep your eyes trained on the dashboard, knowing that you’ll tear up if you catch a glance of his sympathetic expression. “‘S just par for the course with dementia, I guess.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything else–he isn’t sure what to say–as he kills the engine. He clicks off his seatbelt to scramble to your door, but it gets snagged in the crook of his elbow, yanking him back.

“Jesus, shit,” he grumbles, untangling himself from the trap he’d inadvertently created. “Don’t move; I’m not done being a gentleman.”

You put your hands up in surrender, watching as he walks to your side and opens the door. “Wow, that was such a surprising gesture,” you mock him, letting out a breathless scoff when he flips you the bird. “Giving me the middle finger kinda negates the whole ‘gentleman’ thing, dontcha think?”

Eddie pretends to consider this, crossing his arms over his chest while shifting his weight to one leg, bringing his hand to his freshly-shaved chin. “Mm, nope.” He helps you out of the seat, still not letting go of your hand once you’re standing next to his car. He holds it tighter, so you can feel every etch of the lifelines across his palm.

The mouth-watering scent of warm pastries and freshly brewed coffee swirls throughout the cafe, wafting to your nose as soon as you open the door. Or, more precisely, as soon as Eddie opens the door for you. You assume he’ll slip his fingers back through yours after you’re both inside, but he hesitates before letting his palm hover on the small of your back. You can barely feel the pads of his fingertips through your thick sweater, but as soon as you give him a smile, he allows himself to hold you a bit closer.

A chipper, twenty-something barista whose name tag reads Stephanie greets you as you approach the counter. “Hi! What can I get you folks?” 

Eddie nudges you to place your order, which you give with a polite smile. “Just a coffee with room for milk,” you tell her. 

You turn to Eddie so he can give his order, but he says softly, “Get something to eat, too.” He points to the display of baked goods before you, and you peer into the case. The prices are listed next to each item, and you furrow your brow at the $2 brownie. 

“Oh, s’okay,” you murmur, trying to play it off. The last thing you need is for Eddie to think you’re pitying him, which, okay, maybe you are. He just doesn’t have to know that. “You can get something, though.”

He shakes his head with a grin. “I’m not falling for that trick, Sweetheart.” It’s odd to hear the nickname without the prefix Ms. in front of it, or without a sneer in his voice. It’s kind, comforting, dare you even venture…a term of endearment? “You tell me you don’t want anything, and then you end up eating half of what I pick. Nope, you’re getting your own.”

“Fine, fine,” you roll your eyes playfully, eventually settling on a blueberry muffin. Eddie’s coffee order is the same as yours, but he gets a chocolate chunk cookie with his. He digs into his back pocket for his wallet, worn and frayed around the edges, and pulls out a ten-dollar bill, leaving a remaining dollar in the colorful jar marked ‘Tips’.

You grab the plated pastries and Eddie shuffles behind with the coffee mugs, gently placing them on the counter next to the silver thermoses and baskets of sugar packets. You pour a bit of milk into yours, watching in amusement as Eddie dumps some of the coffee into the trashcan, filling the mug with half & half and tearing open three Domino packets. 

“You want some coffee with that sugar bomb?” you gently tease, and he flicks your shoulder with a dramatic pout on his lips. 

“I’d rather this than whatever bitter concoction you’re drinking,” he retorts, taking an exaggerated sip from his mug and punctuating it with an aaaahhh. 

You roll your eyes. “You really should be grateful that I like bitter things. If I didn’t, then I wouldn’t like you.” Your response earns you another flick to the shoulder before Eddie brings the drinks to a table tucked away in the corner. 

You set the cookie in front of him and the muffin at your spot across from him, pulling a crumb from the side and popping it in your mouth. The sweetness of the pastry with the slightly sour berry is heaven on your tongue. 

“‘S good?” Eddie asks, smiling brightly when you nod your head. “Wanna try a bite of mine?” He breaks off a piece, and a smattering of crumbs fall to the table. You expect him to place the piece in your hand; instead, he leans over and brings it to your lips. His fingertips brush against them, parting them ever-so-slightly. An electric buzz hums down your spine, and you wonder if he feels it, too. 

You’re careful not to let your tongue graze his fingers as you take the chocolate-flecked dessert into your mouth. Eddie, however, is in no rush. He lingers, slowly moving the rough pads of his fingers across your soft lips. In doing so, he wipes away rogue remnants of the cookie he just fed you, though you strongly doubt that that was his intention. 

“Here, try mine.” You pinch off a piece of the muffin, a bit bigger than the piece you took for yourself, and bring it to him. His lips close around the very tips of your thumb and forefinger where you’re holding the bite of muffin. You feel the brief flicker of his tongue, gone before you can even process it, taking the muffin piece with it. 

“Not bad,” Eddie says with a grin. “I don’t usually like fruit in my dessert, but I’d make an exception for that. Could definitely use some more chocolate, though.” As if to illustrate his sentiment, he takes a comically large bite of his cookie. 

“One of these days, I’ll get you to eat a vegetable.” You mean it as a joke, a ribbing towards his poor eating habits, but it implies that you’ll stick around. That you care about him. You’re unclear about how he interpreted your statement, so you quickly change the subject before he can think about it. “I do have a question for you. Completely unrelated to the lack of nutrients in your diet.”

Eddie ignores the teasing jab and takes another bite of cookie. “Shoot.”

“The, uh, lock-picking kit,” you start, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your nerves calm. “Do you just keep them laying around?” You hate the idea of him using it to commit break-ins. If that was the truth, would he even admit it to you?

But Eddie just laughs, sipping his barely-coffee with a knowing smirk. “When Harris was about two, Wayne was watching him. He left for a second to grab the mail and the little stinker locked him out.”

“Out of the trailer?!” you ask incredulously, jaw dropping in shock.

“Out of the trailer,” Eddie confirms, shaking his head as though he still can’t believe it himself. “So, yeah. Ever since that happened, I’ve kept a lock-picking kit in my car.” He takes a deep breath, looking into your eyes with a gaze that makes your heart skip a beat. He drums his fingertips on the table as he says, “Tell me about you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you,” Eddie accentuates his request with a quick poke of your hand before returning his grip to the mug handle. “Like, how did you end up being the one schlepping out to Hawkins to take care of Grandma?”

You shrug and bring the hot cup to your lips, letting the steam tickle your nose before you drink. “She and I were always really close, and teaching is a job that’s everywhere. It was just easier for me to pick up and move, I guess.”

Eddie pauses, nodding as he considers his next question. He rubs his palm back and forth on the side of his mug; there’s an air of nervousness around him. “Tell me about her. Grandma, I mean. Like, how she was before she got sick.”

“Where do I start?” It’s strange, you think, the way memories work. Sometimes it seems like the more Grandma forgets, the more you remember. You’ll just be lesson planning, or hurriedly making photocopies at work, or heating up leftovers in the microwave, and a memory will crash over you. Suddenly, you’re plucked from reality and transported to Benny’s Diner where you and she used to split a giant stack of pancakes. Or to the shoe store where she’d buy you a new pair of sneakers every August before the start of the new school year. “She just loved taking care of people. Cooking for them or cheering them up. She wasn’t the type of person to tell you to stop crying when you’d get upset, y’know? She’d sit there with you, rub your back, and let you get all the tears out.” You muster a wistful smile in a paltry attempt to hide the shame blooming in your chest. “It’s all so fucked, the way I talk about her like she’s gone when she’s still here.”

 “No.” Eddie’s voice is soft yet adamant. “I don’t think it’s fucked at all. Because, I dunno, it’s like she’s not here, in a way. Physically, yeah; but almost like…” He stops himself to avoid speaking out of turn and making a fool of himself.

“Like she’s a shell of who she used to be,” you finish for him, and relief floods his body when you understand the point he’s trying to make.

He nods. “Exactly.” He smooths his ponytail reflexively. “I think you’re a lot like her. How she was, anyway. The way you’re always looking out for people, like…let’s say…a bitter wannabe rockstar and his adorable yet mischievous son?”

“That’s the best compliment I’ve gotten in a long time.” It’s all you want, really–to spread joy and kindness to others, filling in gaps that have remained empty for so long that they seemingly go unnoticed. “Maybe ever, actually.”

Good, Eddie wants to say. He wants to whisper sweet nothings into your ear, each one kinder than the last, until you’re utterly flustered. Instead, he abruptly changes the subject and asks, “What made you wanna be a teacher?”

This is a much easier question for you to answer. “I just love seeing kids learn,” you beam. “Being able to do things they couldn’t do before; things they never thought they’d be able to do.”

He returns your smile easily; something about hearing you speak about your profession with such gratification has him buzzing.“Speaking of which,” he says, sneaking a mouthful of cookie between words, “I took Harris to the supermarket yesterday. And when we passed by the seafood section, he points to a sign, sounds out cuh-ahh-d, and goes, ‘that says cod!’”

“That’s incredible! Look at our little reader go!” You could jump out of your seat with excitement, held back only by the desire to not go overboard in your display of enthusiasm.

Eddie nods in agreement. “I was so proud, I damn near bought all of the candy in the store.” He cocks his head, amusement tugging the corners of his lips upwards. “Any idea where he learned how to read like that?”

“Not a clue.” You try to force a deadpan expression to reinforce the sarcasm in your remark, but your happiness betrays you in the form of a giggle. You clap a hand over your mouth, but he reaches out to pull it down, keeping your fingers clasped with his.

He strokes his thumb over your knuckles, watching the digit sweep back and forth for a moment. “You really are pretty, y’know.” The admission feels like a weight has been both removed from and added to his shoulders. Now you know how he feels, but now you know how he feels.

You, meanwhile, are far less fixated on his vulnerability and focus instead on his phrasing. The opportunity has presented itself so perfectly, and you have to seize it.

“Like a princess?” Your eyes gleam with playfulness.

“Wha–oh, Christ.” Eddie’s features shift from confusion to embarrassment over the span of a second. “What did that kid tell you?”

“Not a lot,” you say nonchalantly, taking an innocent swig of coffee. It’s cooled down considerably, but you’ve never been one to let a drop of caffeine go to waste. “Just that you think I’m ‘pretty like a princess.’”

Eddie uses his free hand to rub his eyes, swiping his thumb and forefinger across the lids. “What a little snitch.”

“It’s true, then?” You perch your chin in your hand, batting your eyelashes and reveling in his awkwardness. His cheeks flush red and a nervous chuckle splices the silence between you.

“To be fair,” he finally counters, trying to gather his thoughts before they scatter again, “I was asked if I thought you were pretty like a princess. I didn’t, like, come up with that on my own.”

You purse your lips into a pout, feigning disappointment. “So you don’t think I’m pretty like a princess?”

“N-No, you are!” He takes a deep breath and composes himself as he notices you trying to hold in your laughter. “All right, which would you prefer? We talking trading your fins for legs or losing your glass slipper at a ball?”

“Neither,” you chide, scratching at the base of your neck absentmindedly. “More like…bookworm who rescues people in need no matter what the personal cost and captures the heart of the town outcast.” You hope that he doesn’t take offense to that last part, as true as it might be.

“So…Belle?” Eddie chuckles when you raise your eyebrows at him. “What? I have a little ankle biter, I know Disney movies.”

“Harris would never bite your ankles,” you scoff, grinning at the mere thought of the littlest Munson gnawing at the bottom of his dad’s legs mid-tantrum. “He’d just lock you out of the house until he gets what he wants.”

Eddie lifts his half-drank cup of coffee. “I’ll drink to that,” he agrees, and you gently knock your mug into his. The porcelain rims make a slight clink as they touch, echoes muffled by the chipped edges.

“So,” you start, allowing yourself to swim in his deep brown eyes for a beautiful moment before you pivot the conversation. “Why did you move to Chicago? Why not, like, LA or New York?”

He shrugs, wiping the residue of a coffee mustache from his upper lip. “Guess I wanted to stay kinda close to home. In case something happened to Wayne, or the music thing didn’t work out, or,” he smiles wryly, “if I knocked up a groupie and needed help raising a newborn.” 

You press your lips together to stifle a giggle of your own, careful not to smudge whatever’s left of the lipstick you meticulously applied earlier. “So you moved back after Harris was born?”

“Yeah, when he was about…” Eddie silently does the math in his head, “a month old? Six weeks, maybe? When I realized that the whole ‘parenting’ thing is a hell of a lot harder than I thought. Especially doing it alone.” He drops his voice to a whisper as though he’s about to divulge a great secret. “Did you know that babies wake up, like, every half hour?”

“You don’t say?” Sarcasm is thickly woven into your tone. “Tell me more, Dr. Spock.”

Eddie snatches the muffin from your plate and takes an unprompted bite in retaliation. He chews like a cow on cud, slow and deliberate, relishing in his baked good thievery. You watch, unblinking, as a smirk crosses his face. “All right, smartass,” he snorts once he finally swallows, “not all of us specialize in taking care of kids.” He breaks off a hunk of his cookie and leaves it on your plate, a delicious peace offering that you gladly accept. “Anyway, Wayne let us stay with him until I found a place. Took a while to build up some funds, but I finally managed.”

“Where were you working?”

His face blanches at your question, and he finds himself inclined to bunch the paper napkin into a ball and shove it in his mouth to avoid answering. “Wh-What?”

“You said you had to build up some funds,” you explain, as though it were a convoluted construct. “Were you at the music store back then?”

“Oh, um. No.” Quicksand. Volcano eruption. A piano falling from the sky like in a classic Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote showdown. Eddie would’ve taken any of these options over giving you an answer. “I went back to my old high school gig of, uh, dealing.” His cheeks are beet red, the heat radiating from them is the only distraction from the shame curdling in his lungs. 

He keeps his eyes on the floor; to his surprise, your feet remain planted on the ground. You’re not leaving. “Oh.” Your voice draws him back to reality. “But you don’t…”

“Nope.” Eddie shakes his head. “I’m totally done with that scene. It’s just minimum wage, on-the-books bullshit for me now. I even pay taxes.” He laughs when you roll your eyes. “Although…the manager is transferring to another store soon.”

You slam your hands on the table in excitement, eyes alight with joy at this new opportunity for him. “Eddie, you have to apply!” Your eagerness fades when you notice the frown on his face. Shit, did he think you were telling him what to do? “I’m sorry if–”

“Nah, you’re good.” He bites his thumbnail without thinking, withdrawing it from between his front teeth when he sees you watching him. “‘S not like I haven’t considered it. Just feels like…if I do that, I’m officially giving up on the whole rockstar dream. Like I’m closing that chapter of my life.”

This time, you’re the one who holds onto him. His palm is pressed flat on the Formica table, and you bring your fingers underneath it to scoop his hand into yours. You give it a quick squeeze, watching a delicate smile develop across his lips. “Is that necessarily a bad thing, though? You’re not giving up on anything; you’re just shifting your priorities to make sure that Harris is always number one.” He nods halfheartedly, but you continue. “And you can always get back into music, find another band, or…maybe even make up with the Corroded Coffin guys?”

Eddie sighs, taking a strand of hair that’s fallen from its rubber band enclosure and tucking it behind his right ear. “Yeah. Maybe.” He doesn’t quite believe it; not after the terrible things he said to Jeff. Not after Gareth said he doesn’t look up to him anymore. A Corroded Coffin reunion seems about as likely as Wayne becoming a Radio City Rockette. He clears his throat and shifts his gaze back to you. “This is, uh, not first date conversation.”

You laugh at this, nodding in agreement. “No, it most certainly isn’t.” You use your free hand to take a final swig of coffee, now on the cooler side of lukewarm. “But I don’t think you and I have done anything conventionally, so it seems to be par for the course.”

Eddie shifts in his seat to lean in closer. He’s heard your response, but he’s not accepting it. Just because things began backwards didn’t mean they had to continue that way. “Tell me about you,” he says. “What do you like to do for fun? Like, hobbies and stuff.”

Your mind goes blank, as though you’ve never enjoyed any activity in your life. “Hmm,” you ponder, trying to remember a moment that wasn’t spent lesson planning or breaking up big arguments between small humans or taking care of an elderly woman who couldn’t stand you half the time. “I really love to cook,” you finally manage, thinking of the hours when you and Grandma stood in her kitchen, preparing meals or snacks or baked goods to munch on.

“No shit!” Eddie blurts out, eyes widening. “I really love to eat.”

“I’ll have to cook for you sometime,” you tell him. Surprisingly, you’re not shy when you say it. The image of you standing before the stove, stirring a pot on a burner or taking a tray of roasted vegetables from the oven while Eddie and Harris set the kitchen table, warms you from the inside out. You express your love by making meals for others, just like Grandma does. Did. “Your favorite food is olives, right?”

Eddie rolls his eyes playfully, crossing his arms over his chest and sitting back in his seat. He opens his legs slightly as he bites the inside of his lower lip to hide his smile. “I hate you sometimes, y’know that?”

“Yeah, I hate you, too.”

As soon as you and Eddie step out of the little cafe hand in hand, the bitter slap of winter is all-consuming. Snow flurries flutter to the ground, melting as soon as they touch the faded green grass. The coldness of the flakes stings the tip of your nose, and you wiggle it to try to ward off the impending numbness.

Eddie breaks the connection to dig out a crumpled pack of cigarettes from one pocket and his lighter from the other. He flicks the switch a few times before it finally catches as he shields the flame from the harsh winds. As soon as it does, he tucks the lighter away and immediately re-laces his left fingers with your right, taking a long drag and offering it out to you with a grin.

“Since you’re just a social smoker and don’t keep any on you,” he says with a twinkle in his eyes. You wonder how he could possibly know this until memories of that fateful night at the Hideout come roaring back to you. You and Eddie standing outside, making painfully awkward small talk while you figured out how to initiate a sexual encounter.

You inhale, letting the tobacco mingle with the taste of coffee and muffin already saturating your tongue, and pass the cigarette back to him. It’s a slow walk to his car; the two of you take your time as you breathe in smoke and each other’s closeness. Eddie lets you kill out the cigarette, eyes never leaving your body as you stub it into a nearby ashtray.

“I have a little confession to make,” he begins, quickly amending his statement when he catches the horrified expression on your face. “No, nothing bad; I swear!” He laughs lightly when you exhale, pressing your hand to your heart in relief. “Okay, the reason I took you out for coffee is because, well, I figured if things went well, I’d know your coffee order and could bring it to you at work or something? Like when I drop Harris off in the morning.”

The early December chill dissipates at his offer. Just the thought of Eddie memorizing your coffee order, handing you the styrofoam cup with a chaste kiss to your cheek so that none of your students or co-workers can catch you, fills you with a buzzing warmth. “I’d really like that.”

“Good,” Eddie nods, stopping at his parked car. You spot Harris’s carseat in the back, reminding you of the night Eddie drove you to his place after his show. The way he tried to hide the existence of his son from you, as though it would deter you from pursuing anything further. You can’t help but wonder how many women had turned him down after learning that he’s a dad. It has to be a decent amount, a pattern that developed, for him to become so jaded and guarded over it.

His calloused thumb ghosts over your cheek, though you can hardly feel it after being exposed to the stinging air. His gaze meets yours and he holds it, chocolate orbs fueling the fire within you.

“Feels weird asking to kiss you after we’ve already…” he trails off with a chuckle, tone laced with ambivalence. The last time he’d pressed his lips to yours, he didn’t want to stop, which scared the living shit out of him. And that was under the pretense of casual sex, not intended to go any farther than a one-night stand. But now? Now he was about to kiss you after a date, after telling you that you look pretty, after admitting that planned to get you coffee in the mornings.

If he kisses you now, there’s no going back.He’s sealing the deal, opening himself up to heartbreak, the potential to be crushed when the relationship comes to a screeching halt.

But, he reminds himself silently, it also means someone to watch movies with. Someone to buy flowers–or coffee–for. Someone to hold, to touch. Someone to share stories with, from the mundane tasks of the day to big, exciting news. Someone who I could love, who could love me and my boy.

“Eddie?” Your voice breaks into his mind, overrun with racing thoughts about the good, the bad, and the ugly of falling in–

You bring your lips to his, effectively silencing his inner monologue. His right hand stays on your face as his left grips your waist to return the kiss, deepening it with a gentle prod of his tongue. It’s wanting, but not hungry, like he’s savoring every last bite of a long-time craving. He wants this, he wants you, forever. He swears he’d never let you go if he didn’t have an oversugared, overtired four-year-old to attend to.

“You are…” he murmurs, nudging his nose with yours, but he has no idea how to end the sentence. Perfect? Mine? The one for me? “...the best.” It feels like a cop-out, but he doesn’t want to come on too strong. The irony is not lost on him that he had no problem spewing insults at you, but hesitates when it comes to affection.

“The best coffee date?” you tease, resting your hands on his chest. The sweater’s scratchy wool itches your palms, and you can’t imagine he’ll make it ten steps through the door before changing into one of his signature band tees.

“Yes. No. Yes.” He kisses your nose, an electric spark flying between you. “But also just…the best.” His fingers clasp around the door handle as he begrudgingly opens your door, not wanting the date to end. “Shall I take you home?”

No, you think, biting back your protest. No, take me to your place. Kiss me more, kiss me deeper, kiss me where the curve of my hips meets the plush of my thighs. Let me help you with your sweater; you’ll be so much more comfortable without it, Eddie.

“Okay,” you manage, sliding into your seat. He closes the door once you’re inside, jogging around to his side with a breathy chuckle.

“Gotta keep warm,” he says, turning the key in the ignition. The car rumbles to life, and as soon as he’s out of his parking spot, he takes your hand once again. Your intertwined fingers rest atop the gearshift for the entire drive to your building.

He turns off the car and faces you. “Let me walk you in.” Five simple words that ordinarily would preface sex; Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever uttered them in that order without at least the anticipation of getting laid. But there’s none of that now. He just wants to spend as much time with you as he can, before the spell is broken and he turns back into a pumpkin. Could the prince turn back into the Beast? he wonders wryly.

You cock your brow. “You sure about that? What if Grandma’s gotten herself into more trouble?”

“I’m willing to take that risk.” And he is. He’d risk everything, and for the first time in a long while, he’s not running from that feeling.

Luckily, there’s no crisis when you and Eddie arrive on your doorstep. You trade a few more giggle-laced kisses before you finally part.

The stars align on Monday morning, with Harris actually cooperating and getting ready with enough time for Eddie to stop off at the cafe to get your coffee. Okay, letting him have a Pop-Tart for breakfast instead of cereal definitely helped the situation, but it was a special occasion! And it’s not like he could tell Harris that he needed to pick up coffee for Ms. Sweetheart; the kid would be hiring caterers for a wedding if he knew. 

Eddie had wanted to call you on Sunday, maybe see if you wanted to go to the playground with him and Harris and get some ice cream afterwards, but he’d ultimately decided against it. Give it some time; don’t be too eager. 

It occurs to him that bringing you coffee is something that a boyfriend would do, and he hasn’t actually asked you to be his girlfriend yet. Do adults do that? Or is it just kinda implied? Shit, maybe I can take her out again this weekend and ask, just to be sure.

He gives Harris a hug and a kiss goodbye, careful not to spill any of the hot beverage as he crouches down to his height. Jitters course through his veins as he approaches your classroom, but he knows that the joy on your face–either from his kind gesture or the prospect of caffeine–will make it all worth it.

When he gets there, he only sees Will. He can’t stick around long; he doubts his boss will accept trying to impress my maybe-girlfriend as a valid excuse for tardiness.

“Hey, Byers,” Eddie calls out with a wave, pointing to the cup. “I’m just gonna leave this on her desk, if that’s cool.” He spots a black Sharpie and is about to use it to write Date night on Friday? when he catches Will’s expression. It’s a combination of confusion and sadness, with his brows pinching together as he walks over to Eddie. 

Will shoves his hands in his pants pockets. “Um, she’s not coming in today. Probably not for the rest of the week.”

“Is she okay?” Worry mars Eddie’s confidence, and the sense of dread only worsens when Will quietly ushers him to the corner of the room away from the kids. “Is she sick or something?” he adds once the students are out of earshot. Will looks up at Eddie, though the height gap has decreased considerably since he was a freshman and Eddie was working through his third senior year. His eyes are shiny with tears, and he blinks them back and clears his throat. “Eddie…” he says softly, “her grandma died last night.”

--

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[eomayas]

his friends and his dad hate me • chs

pairing: non-idol!vernon x fuckgirl!reader, fwb

genre: smut 18+ MINORS DNI!!! angst

synopsis: you broke his little heart, he’s a cry baby. OR, reader excels in the male dominated field of being a female fuckboy! (based off ‘crybaby’ by megan thee stallion)

warnings: p in v, oral (m receiving), fingering, riding, vernon gets his heart broke, reader is not a good person

a/n: i’ve had this in my drafts for awhile and needed to finish it 😭 i love when readers are morally gray or just wrong & bad! pls remember this is just fiction ok thx!

despite the protests from his friends and the little (though extremely loud) voice in the back of his head telling him this is a horrible idea, vernon grabs his car keys and tries to slip out of his apartment. “dude, we didn’t even get to finish the game! get back here!” wonwoo shouts, frustration clear in his voice. it’s bible in their friend group to finish any smash tournament that’s started, and he’s breaking the one and only most important rule.

“later!” vernon says, hand on the door knob. he’s sort of stalling, sort of wants to be told that he has to stay behind. the thing is, he’s pathetic, especially when it comes to you. he’d cross all seven seas to get to you, if you asked.

“she doesn’t even like you!” soonyoung shouts. vernon sighs and rolls his eyes, walking down to the hallway and stopping at the entrance of the living room. five of his friends look at him with mild disappointment and he puts his hands up in surrender.

“first of all, she invited me over so you’re wrong—and secondly, you’d all do the same if you had prospects but you don’t,” vernon says, letting out a breath. it felt good for him to fight back like that, though soonyoungs comment does leave him feeling sort of doubtful. very doubtful, actually, because he knows there’s some truth in his statement whether he wants to acknowledge it or not.

minghao and joshua share a look and vernon sighs. “fuck you guys,” he says.

“yeah, whatever. but don’t come back here crying,” soonyoung says, a shit eating grin on his face. vernon flips him off, face flushing in embarrassment at the memory of him getting so drunk that he cried in mingyus arms at the club over you. they’ve never been able to let it go, bringing it up every time your name is mentioned. it’s mortifying, but a slight wake up call. except he’s not thinking with his head right now.

they all snicker, but minghao manages to give him a sympathetic shrug. it doesn’t do much to alleviate the doubt in his head, but the support is nice. simply put, his friends are not fans of you, and he doesn’t necessarily blame them. your relationship started out rocky and unserious—he was a late night booty call for you and a fill-in boyfriend without the title. he did boyfriend things with you—for you, thought you two were together until you dropped the bomb that you didn’t like him or want him like that. he was crushed, but he played it cool and told you that he wasn’t looking for a relationship anyway. that only made things worse, seeing that you only called him when you wanted some attention, and constantly made him feel like you wanted him.

the crying in the club bit was the straw that broke the camels back for his friends. they had a mock-intervention for him, urging him to delete your number and to find somebody else, but as if you were summoned at the mention of vernon moving on, you’d called him a few days later and got him back where you wanted him. he hasn’t been able to escape you since, caught in some spell or trap you put him under.

“whatever,” vernon mutters, pulling off his cap to run his fingers through his hair. “i’m leaving now.” he declares, urging himself to actually make the move to leave.

he’s halfway to the door when minghao calls out to him by saying, “my therapist would call this self-destructive behavior!”

vernon doesn’t have time to deeply evaluate his behavior as ‘self-destructive’, because he spends the twenty minute drive to your place psyching himself up. that alone should be indicative of the issue with seeing you, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. instead, he bumps his music and drums his fingers against the steering wheel.

it’s not lost on him that he was able to make it to your place without directions, though he forgot how complicated the apartment parking lot was. by the time he finds a spot that he won’t get towed and/or fined in, he’s much later than when he said he’d be at your place.

vernon sends you a quick ‘here’ text before making his way towards the door to your apartment building. he presses the buzzer for your unit, and his pulse skyrockets. in the few seconds that it takes for you to answer, he spirals thinking of every negative possibility of your encounter. what if you really do hate him, like soonyoung said? and, if not, what if he sucks in bed? what if he says something stupid? what if you find out he’s a complete and utter loser?

“vernon?” your voice crackles through the intercom and shoots straight to fast beating heart, halting his mental spiral of doom, and putting him back in the moment. he’s nervous in a different way now. he’s so unsure of himself around you sometimes—which is definitely a sign that he should cut ties with you.

“y-yeah,” he clears his throat quickly, trying to cover up his shaky voice. “it’s me.” his finger nearly throbs in pain from how much pressure he’s putting on the buzzer.

with a loud pop, the door unlocks and vernon enters. he hikes the two stories to your apartment, and by the time he’s at your door he’s mildly winded from how fast he got up there. vernon stalls a few feet from your door to regain his breath (and confidence). he chews on his bottom lip for a second and glances down the hallway and considers making a run for it.

there isn’t much thought put into that, though, because his feet take him in the other direction towards your front door, and he’s raising his fist to send three soft knocks your way. vernon shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and sighs, dropping his shoulders and rolling them back.

you pull the door open and his eyes snap down to you, and he swears his hearing goes out for a split second, because his face feels like it’s on fire and his muscles feel heavy. and then you smile at him, and he thinks he may melt into a puddle in front of your door. “vernon!” you squeal, laughing yourself onto him, legs wrapping around his waist and arms encircling around his neck. “you took forever.” you mumble, capturing his lips in a kiss that he’s been dreaming of for weeks.

vernon silently thanks the universe that he didn’t collapse when you attached yourself to him, and that he had enough sense to hold onto the bottoms of your thighs for support. “traffic,” he lies, walking the two of you into your apartment and kicking the door closed behind him.

he stops walking and the two of you make out for a few minutes. his nerves disappeared the moment you latched onto him. granted, hes a bit nervous, but he doesn’t feel like he’s going to pass out, or like he wants to make a run for it. “you look good, baby,” you purr once you pull back from his lips to really look at him. you run your hands through his short, brown hair and smile at him, and he decides right then and there that all of the pain and suffering you’ve put him through might be worth it, if you keep smiling at him like that.

untangling you legs from his waist, vernon helps set you down and lets his hands drag up your bare legs. your skin is soft like he remembers, and he wants nothing more than to spend the rest of his life rubbing and touching it. but your hands make use of pulling down his jacket zipper and subsequently helping him out of his coat, so he unfortunately has to pull his hands away from your thighs.

“have you been working out?” you question, setting his jacket on the back of one of your bar stools. vernon looks down at his own biceps and shrugs. “i lift sometimes, yeah,” he says. you walk back over to him and shamelessly feel him up. he’s still skinny, but there’s muscle in places you don’t necessarily remember him having.

“hmm,” is all you reply—it does a lot to cover up how badly you want to tear him out of his clothes. you grab his hand and lead him down the hallway to your bedroom.

“how’ve you been?” vernon asks. you giggle at his awkwardness and give him a look over you shoulder as you pull him into your bedroom.

“really great,” you push him lightly towards your bed, and crawl onto his lap, lips finding purchase on his neck. you grind down onto him as you suck a purple mark onto his neck. “what about you?” you ask in between kisses, voice slightly breathless.

“uh, fine,” vernon spits out, mind a bit hazy when you slip off of his lap and onto your knees between his legs. “better.” you smile at him sweetly, but your hands make quick work of unbuttoning his jeans. he helps you pull them down to his ankles, along with his underwear.

a soft whimper leaves you mouth at the sight of his semi-hard dick. you press your thighs together and reach forward to grab ahold of his member and start stroking his shaft. vernon looks down at you with parted lips; he feels like he’s in a dream, watching you on your knees below him. you’ve given him head before, but it was conditional. usually, when you felt guilty for something, or knew you made him upset you would suck him off. he tries to push the thoughts away, and succeeds when you wrap you lips around the tip and attempt to take all of him. “fuuuck,” he groans, gripping onto the edge of the bed.

vernon is embarrassed at how quickly you draw out loud moans from him just by massaging his balls as you work your mouth on him. he hasn’t been with anybody else in awhile—and he’s too embarrassed to ever admit that he’s good with just having you, even if he has to wait for you to call him.

“oh, fuck, y/n,” he whines, thighs tensing. he lets go of the mattress to gather your hair and wraps it around one of his hands. you moan against his crotch when he pulls, watery eyes flicking up to meet his own. spit gathers at the corners of your mouth and vernon knows this is an image he’ll never, ever forget. “shitshitshit!” his hips buck upwards and he expects you to pull your mouth off of him to use your hands to get him to his release, but you stay put.

it drives vernon crazy. he comes fast, and he doesn’t have time to be embarrassed because you swallow, and then keep sucking after the fact. he’s never seen you act like this, and you’re a bit shocked at your own behavior—you hadn’t realized you missed him that much.

“y/n,” he whimpers, chin falling against his chest. you take that as a sign that he’s about to pass out, and reluctantly pull your mouth off of him with a pop. a trail of spit mixed with cum follows his cock to your mouth, and it makes you want to give him another blow job, but he looks too spent.

“vernon,” you start, getting off of your knees. he manages to sit upright before falling backwards onto your bed.

“give me a minute,” he croaks. you smile and take a few seconds of your own to catch your breath before you undress completely and crawl onto the bed next to him. vernon opens his eyes and looks over at you. “i wanted to do that.” he whines, referring to getting you naked, and reaches out for you.

you crawl on top of him and settle on his abdomen. his hands moves to your waist and his eyes stray trained on your breasts. you lean down a bit, practically putting your boobs in his face. vernon leans forward and wraps his lips around one of your nipples. he shifts the two of you so he’s sitting up straight, thus shifting you down onto his crotch.

you can’t help but grind yourself against him as he plays with your breasts. he fondles the own that’s not in his mouth, and keeps his eyes on you. you moan softly above him, light little pants leaving your mouth that only encourage him. “nonie,” you whine, running your hands through his hair and gently tugging on the strands. “touch me. i want you to touch me.”

vernon pulls his mouth off of your breast and slides his hand that was on your waist up your spine. he grabs the back of your neck and pulls your mouth down to his own in a messy, heated kiss. he manages to flip the two of you over, propping himself up on an elbow and slipping his other hand between your legs.

“all for you,” you purr when he drags his fingers up your slit, a look of disbelief on his face at how wet you are. “need you, nonie. your fingers, mouth, all of it.” you whine, spreading your legs open for him. vernon liked how vocal you were about what you wanted from him. he wished you were as vocal about other aspects of your guys’ relationship, but he’ll take what he can get.

vernon dips two fingers inside of you, your arousal acting as a perfect lubricant. vernon kisses your neck and chest as he fucks his fingers in and out of you. his thumb presses on your clit and you moan out his name. “more, vernon,” you breathe, gripping onto his hair tightly. “fuck, i want you to fuck me vernon. can you fuck me?” you ask, clenching around his fingers.

his cock jumps at your tone of voice and request. “i can fuck you,” he rasps. he’d rather make you cum on his fingers first, but you wish is his command. he lifts up from you and pulls his shirt off. you rake your nails along his exposed abdomen, applying light pressure. you smirk up at him and he grabs your hand and kisses your palm. it’s much too intimate, but you can’t deny the butterflies it gives you.

“grab a condom,” you remind him, pointing to your nightstand when he grabs onto the base of his dick. he quickly moves to open the drawer, and he tries to ignore the photobooth strip of photos of you and some guy he’s never met is the first thing he sees. he pushes it out of the way and grabs a stray condom, and slams the drawer shut.

he rips open the package and rolls the condom on before grabbing your leg and throwing it over his shoulder and lining himself up. vernon pushes his hips forward and sinks the tip in. “ah!” you gasp at the delicious stretch. quiet as it’s kept, vernon has a big dick and he knows how to use it. it’s unfortunate that he’s hung and is so shy about it—sometimes you wish he’d call you to fuck, rather than you doing it all the time. “fuck, vernon, you’re so big.” his body flushes with heat and he keeps pushing forward.

you suck him in welcomingly. he fits inside of you like you were made to be stuffed by him. he fucks into with a steady rhythm, and each time he pushes inside a moan is pushed form your lungs. vernon can’t keep his own moans contained, moaning our curses with each thrust. it’s dizzying, how turned on he is by you. he feels like he can’t think about anything other than fucking you and staying like this until eternity. he gets the morbid thought that he’d be okay if he died like this, buried inside of you.

“fuck, right there baby! you’re so good to me, fuck!” you shriek, mouth falling open as you look at there the two of you connect. you get lost in watching him disappear inside of you, by the white ring that’s formed at the base of his dick. the sounds vibrate off of the walls; squelching and skin on skin nearly deafening. “fuck me, vernon!” you cry, hips raising to meet his own.

tears brim in your eyes when he pulls your leg from his shoulder and shoves it up to your chest, spreading you open wider and fucking into you at a different angle. “i m-missed you,” he chokes out, shifting his weight to a single arm so he can grope your chest.

“me too,” you pant, chest arching up into his. you chase his lips with your own, wanting to feel as close to him as possible. your mouths press together, but not in a kiss. you pant and moan harshly against each other, his hips rutting into you at a faster, less rhythmic pace.

“i-im close,” he whimpers, placing an open mouthed kiss on the corner of your lips. you whine out his name as he speeds up his pace, your arms sliding up his back. you dig your nails into his skin, definitely leaving scratches. “fuck, you’re perfect.” he whispers, eyes looking into yours.

you whimper and squeeze around him before your release comes crashing over you. “nonie!” you cry, clutching onto him like a life raft as he fucks you through your orgasm. his strokes lose rhythm completely and moments later he’s coming into the condom, stilling inside of you as he does. you almost wish he wasn’t wearing a condom, so you could feel him.

vernon drops on top of you, his arms too weak to hold himself up. you cling to him, hands running through his hair absentmindedly. you don’t mind the weight of him on you, and you especially don’t mind the fact that he’s still inside of you. you have a soft spot for vernon, even though it may not seem like it. he’s the nicest guy you’ve ever been with—much nicer than the guys you’re typically acquainted with—and he’s sweet to you, even when you don’t deserve it. you know you should probably let him go, free him of your games, but something in you won’t let you. and that same something won’t let you like him—love him—how he deserves.

“vernon,” you murmur, rubbing his back.

“hmm.”

“im hot, and you’re heavy,” you say with a soft giggle. he smiles into the sheets and lifts himself up and pulls himself out of you. both of you whimper pathetically at the loss of contact, and laugh at each other seconds later. he drops down beside you on the bed, rolling onto his back. you roll onto your stomach and rest your chin on his chest before resting on your cheek, and he wraps an arm around your waist.

vernon strokes your hair and keeps his eyes on you. if he was a cartoon, his heart would be beating out of his chest and hearts would be shooting out of his eyes.

“you’re staring,” you mutter, rubbing his side.

“because you’re pretty,” he says, hand sliding from your waist to your ass. you roll your eyes and sit up onto your knees and look down at him. you can’t contain the urge to smile or kiss him, so you do both. “you should go pee.” he mumbles, breaking the kiss.

“right,” you say, quickly getting off the bed. no other guy would remind you to pee after sex, but of course vernon does. every single time, too. you wish you could leave him alone.

vernon sits up and grabs his boxers. he pulls them on and stretches his arms above his head, sighing when he feels a pop in his shoulders. somewhere behind him, a phone buzzes once, then twice, then incessantly. he doesn’t know where his phone is, so he digs around in the bed until he finds the source, pulling out the phone from under a pillow. it’s definitely not his, so he feels sort of strange holding it as the name ‘seungcheol’ flashes across the screen.

“what are you doing with my phone?” you ask with an accusatory tone, eyebrows furrowed as you tie your robe.

“i couldn’t find mine, and it was ringing,” vernon says, holding it out to you. you snatch it out of his hand unnecessarily, ready to tell him to mind his business until you look down at the screen and see three texts and a missed call from a guy you’re seeing. it’s not super serious, but you feel bad for vernon having to see it.

“sorry,” you mutter, quickly typing out a response to seungcheol. you try to shove the guilt down as you set your phone down on your dresser. it’s awkward and tense, and you can feel him watching you as you mess around with things on your dresser.

glancing up, you catch his eyes in the mirror and sigh before turning around to face him. you crawl onto the bed next to him and sit on your knees. he won’t meet your eyes, so you try the only thing to bring him back to you.

you kiss his neck and run your hands across his chest. he doesn’t react so you pull your robe open and grab his hand, placing it on your chest and squeezing. “vernon,” you murmur, crawling into his lap. you kiss up his neck, to his jaw, and when you get to his mouth he pulls back.

it’s not his business at all, but he can’t hold back when he asks, “who was that?”

you bite your bottom lip and encircle your arms around your neck. you press your weight into his crotch and bite back a smile when he covers a groan with a throat clear. “he’s just a friend, nonie,” you lie, kissing his cheek. “you have me. all of me.”

he looks up at you with wide eyes, and you feel his cock twitch under your ass. he’s pathetic, and it’s never been more clear to him because he kisses you and palms your breast, pinching your nipple lightly and shoving off your robe. he knows he’s reaches new lows because he lets you push him flat onto the bed and pull his underwear down. when you sink down onto him—with no condom this time—he knows he’s fucked.

you ride him like your life depends on it, like him forgetting that seungcheol ever called is imperative to keeping this thing going between the two of you, because it is. you bring out all the stops, riding him on your toes and telling him things he definitely wants to hear, like how nobody feels better than him, and he’s the best you’ve ever had.

vernon leaves your apartment with clarity on one thing: he understands why his friends can’t stand you.

[sencrose]

-- WHEN STARS REALIGN

pairing: gojo satoru x f!reader

wc: 3.2k

tags: NONCON, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, toys (vibrator/dildo), soulmate AU, ambiguous backstory, fingering, creampie, pwp

a/n: this is the second time gojo has distracted me from another thing i've been working on. i need to evict him from my brain. ao3 link here

summary: Years after you leave the world of jujutsu, Satoru returns to claim what's his.

At some point in time, you had potential.

Nothing record breaking in the grand scheme of things; the balance of the world didn’t shift when you were born. But, you were on track to graduate as a grade one sorcerer, a bundle of accolades and accomplishments under your belt. It was potential, nonetheless.

All you have left are memories. 

The day you found Satoru Gojo’s name written on your wrist, and the chaos that unleashed shortly after. A hasty withdrawal, starting from scratch with no connections. It’s what you had to do.  

But even memories fade with time. Some already have.

These days, life is much more mundane. Water cooler talk, boring meetings about raising profits, the oh so wonderful view of your gray cubicle that fills your vision for sixty hours a week –  if you’re lucky. At the very least, you can take solace that you were able to make things work in your favor – a promotion on the way, a comfortable salary, and a decent apartment. 

Sometimes the hypothetical flits past your mind. What if you stayed? What if you didn’t abandon jujutsu? If you didn’t abandon him? But the thought flies by so fast, and you have no desire to chase after it.

With a slam of your laptop, you check out for the day, making your way past the elevators, the security gates, on to the bustling train you take to get back home. Everything is the same as always – until you get back to your apartment. The door is slightly ajar, and you know you’re not the type to leave it so. 

Hesitantly, you push it open. Nothing in the hallway at least. Nothing in the bathroom, kitchen, or living room either. What are the actual chances that someone, or something is really in there? Maybe this whole thing is a fluke. That doesn’t stop your hand from trembling as you push the door open, peering through the crack like a child in search of a bedtime monster.

“Welcome back!”

Not a monster, but close.  

As soon as his voice hits your ears, your body freezes. Gojo sits on your bed leisurely, hands leaned against the back of his head with his legs crossed. Not much has changed about him, other than the solid blindfold replacing his round specs.

“Miss me?”

You take in the sight of him more, questioning if it’s really him. He’s taller than you remember, but only by a small margin. It brings back memories of him towering over you, encroaching on your personal space more than you like. It’s a struggle to get any words to slip past your tongue with your memories flooding back into you, a homecoming of sorts.

“Why…” you attempt to ask, but your voice is barely audible, a soft whimper.

“What’s that?” he asks, bringing his hand to his ear, “You’re gonna have to speak up, sweetheart.”

“Why are you here?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? I’m your soulmate after all,” he replies, emphasizing the label. You’re well aware that some would die for the opportunity to be forever linked to the strongest sorcerer, good looks and all. You however, are not fond of the idea.

“How did you find out where I am?”

“Call it divine intervention,” he says with a cheeky smile, one you didn’t miss.

“Why now?”

“Aw, did you want me to come fetch you sooner? You should’ve saved me the trouble and come to me yourself.”

“W-what?” you ask warily, before letting out a sigh, “no, just. Just leave, Satoru.”

“Aw, come on, the least you could do is give me a warm welcome. How long has it been now? Five years?”

“Six,” you corrected him.

“And you didn’t call once?” he asks with a pout, voice far too sweet to be genuine, “you could’ve called.”

“I don’t have your phone number,” you reply curtly.

“You deleted it?” he asks, gasping dramatically while covering his mouth in a sarcastic attempt to seem baffled, “oh, you’re really hurting my feelings.”

“What do you want?” you ask, your patience running its limit.

“Isn’t it obvious, sweetheart?” he retorts, sitting up from the bed. It is, but you don’t want to accept the reality in front of you. Satoru’s here, and he’s going to take you back. Panic runs its course through your body, your heart beating faster, your breathing uneven. Before the thought of running away even reaches your legs, he’s grabbing your arm and pulling you onto the bed. 

“Let go of me!” You struggle under his grip, but you know it’s for naught. Satoru’s always been stronger than you, and you have no chance of winning. 

“So you can run away again?”

You don’t dare meet his gaze, only for his hand to grip your cheeks together to turn you towards him.

“I’d like an answer,” he says, his face far too close for comfort, as if you’re looking at him through a kaleidoscope –  unable to escape the overwhelming image of him.

“And I’d like for you to leave,” you snap back. If you could spit at him, you would. “But I guess we both like things that are out of reach.”

“Fine, be like that,” he scoffs, “I’ll have fun either way.”

Gojo undoes the zipper of your skirt before hiking it up to your waist. You squirm under his touch, not making things much better for yourself, the fabric of your skirt rising higher and higher. All that’s left is your stockings and underwear, the last bastion against his hands. Not that it’s much of a barrier to begin with. His fingers are warm, sending an involuntary heat through you as he slides them up your thigh before pressing down on your clothed slit.

“Should probably do something about this first, huh?” 

The sound of ripped nylons fill your ears, cacophonous and dissonant. That’s one layer down. Panic fills your chest as his fingers now touch your bare skin, sending a chill up your spine. Satoru’s hand pulls the fabric of your underwear aside, and you wince at the air grazing your bare cunt.

“Wait, Satoru, stop,” you say, a distance in your voice, in disbelief that this is happening.

“Why?” he asks, craning his neck to feign confusion, “we have so much to catch up on.”

His hand presses against your slit, fingers sliding up and down to collect the arousal your body has been forming.

“At least your body’s honest about missing me,” he teases, rolling your clit in between his fingers. The motion has your back arching off the bed, only for Gojo to press your hips back down. You don’t want to give in, not to him of all people. It’s a dangerous game, once you give him what he wants, all he’ll do is take, take, take. But when he plays with your clit so naturally, and has that warm bubble of pleasure threatening to rise to the surface, it’s hard to persevere.

His hand suddenly stops, and you feel both relief in your chest, and an aching want in your core. You can only hope he’s had his fun, but hope is a fickle thing.

“You know…” He pauses, humming thoughtfully as if he has a surprise in store. “You’ve got some interesting stuff in your drawer.”

The blood in your veins go ice cold. 

“You should’ve let me know you missed me so much. I’m way better than this garbage.”

He brings out your toys from his pockets, and you can only assume he went through your stuff when he broke into your apartment. And though you’re no prude, it is embarrassing to see it laid out bare in front of you.

“I mean, is this even any good?” He ogles at the bullet vibrator, pressing the button to turn it on with a crisp click. The toy comes alive, and you shiver at the realization it’s in the hands of someone who can and will turn it into a torture device.

Satoru presses your legs against your chest, having a clear view of your bare pussy. It’s too embarrassing to match his gaze, but you have no choice as he presses the vibrator, hard onto your clit. The sudden onslaught of vibrations is met with a sharp pain, before it leaves as fast as it came. Pleasure rushes in its place, but it’s too much, too soon. Before you know it your body seizes as you come, jolts of ecstasy flashing through your body before fizzling out.

“Guess it is,” he comments with a sly smirk on his face.

You’re barely able to recover from your first orgasm before Satoru’s putting it back onto your oversensitive clit. Anticipation starts to build in your body, your muscles tightening against your will.

“Satoru, please, let me rest,” you plead. 

He responds by pressing his finger against your hole, sliding it in with little effort. Once he sees how well you take him, he’s pressing in another and a moan escapes you.

“You’ve rested plenty for the last six years,” he purrs, voice low, eyes filled with lust.

Satoru is mean with how he plays with your pussy, scissoring his fingers inside you while diligently pressing the vibrator against your clit. Tension builds in your core, low and warm. That familiar bubble starts building again, and you writhe at the promise of another orgasm. Satoru’s fingers hook into your pussy, starting a steady pace while hitting your g-spot. Your voice isn’t anything you recognize, panting and moaning sinfully with each pass. You feel it coming again, and you resign yourself to the inevitable. 

The betrayal of your body is too much for you, as you sob through your climax, muscles clamping on his fingers as you ride through it. At the very least, the main note is pleasure, even if you can feel the threat of pain creeping up on you with how sore your muscles are, how your clit throbs far after he’s removed the toys and fingers from you.

Satoru finally releases you from his grip, your legs gracelessly dropping onto the bed. 

“Thought you’d had a little more fight in you,” he quips, lips curling into a sly grin.

You’re not able to come back with a sharp retort, only able to focus on catching your breath and collecting yourself. The only thing that catches your attention is the sound of another device coming alive in his hands. 

“Ugh, this looks kinda gross,” he sneers, showcasing a seldom used self-thrusting dildo in his hand, pinching it as if he’s holding a piece of rotting fruit, “you really play with this?”

You want to respond no, you don’t use it. It was a gag gift from one of your friends who had a quirky sense of humor. The only thing that leaves your lips is a groan.

Satoru, of course, has no intention of letting you rest. He spreads your legs open, the dildo pulsing vigorously, one good thrust away from penetrating your quivering hole.

“S-Satoru, please-”

“Please what?” he asks, voice obviously mocking your desperation.

“Give me a break, just a few minutes-”

“No,” he interrupts, punctuating the end of his sentence by pushing the dildo inside of you. It’s unnatural, uncomfortable as it stretches out your pussy, scraping your walls with each thrust. It’s too deep, nearly punching the air out your lungs as it undulates.

The once comforting sound during your lonely nights now buzzes incessantly in your ears. The vibrator starts again and you find yourself running into the wall that is your bed frame. With no way to escape, Satoru presses the bullet on your aching clit, and your body tenses up yet again.

“You’re too easy to please, you know that right?” he taunts, pressing both toys harder into you. 

Words die on the tip of your tongue, morphing into soft sobs and incoherent moans. You’re sure you’re saying ‘it’s too much’ somewhere in the flurry of noises, but it doesn’t reach Satoru’s ears. Of course it doesn’t. If anything, it only has him playing rougher with your pussy, thrusting harder with the dildo, drawing circles with the vibrator.

That familiar heat starts to build in your core again, insistent and feverish. It’s a losing game, trying to fight back against it, but you try anyway. Moving your body so that the vibrator isn’t right on your puffy clit, hoping he’ll lose his strong-handed grip on the dildo, anything for a sweet, much-needed moment of respite.

You just wish you didn’t fail so quickly.

“Nope, no running away,” he says with a grin, legs wrapping around yours to keep them open, vulnerable, at his mercy. 

Satoru’s quick to catch on, why wouldn’t he be? His ministrations are unrelenting, his hand now thrusting the dildo inside you with fervor. It hits deeper than anything you’re used to, your head light and dizzy at the overwhelming sensation.

As your muscles tense, pain starts to rear its ugly head, your nerves fried and frayed at the edges. Pleasure zips past your core before immediately rushing into pain and overstimulation. Your moans start to morph into screams, limbs thrashing under Satoru’s grip as he presses his hands on your mouth.

“Geez, you’re gonna scare your neighbors, sweetie,” he says, voice laced with faux concern and an authentic pride, “bet they’ve never heard you scream this loud, right?”

The only response you can give him are muffled moans, trembling legs as you do your best to ride out the messy wave of pleasure and pain. When you finally come back down from your high, Satoru finally pulls his hand away from your mouth. Your legs spasm as he takes the dildo out of you, nearly mourning the fullness that filled you up. 

The sound of his belt unbuckling brings you back to reality, but you have no energy to protest, too wrung out and sore from your unrelenting string of orgasms.

His cock prods against your entrance, and your muscles seize in anticipation. Even with the arousal pooling around your hole, you’re not sure it’s enough to take him. You’re not sure if anything would help you take him. 

When Satoru enters you, he does so achingly slow, savoring the way your walls split to account for his girth. It’s too much, your hands gripping on to the sheets for purchase, aching with how tight you hold on to them. 

“S-Satoru, please, it hurts,” you beg, voice honeyed with the sweetest tone you can muster, hoping that he’ll relent.

“Good,” he pants out, nearly groaning as he bottoms out, “maybe you’ll think twice about leaving.”

The slow drag of him against your insides nearly drives you delirious, and your resolve flickers for a brief, fleeting moment; you almost find yourself daring to ask for more. Not that Satoru would give you a moment to think. His pace steadily builds up, and before you know it the lewd slap of skin against skin echoes throughout the room, and you can’t help but whine at the way he fills you up so perfectly. 

Satoru brings the vibrator to your clit again, and you shake your head desperately, frenzied, because you know you can’t handle it. Not that he cares – this is a punishment after all. Within moments, his cock rhythmically hits that special spot that has you keening into him, and you can feel his grin against your skin, as if it’s just a game to him, the prize being your compliance.

You don’t want to give him the satisfaction, though that doesn’t stop muffled whimpers and hums from escaping your lips.

“You’re holding back, let me hear your sweet, sweet voice.” His fingers press into your lips, pressing down against your tongue, and what comes out is foreign. You’re not sure if sweet is the apt descriptor for it. Sounds more wet, more choked and coughed. You don’t want to think about the implications.

You can barely hear the snap of Satoru’s hips over your unintelligible moans, but you definitely feel the intensity of his thrusts revving up. Pressing down on your waist, holding you in place so he can fuck the deepest parts of you with pinpoint accuracy.

Tears swell in your eyes again, the sharp sting of overstimulation drawing a jolt out of you. Just a fleeting moment of tightening muscles before falling into an ache that roars in your core. You’re back in a place worse than you started, overworked nerves and a feverish heat that refuses to cool down. There’s nowhere to go, no reprieve, just Satoru holding you down as he ravages your cunt.

“Just take what I give you,” he says, more command than statement, “it’s the least you could do for me, sweetheart.”

The pet name churns your stomach, knowing that he’s blissfully entertained from the whole situation pisses you off to no end. Everything about him pisses you off really – that stupid sly smirk, the beads of sweat collecting along his forehead, and how he barely looks disheveled throughout the whole thing. And though that anger and frustration simmers in you, the promise of climax quickly envelops those feelings, a wave crashing along the shore, taking the bank’s forgotten shells and sediment as it recedes.

Satoru fucks you with a desperation you never thought you’d see in him, fracturing the blasé version of him that lives in your memory. There’s a recklessness to his pace, too hard, too fast, too deep, especially with the vibrator pressed against your clit. 

The tension in your core starts winding itself up again, but you feel it lower, deeper than all the fleeting climaxes you’ve had so far. You don’t want it, you know exactly where it’ll lead, but your body doesn’t care, walls tightening around like Satoru’s cock like it was made for this, as certain as the markings on your wrist.

“You gonna cum again? Can feel you wrappin’ around me,” Satoru pants between strokes, a smug grin on his face as he presses his forehead against yours.

“Nonono, no, I can’t-” You’re interrupted by a particularly mean thrust, only able to finish your thought with a lascivious moan.

“You already have so many times,” he coos, face pressing against yours, “I know you can.” A promise and a threat. Without any warning, Satoru presses a button on the vibrator, and it intensifies. Everything overwhelms you, the warmth of his skin pressed against yours, the fullness of him, the way his hot breath caresses you with each grunt and moan.

Another orgasm rips through you as the tension in your core snaps, muscles trembling and fluttering uncontrollably as he fucks you through it. Your voice and body don’t feel like yours, lewd moans spilling from your lips, arms wrapping around his back for support and pressing his feverish skin against yours.  

“F-fuck,” Satoru pants, and you can tell he’s close. 

With a few more strokes he’s cumming inside you, walls continuing to spasm and convulse around him as he empties hot ropes of semen in your cunt. In terms of the physical, everything about you is washed in warmth, inside and out. When Satoru removes himself from you, you wince at the emptiness and warm seed leaking from your hole. 

An uncharacteristically gentle hand pats your head as you attempt to decipher what the future holds.

“I missed you too.”

[weenwrites]

Hey hey Ween! I wanted to ask about you writing something for bots reaction to a human who is new to the team and trying to get too make friends and make conversation with the bots? But they have poor memory and stiff/rough social skills so they may fidget when speaking and too remember their names they have a paper that they carry around w/ all the bots names written in said bots corresponding color scheme (doesn't have to be this I just thought it would be a cool idea 😊). Also tries to offer help in any numbers of ways. Uhh I don't really have any particular bots in mind besides Wheeljack and while I do enjoy scenarios I'm just as cool with headcannons if that ends up working for you and/or inspiring you more🤝🫂. Feel free to add any other bots if ya want👌! (Also it's still Friday where I am as I send this in I don't want ya to think I'm ignoring your post.)

"What was your name, again?"

Summary - How are you supposed to remember all these weird names? Characters - Wheeljack Content - Crack, Gen Category - Scenarios Trigger Warnings - None

✎ A/N: Sorry it took a LONG while! And also what I meant back then was that the request had to be sent in when it was Friday where I was. I can't remember whether you sent it in while it was still Friday my time or not, but eh I'll do it anyway. And I'm sorry if it's a bit short, but I didn't really want to specify anything in the end to try and be more 'immersive'.

[ Please do not repost, plagiarize, or use my writing for AI! Translating my work with proper credit is acceptable, but please ask first! ]

"Don't forget Bulkhead and Bumblebee!"

"Yes, yes... I've got them down," Y/N mumbles.

They don't bat an eye at the shadow that looms over their shoulder and onto the table, because it's far more important to concentrate on remembering all the names that Miko had mentioned to them. Their colored pencil in their hand glided across the paper with ease, of course occasionally stopping to switch colors.

"Hatche—wait no, it's Ratchet... And... Who was the other one you said, Miko?" Y/N asked, looking up from their paper, "The uh... The one that started with—oh! Wait! Uh, Spokelean!"

"Smokescreen." She corrected with a giggle, placing particular emphasis on the 'screen' part to his name, "So you're done with writing down all their names?"

"Yeah, just about..." They mumbled, brushing some eraser shavings aside and reaching over for their pencil to correct their mistakes.

But they felt nothing but empty space where the correct colored pencil used to lay, and after a quick look around, they had found the escapee-pencil laying underneath the table. With a sigh, they had stooped down onto all fours and scooched underneath the table, reaching out to fetch it when all of a sudden, the heavy thumping of metal footsteps shook the ground.

With a startled yelp, they shot up and the back of their head met the underside of the hard, wooden table. Through gritted teeth and a set frown, they retrieved the pencil and slowly stood back upright, rubbing the back of their head as they looked up to see who had walked in, but they were met with an unfamiliar face.

A white bot sporting red and green streaks on his chest, and a pair of gray... For lack of a better word, finials, on the sides of his head, and a large crest on top. Aside from the fact his paint-job bore a striking resemblance to the flag of Italy, another notable feature of his was the pair of twin swords sheathed on his back.

"Wait... Who's that, again?" Y/N's face scrunched into confusion as they further scrutinized him.

"Oh, hey Wheeljack!" Miko hollered.

And at the girl's beck and call, the bot shoots her a grin upon sight, and he closes the distance between them in mere seconds.

"Hey kid!" He pauses and shoots Y/N a glance, "oh, and who's this?"

"Oh uh, my name's Y/N, and you must beeee..." Their voice tapers off for what almost feels like eternity, and they scramble their mind for a clue—any clue as to what his name was. Miko had literally mentioned his name mere seconds ago, yet now of all times, their brain decided to blank. "Uhh... Your name was..."

"Wheeljack." He finishes.

"Ye-yeah! Wheeljack! Wheeljack. How are you? It's nice to meet you."

"Never better, Bulk and I just got back from patrol."

"Ooh! Did you find anything while you were out?" Miko grinned.

"If by 'anything' you mean 'decepticons', then 'fraid not. We thought we picked up one of the cons' energon mines so we tracked it down."

Miko sprung forward on the couch, "Was it a trap?"

"Nah, it was just an old crater, the cons had sucked it dry and left a long time ago."

Y/N frowns, "did anything good come of it at least?"

"Nothin that I can see, but it is what it is," he shrugs, "Anyway, you're the newcomer, eh?"

"Yes! That would be me."

For a hot second no one said a word. Wheeljack looked to them expectantly, thinking they'd run him through the whole story, not lead him straight to some rather awkward silence. And once Y/N caught the gist of the conversation, they simply pressed their lips shut even harder.

Would it be too awkward to continue now? No one's said anything for some time now, so maybe they shouldn't continue? But if they change the subject now, it might seem like they weren't really listening to him, so maybe they should—

"Soo, Y/N, why don't you tell Wheeljack about how you got here?" Miko spoke up—thankfully being the one to break the ice, "How you met the team and that kind of stuff."

"Right! Right, I should probably do that..." They chuckled, "alright so... it all started like this..."

[pascaloverx]

Rewrite The Stars

Chapter Thirteen

Summary: One photo changes your whole life, when you accidentally bump into a celebrity and the world starts to believe that you are a couple.

Notes:

In this chapter, we have an extra character called Enzo, whom I'd like you to imagine as the actor Enzo Vogrincic. And for those who enjoy the fanfic, I appreciate if you reblog or like. Thank you to everyone who is following the fic.

chapter twelve chapter fourteen

The next day came too quickly. Enzo texted you saying he'll pick you up for a tour around the city. He wants to explore the big city before leaving. Since it's your day off, you saw no harm in taking your ex-boyfriend on a tour. You pick out a dress and quickly get ready to go out. As you're about to leave, you notice a notification on your phone saying: "I want to see you." The number appears as unknown, but your heart begs for it to be from Pascal. Seeing him yesterday reignited a flame that had been extinguished within you.  You were about to respond to the message on your phone asking who it was, but then you heard the honk of a car and quickly realized it must be Enzo. You hurriedly finish getting ready, checking yourself in the mirror as you put on some lipstick and perfume. Then, you take the elevator to meet Enzo. He looks handsome, with his hair lightly brushing his face, dressed in jeans and a gray hoodie.

"You're looking like a movie star; I'm not sure if I'm appropriate to accompany you. Dating a celebrity must have made you more stylish. I don't remember you getting so dolled up when we were younger." Enzo says as you're getting into his car. You playfully slap his arm and give him a scowl, wondering where he got that idea. You've always dressed like this.

"You just weren't paying attention to me back then, you goof. I've always dressed the same way, even before dating Pedro. Now let's get going before I change my mind." You say, and you both laugh. That was the best part of dating Enzo—he was fun. In summary, your relationship could have been perfect if it weren't for two factors: lack of passion and the fact that he wanted to get married and have kids. And it's not that you don't want those things, but you want a little more. Traveling the world maybe, starting your own business, perhaps a restaurant. You've never told anyone, but you've been saving money to be able to take a professional culinary course.

"So, I'll be blunt. Your mother sent me here to take you home. She thinks your failure in the relationship with Pascal is further proof that she's right." Enzo speaks after a few minutes of silence. The sound of the music playing on the radio seems to be drowned out by the anger boiling in your blood. How could your mother think that a setback would make you go back?

"You know I really like you, but there's absolutely no chance I'll go back to my mother's house with my tail between my legs and become the woman she wants me to be." You respond decisively. Enzo chuckles discreetly, as if he already knew you would say that.

"I'll pass that message along to your mom. Another thing I'd like to mention is that I enjoyed it. Our kiss, I mean. I know you were trying to show that we don't have chemistry, but I didn't get over you." Enzo speaks, seeming a bit nervous but sincere. It's cute, don't get me wrong. It's just that you don't believe you and he could get back together.

"My dear Enzo. You are everything a woman could ask for. Everything anyone could ask for, really. But we both know how this will end. Me here, you there. You wanting things I'm not sure I want, and me wanting things you don't want. Eventually, we'll ruin the good memory we have of each other. Kissing you was a desperate measure, but it was totally worth it. However, I don't think I can love you now." Words seem harsher when you speak with such conviction. But inside your heart, you know why you don't want to give Enzo a chance. Pedro Pascal is engraved in your heart. 

"Thank you for your sincerity. Pascal really is a lucky guy. I hope he knows that." Enzo speaks and you wonder if he didn't notice that Pascal literally dumped you. 

"You noticed that Pedro broke up with me, right? I don't know if he thinks he's lucky." You speak with a certain fear. I'm afraid I realize that you feel something very real for Pascal. I mean, why else would you want Pedro to want to be with you?

"Believe me, he'll realize quickly that he made a mistake. I could say he might realize sooner than he thinks." Enzo speaks, parking the car in front of an ice cream parlor. Across the street stands one of the tallest buildings in the city. And in front of that building, you notice Pedro Pascal filming something. There's a crew with him, he's dressed in a suit, all polished. He looks almost like a prince. You and Enzo get out of the car, and while you try not to attract attention, Enzo simply waves in Pascal's direction.

"You've gone crazy?" You ask, holding Enzo's hand down, hoping Pascal hasn't noticed anything. After all, his job is to focus on the camera, not on who's passing by on the street. You grab Enzo's hand and lead him into the ice cream parlor. He laughs like a child who's just pulled off a prank, and you shoot him a look that could kill. It would be so embarrassing if Pascal saw you. But apparently, he didn't.

"You should go talk to him after he finishes filming. That's what I would do if I were in your shoes." Enzo says as he eyes the various ice cream flavors and places his order with the ice cream parlor owner. You look nervously at him and then order a chocolate ice cream. 

"And say what? 'Pedro, would you like to talk about what we could have been if you hadn't messed everything up?' " You say ironically, thinking about how foolish it would be to talk to Pedro now. Enzo, who is looking in your direction, points behind you, and it's as if your body alerts you that Pascal is there. The damn guy saw us.

"I would indeed, if you gave me that opportunity." Pedro basically responds to your hypothetical dialogue, and you feel the urge to run away. Enzo, who is busy getting his ice cream and yours, says nothing.

"You shouldn't be filming right now?" You respond while taking your ice cream from Enzo's hand and then find yourself unsure of what to do. Leaving the ice cream shop would be daring, given that Pedro is here, and if someone takes a photo of the two of you, it would cause a scandal. On the other hand, staying seems like a festival for you to embarrass yourself.

"I saw you and couldn't concentrate anymore. So, we took a break from filming. And I believe we can have a moment to talk, if it doesn't bother you two?" Pedro says, looking at Enzo and the ice cream shop owner. Both of them leave shortly afterward, Enzo probably heading to his car, and the owner going to the back of the shop.

"It's great to see that you've lost track of that. And what if a photographer passes by, or if that ice cream vendor mentions you're here? What are you going to do to stop the countless rumors about us?" You ask, looking into Pedro's eyes as he smiles at you as if you've said something nice.

"I don't care. If the world out there catches fire while I'm here with you, I couldn't care less. Now the question is, are you ready to give me a chance? To hear that all of this was my agent's decision, who didn't consult me about whether I wanted to end things or not? To understand that I've basically been sleeping and waking up thinking about you? Or do you prefer to keep hating me? Because honestly, I don't mind if you hate me, but at least give me a chance to..." Pedro declares to you, his eyes welling up with so much passion. It's as if he's acting without acting, as if he really needs you. In that moment, you found yourself lost in his gaze, unsure of what to say or do. Your mind is so muddled that you stare at him, wanting desperately to find a way to express what you're feeling. And then, you feel ready to say something.

tag: @wanniiieeee , @hungrhay and @leilanixx

Stay tuned for the next chapter

[wizardofrozz]

Ghosts of Kamino

CT-2697 "Sawbones", Alpha-23 "Fang", mention of CT-9181 "Aiden", CT-6116 "Kix", CT-7007 "Jax", and CT-2525 "Quarter"

Word Count: ~1.2k

Warnings: past violence, past medical procedures, angst, mention of war

A/N: I've been taken over by OC brainrot and needed to get this angst about Sawbones out of my system. There isn't any in depth detail about what happened to Saw on Kamino (that can be found here xx if you're interested) but this fic is a little on the heavy side.

Fang and Aiden are also two of my clone OCs while Jax and Quarter belong to @hetalianskywalker ❤️

Dividers were made by me 🖤

White. It's all there is to see in every direction for miles. Sawbones spent so many years walking these halls, feeling so small in comparison. Little '97 following in formation with his brothers as they went about their day-to-day. Now, Sawbones walks through the halls of Kamino: empty, pristine, cold. If only that was how he felt inside but the long-necks made sure that wouldn't be the case.

Saw is scheduled for a training class to update his medical license but he has a few hours to kill; the last thing he wants to do on Kamino. Moving on autopilot, he doesn't even realize where he's going until he stops in front of a familiar door. The only reason he recognizes it is because of the deep gash in the door frame. Saw smiles to himself, remembering when one of the other batches that shared a space with them first got to practice with long weapons. The memory turns sour just as quickly when he remembers what followed. 

Saw lets the door slide open, pointedly not looking at the door frame as he steps inside. Most of the cadet classes are still in session, meaning the pods stretching toward the ceiling should be empty. He still remembers where their five pods are and comes to a stop in front of the tower they called home for so long. Tilting his head back he recites their numbers as his eyes follow the pods from floor to ceiling. 

7007

2525

6116

2697

9181

The echo of soft, uncontrollable laughter fills his mind and Saw closes his eyes. Aiden's laugh used to drive the other cadets nuts but what he wouldn't give to hear his little brother laugh like that again. Or to hear Kix and Jax plotting to get into trouble. Quarter's unimpressed look when they did get in trouble. Maker, he misses his brothers. 

Letting his eyes drift open, Saw repositions his helmet on his hip and tries to fight off the inevitable. While this room holds good memories, bad memories aren't far behind. It's the paradox that is Sawbones. 

Aiden's laughter lingers here just like Saw's agonizing screams. His batch aren't the only ones scarred by his pain and a part of him is glad he hasn't come across the other batches they shared this space with. The other cadets who woke up to his hoarse sobs and his brothers' desperate attempts at soothing him. Saw didn't know what it was like when he was stuck in the medbay for days on end but he can imagine the rest of his batch weren't the most pleasant to be around. 

His throat feels tight, ash sitting on his tongue as his thoughts drift to the medical suite nearby. The room he spent long days and even longer nights wasting away in. So much of it is muddled in his head; oxygen masks, sickly gray skin covering long, cold fingers. And pain. Don't forget the pain. 

The back of Saw's neck stings and he quickly covers it, trying to rub away the feeling. It doesn't work, not really, and he almost expects to turn around to find a long-neck standing over him, empty syringe in their hand. 

There's no one there. Just the ghosts that haunt him even when he's lightyears away. They just seem more corporeal on Kamino, the home of Saw's worst nightmares.

The air feels too still without young voices echoing through the room and it starts to feel suffocating. The ringing in his ears sends a chill down his spine and he quickly turns to leave just as the door shoots open. 

Saw stumbles back a step. Relief floods his system seconds later when a familiar set of armor stands in the doorway, blue paint less pristine than the last time he saw it. The Alpha lifts his helmet off, shaking a few stray curls out of his face, and even years later, Fang looks the same as when Saw was a kid. 

There are a few more wrinkles around his eyes but at the end of the day, this is still his big brother. He's nearly as tall as Fang now but he still feels small even if he doesn't have to look up anymore. But there's the ghost of a smile on the Alpha's face, chasing some of the storm clouds away from Saw's mind. The same way Fang's presence did for so many years. 

"Thought I'd find ya here," Fang says, although he doesn't step into the room. His eyes drift around the space, looking up toward the ceiling before eventually lingering on Saw's face, and Fang's smile grows the slightest bit. 

"Been a long time since I've been in here," Saw notes, looking over his shoulder toward the tower of bunks. Not long enough if he's honest. 

"Surprised you wanted to see it again," Fang mumbles, crossing his arms, helmet dangling from one hand. 

"I didn't," Saw whispers, staring up at his old bunk. "I never wanted to come back here. Even in a body bag." 

"Why did you?" 

That made Saw pause, twisting back around to look at his older brother, the man who kept him as safe as he could and raised him along with the rest of his batch to be the men they are today. Why did he come back here?

The memory of Aiden and Jax's uncontrollable laughter comes back to him and the corner of Saw's mouth twitches. The smile isn't happy per se, more...forlorn. 

"Miss 'em. All of 'em. Can't even remember the last time I saw Kix without a blue hue." The words start spilling out and in the back of his mind, he curses Fang's uncanny ability to get him to spill his guts. "Guess I wanted to remember a time we were all together." 

"I know," Fang says, his voice soft just like when Saw was a kid, scared out of his mind. It's a comfort he's missed too. 

"Miss you too," Saw admits, dropping his eyes to the floor. 

A hand gently grabs the left side of his breastplate and Saw doesn't fight it when he's pulled through the threshold.

The hallways are bright, too bright, compared to the barracks, and Saw automatically squints. Fang throws an arm around his shoulders, a harder maneuver than the last time Fang did it years ago, and it brings a smile to Saw's face. 

"Come on, I know someone else who'd like to see your ugly ass." 

The insult shocks a laugh out of Saw and without thinking, he wraps his arm around Fang's waist, letting the older clone drag him down the hall. 

"You look just like me," Saw retorts, fighting off another laugh.

"My hair's better." 

Saw laughs again, his body bowing forward slightly but he catches the grin in Fang's face. 

The ghosts of his past still linger, waiting to drag Saw back to the brink of despair. That'll never change but that doesn't mean he's stranded alone. His brothers, younger and older, will always pull him back. They've done it his entire life and he knows they'll do it for the rest of their lives. 

And Saw loves them all a little more every time.

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@bankseys-rat @dukeoftheblackstar

[all-eyes-lead-to-the-truth]

All Eyes Lead to the Truth | Demons (4x23)

Amy gasps, jolting awake and upward in darkness. The ear piercing buzz of the drill slowly fades into the void of her subconscious. Oh God, another black out? Where is she? Her heart beats frantically through her chest as she fumbles for the bedside lamp. Flowered wallpaper, cream-colored curtains, David snoring beside her… right: her bedroom. Not back there.

Another nightmare. No, a memory.

Her teeth clench, thinking about the thousand ways she may have been hurt, violated years ago. Then she thinks about how many ways she was but doesn’t remember. Her stomach twists. Flashes of unseen hands poking, prodding, pinning her down haunts her in the light of day. But it’s during the dark of night when the remnants of bone deep pain and fathomless fear soak her sheets with sweat. Like always, her hands tremble when they instantly clutch her stomach and palm her face, soothing an invisible ache. When her tongue swipes instinctively across the arc of her soft palette, somehow anticipating the warm tang of blood pooling in her mouth, tears sting her eyes. 

Every night it’s the same. Every night it’s worse. 

Amy gets out of bed and walks downstairs, careful not to wake David. He too gets little reprieve from his own hellish abduction memories he’d much rather forget. A luxury Amy simply cannot fathom. Frustration at living like a blindfolded prisoner inside her own body is at an all-time high, amping up her anxiety and desire for knowledge of the unknown. She has never needed the truth more. But when her brain fails to provide details of her hijacked agency she yearns to recall, her body’s muscle memory built upon the bulk of buried trauma does it for her. That scares her more than any truth ever could. Because at least now the truth will not remain buried. At least she will finally know. 

Amy swipes the sweaty tendrils of gray from her forehead and hisses when her finger nicks the fresh scab forming at her hairline. 

Dr. Charles Goldstein and his innovative method of treating memory repression has been a true revelation. David refuses to dive any further than surface level into their murky past of bright lights and missing time. But, as her psychologist, Dr. Goldstein suggested she consent to this multi-session treatment to regain pieces of her memory, and Amy has reveled in it.

She enters the crowded sunroom full of her recent artwork of her childhood home by the lake. A place where she used to feel safe and happy. Where she’d spent her wedding night with David and woke up six weeks later on life support. 

Amy settles in front of her half-painted canvas and presses play on her answering machine as the saved message from last night whirrs to life:

“Amy Cassandra, my name is Fox Mulder, I’m a Special Agent with the FBI. I’ve read the recent article in Abductee Magazine you were interviewed for about your experience years ago—in fact I’m looking at it now, and I’m interested in speaking with you in person. Uh… very interested, actually.” 

Amy stares thoughtfully at the machine as the younger man on the other end clears his throat. His tone is soft, reassuring, and Amy can’t help but wonder if a child of her own would be as understanding about her past as this Agent Mulder is. If she could’ve had children, that is. 

“…You mentioned a certain therapy you’d started that involved recovering repressed and buried memories. If you’re willing, I’d like to know more. I need to know more. For personal reasons. And Amy, I want you to know I’ll listen. Really listen. I’m sure many others haven’t before, but I will...”

Amy waits as the agent leaves his number and hears the desperation in his voice. She nods, her decision made, shouldering the corded phone attached to the wall as she dials. It’s either too early or this FBI agent screens his calls the same as David. Leaving a message, an olive branch is all she can do.

“Agent Mulder? This is Amy Cassandra, and I think I can help you…”

A predawn haze shines just enough light on her palette for her to dab out an array of acrylic in a rainbowed arc. Her hands itch to paint.

“Please delete this message after you hear it, but it’s true I’ve been slowly recovering flashes of voids or gaps within my past with the help of my psychologist. My husband and I— well, it’s been a tumultuous road to reclaim what’s been taken, but there’s so much more I must know…”

Amy anxiously grips a wooden brush and dips the bristles in vibrant green, thinking about what to say next. She paints her childhood home because it’s been the only place other than her resistant mind that holds the truth. As she speaks, the deep wound in her skull throbs, reminding her that that was true, until weeks ago when she’d traded the nightmare of one penetrating drill with the reality of another. 

“And you’d think willingly having a hole drilled into your head would be crazy, until realizing crazy is your only option to be sane,” Amy huffs into the phone at the irony. She’d apologize for her eccentric ramble but she doesn’t feel sorry for the warning. 

“Anyway…” Amy squints to shape the bend of the wind-blown tree just right along the canvas. Detail matters. It’s the details that complete the whole picture. The whole truth. The bad, the worse: all of it is what will save her sanity. “If you’re serious about knowing more, meet me at Dr. Goldstein's office in Rhode Island for my next session and you’ll see. Maybe he will help you remember your own truths...”

Art has always been therapeutic, but ever since the experimental therapy, painting has become momentous in bringing forth the evil lurking within her darkness. 

“Maybe, Agent Mulder, it’s time to exercise your demons too.”

Read the rest of All Eyes Lead to the Truth on Archive of Our Own!

@monikafilefan

[lostloveletters]

Bruised Fruit Chapter 7 (Michael Corleone x OC)

Summary: Gloria's last night out before she's a married woman only fuels her hesitations about marrying Michael, but despite her attempts to distance herself from him, he pulls her in deeper with an earth-shattering revelation.

Note: This takes place pre-Vatican II which changed a lot of things in the Catholic Church, including how mass was celebrated (seems like weekday mass has always been short though, lol), but it’s nothing too significant for now. Additionally, the name Ciro is pronounced Chee-ro in Italian.

Warnings: Angst, descriptions of pregnancy, mentions of abortion. Predominant Catholic themes and symbolism, mainly involving guilt.

Chapter 6 | AO3 Link | Masterlist

Do not interact if you're under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content. I will block you.

“Okay, so my parents are watching the kids tonight, and I know your people will be there, but I left the number for the club anyway,” Gloria said, slipping her foot into a black heel.

“Alright, darling. Don’t have too much fun,” Michael said, though she knew he loathed the idea of the bachelorette party the moment Vivian brought it up just two weeks prior.

It didn’t help that Connie and Sandra jumped on the idea too, even though a wedding date hadn’t even been set yet. Gloria hadn’t heard anything about the annulment in a while. She supposed the other Corleone women were just as antsy as she was to get out and go somewhere for the night.

Vivian insisted as soon as she sniffed out the slightest resistance from Michael, claiming it was only fair because the Corleones had already thrown their own engagement party in Lake Tahoe, and Gloria’s parents certainly wouldn’t do anything of the sort. He only conceded when Connie mentioned a nightclub the family operated in Manhattan. Gloria was itching to get back to that scene, thoroughly bored by domesticity.

“I’ll probably be back late. Don’t wait up for me.”

Michael smiled a bit, the purplish-gray bags beneath his eyes betraying yet another days long bout of insomnia. While Vivian and Jackie were over for dinner just two evenings before, Vivian had offered to get him in with one of the doctors at Sacred Heart to write him a prescription for sleeping pills. Michael had politely refused, insisting he was fine and had his own doctor.

Pride wouldn’t allow him to resort to turning to medication to cure his insomnia, not when he was already so reliant on it to manage his diabetes. Knowledge of his having that condition was so closely guarded, Gloria wasn’t always sure who in the family knew and who didn’t.

At times, Gloria wondered if Michael considered his suffering through his insomnia a form of self-appointed penance. Then again, that would require him to feel guilt about something. She tried not to think of Fredo, his memory potentially haunting his brother, but it was difficult not to when her own brother was around more often. 

A car horn outside signaled the arrival of her partying companions for the evening. Michael had arranged the driver, a newer family associate who had worked for the man who previously lived in their house before he passed away.

“If you need anything, call the house. If I don’t pick up, someone else will,” he said. “I love you.”

She gave him a quick kiss. “Love you too.” She grabbed her purse and rushed out the front door. Off to the races.

Connie was halfway out the back window of the car parked outside. “C’mon Glo, there’s room back here if we all squeeze in!”

Gloria shook her head, opening the front passenger seat instead. “I’ll sit up front with Ciro.”

The young man smiled at her remembering his name. They’d only spoken twice before, though she saw him more often when she’d bring the kids into the city after school to meet Michael at Genco and go for dinner. Ciro usually stood guard outside the olive oil company’s modest office building, stoney and suspicious-looking until he’d see her and smile, betraying his youthful face.

“Good evening, Mrs. Corleone,” Ciro said.

Sandra reached over the seat, playfully shaking Ciro’s shoulder. “Not Mrs. yet Ciro! That’s why we’re going out tonight!”

Vivian cheered, and Ciro laughed, smiling once more at Gloria before driving off. He entertained their antics, even bashfully acquiescing to Connie’s invasive question as to whether or not he had a girlfriend.

“No,” he answered, “not for some time.”

“C’mon, a good-looking guy like you?” Vivian asked.

“I’m focusing on work right now,” he said. “It wouldn’t be right for me to have a girlfriend and not be able to spend any time with her.”

“Aw, Gloria, tell Michael to give Ciro a vacation so he can find himself a nice girl,” Sandra said.

Gloria scoffed, “That’d go over well.”

They arrived at the nightclub not long after that, greeted by a bright, neon green sign for The Archer.

Ciro pulled up to the valet, all of the passenger doors opened for them upon their arrival. He parked directly in front of the club’s main entrance, the only car allowed to do so.

“I’ll be out here. You find me when you need to be driven home,” he said.

“You can’t come in for one drink?” Gloria asked.

He shook his head. “Thank you, I really can’t.”

Their coats and bags were collected at the door, the host emphatically reminding them that all drinks were on the house as he led them to a VIP booth.

The Archer had recently been remodeled, the walls covered in emerald green, scale-shaped tiles that resembled a snake’s glimmering skin beneath the club’s dim lighting. The booth was a sleek, modern white, deceptively creamy yet plush to the touch as it wrapped in a semi-circle around a crystalline table with gold accents. 

Funny, Michael wouldn’t be caught dead in the very nightclub he owned. Instead, he preferred old-fashioned, kind of run-down family-owned places with generous servings, strong wine, and attentive table service. The owners would always come out from the back to personally greet him, offering antipasto or a bottle of wine on the house. It almost made Gloria feel like being with a celebrity. And he was, in a way, among this eccentric group of people to whom he was more important and influential than the president.

A waitress came by the table to take everyone’s drink orders, Gloria requesting her usual rum and coke. As soon as she walked away, a waiter practically ran to the table with glasses of champagne for all four of them.

“Courtesy of Mr. Corleone,” he said.

Gloria smiled. “Thanks.”

“How about a toast, huh?” Connie proposed.

“Alright, may you and Michael have at least fifty wonderful years of marriage and half a dozen kids running around,” Sandra said.

“You’re supposed to be wishing her luck, not her worst nightmare,” Vivian joked, though it was clearly missed on Connie and Sandra.

“She’s kidding,” Gloria quickly said, shooting a glare at her sister-in-law. 

“Nothing but happiness for you and Michael, god knows what he would’ve done if you weren’t around, Gloria,” Connie said, not missing a beat.

Vivian grinned as she gave her toast. “Here’s to committing to the same cock for the rest of your life.”

Sandra laughed loudly, nodding in agreement, “God willing!”

“This is getting out of hand,” Connie snickered.

“Alright, cheers,” Gloria said, clinking glasses with her companions. 

Gloria threw back the champagne, not caring for the taste but dealing with it for the significance of the occasion. Still, she wanted it gone by the time her rum and coke came around. She tried to pace herself on her first drink, sipping while listening attentively to Vivian dishing the latest gossip from the hospital. Though it seemed she was catching Sandra and Connie up on just about everything that had happened since she started working there nearly fifteen years before.

“There’s this woman who works down in the maternity ward, her husband used to be a priest,” Vivian said.

“Hold on, was he a priest when they met—“ Sandra’s eyes widened as Vivian nodded, “Madone , and I thought I’ve sinned.”

“I mean, there are plenty of ‘em around at Sacred Heart. I’m just surprised they didn’t fire her.”

“All those nuns probably aren’t so innocent themselves,” Connie said.

Gloria laughed. “God, if my mother heard you all right now.”

“Oh, I don’t tell her half the stuff that goes on there. She’d have a heart attack,” Vivian said.

After another round of drinks, Gloria decided it was time to dance. She wasn’t particularly great at it, but it was fun, and dancing on her own in the house wasn’t the same. Michael refused to join her, especially when it came to the more upbeat, contemporary songs she preferred, but late at night, in tender moments when it was just the two of them, she could convince him to share a slower dance with her in the confines of their bedroom.

She loved Michael best in their bedroom. She didn’t have to restrain herself there, not when they were in bed together or just in each other's company. He showed unprecedented vulnerability there, the way he had during their clandestine rendezvous in Las Vegas hotel rooms, when he didn’t have to be Don Corleone. Any time she’d been with Michael outside of a bedroom, whether as his mistress or his fiance, there’d have to be distance, restraint, like they were respectable people when they both knew they were the opposite. 

So she let loose on the dancefloor, probably the last time she’d be able to go clubbing like that. The end of an era. She downed another glass of champagne in memory of the soon to be deceased party girl. She’d made it last longer than most. Wincing at the taste, she quickly ordered another rum and coke.

Her rotation of dance partners was dizzying as everyone moved about haphazardly. She wasn’t sure if rock n’ roll was on The Archer’s usual rotation, or a special request someone had made on her behalf that night, but at least she was going out with a bang. 

Leaning against the bar, feeling sweat begin to roll down the side of her face, the bartender offered to pour her a shot. She accepted, throwing it back just as ‘All I Have To Do Is Dream’ began to play. One of the few contemporary songs Michael would dance to with her. She wouldn’t sit that one out in his absence.

Her gaze fell to Ciro, now standing by the coat check. Maybe it'd gotten too chilly waiting outside.

She waved him over. 

His dark brows furrowed and he pointed to himself. 

She nodded. 

“Will you dance with me, Ciro? I love this song,” she asked when he walked over.

“I don’t know…I’m supposed to be working—“

“Just this one?”

He nodded, reluctantly taking her hand in his. He kept a safe distance between them, almost laughably farther apart than the other slow dancing couples who were wrapped in each other’s arms.

“Ciro’s a very Italian name,” she said over the music.

He chuckled softly. “Well, I am Italian.”

“You probably have half a dozen brothers and sisters.”

“Eight of us,” he answered. “I’m the fifth.”

“So I bet we all don't seem that crazy to you.”

“No, not at all.”

“How old are you, anyway?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Me too,” she said. “Y’know up until a few months ago, I used to work in a place like this.”

“Out in Las Vegas, right? Don Corleone mentioned it once.”

“I can imagine what else he’s said about me,” she joked.

“He cares about you very much. At least what I overhear,” he said, quickly adding, “I don’t make it my business to eavesdrop.”

She smiled. “It’s alright, Ciro. Your secret’s safe with me.” The song came to its end a little too soon for Gloria's liking. “Thanks for the dance.”

He nodded. “I should get back now.”

Thinking she should do the same, she made her way back to the table. Dancing with Ciro felt nice, almost normal, though she didn’t have much of a comparison for what normal was. Before she was engaged, she supposed.

Vivian reached for her hand, patting it. “I gotta call it a night.”

Sandra nodded. “Me too.”

“Lightweights,” Connie teased.

“Too old is more like it,” Sandra said. “Gloria, I’m gonna be asleep before you and Michael even have your first dance at the wedding party.”

“Thanks for coming out tonight,” Gloria said with a smile. “It was fun.”

They parted with kisses on the cheek, and she watched as they made their way over to the coat check, gathering their things while Ciro got the car ready outside.

“More drinks?” Connie asked.

“I could get a few more rum and cokes in me,” Gloria said.

By the time a server brought over her fifth of the night, she was beginning to doubt her own statement. By Connie’s own admission, she hadn’t restrained herself when it came to the near-endless shots of tequila that were brought to the table every few minutes it seemed. She switched things up with a martini, however.

“You know Sandra and Tom are—”

“I kinda figured,” Gloria said. “Takes one to know one.”

“I feel bad for Theresa, but I mean, after Sonny was killed, Tom was the only one who could get through to Sandra. Sonny loved all of us, but Tom was his favorite brother even though he’s not blood. I guess it was only natural for them to share their grief that way."

“I can’t imagine,” Gloria said. 

She really couldn't. Michael seemed larger than life, impervious to death itself. If anything, he was to be feared over the great unknown, colder and more distant than death and whatever lay beyond it could ever hope to be. If even a fraction of what she read in the papers were true—and she knew they were—he dealt death like a deck of cards. No matter the hand, it was always in his favor. 

“Sonny would’ve liked you,” Connie said. “I think–he would’ve been glad for Michael. He always saw the best in people. At least, to me he did.” She downed the rest of her martini, nearly slamming it on the table when she finished. “Then Michael blamed Carlo for it, and he—Carlo could be a mean fucking prick, believe me, but he was my husband. What gave him the right to—”

“The right to what?”

“But Sonny was hot-headed. It could’ve been anyone who set him up. Then right before we moved to Nevada—dead. It’d been nearly ten years, but that didn’t matter. An eye for an eye. I don’t think I’ve really been happy since,” Connie lamented quietly.

The noise in the bar became muffled. Gloria’s lungs burned with each breath she tried to take, as if she were suddenly dropped into the deep sea without oxygen. Her vision blurred, watery and uncertain. Maybe it was how Fredo felt when he drowned. Drowned.

She realized then the extent of Michael’s unwillingness to forgive–inability sounded more like it.

Connie grabbed Gloria’s shoulder, shaking her a bit. “Hey, I’m drunk, what do I know?” 

Gloria forced a smile. 

She could hardly concentrate when Connie steered the conversation elsewhere, and within an hour, they decided to call it a night. Ciro had returned from dropping off Vivian and Sandra, and Gloria felt almost bad asking the guy to drive back to Long Island again. He didn’t seem to mind, though, helping Connie into the car when she nearly tripped over her coat on the way in. Gloria sat in the back with her this time, her gaze drifting between the buildings out the window and the back of Ciro’s head.

He dropped Connie off at her place first, walking her to the door and making sure she got in alright. 

“Ciro, will you drive around just a little bit more?” Gloria asked when he returned to the car. “I’m not ready to call it a night yet.”

He hesitated, but nodded, driving down a side street instead of continuing on the way back to the house. As homes and street signs passed by, she knew the direction he was heading. Her eyelids grew heavy, yet she awoke when he parked near the Long Beach boardwalk. The cool sea breeze reinvigorated her when she stepped out of the car.

He followed her to the boardwalk, the both of them leaning against the wooden railing just a few inches apart.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Not really, but what can you do?”

Nothing. There was nothing he could do. He was young, and in the family hierarchy probably a buttonman or soldier, whatever it was called. Maybe not even made yet. From what she'd gleaned working in Vegas and conversations with Michael, it took a long time for someone to officially be considered part of the family, and besides earning trust and respect, one task was almost certainly required of these men. It wasn’t like she could ask outright ask him, ‘Hey Ciro, ever killed someone for my fiance?’ Regardless, she didn’t want to know.

They watched the ocean waves in silence, the moon glittering off of the water in the pitch dark night. She wished she could dive under and emerge somewhere far across the sea.

“It’s getting late. I should bring you home now,” Ciro said.

Gloria wordlessly began making her way back to the car. A melancholy swept over her as they neared the house.

“Thank you for everything tonight, Ciro. It means a lot.”

“Good night, Gloria.”

She smiled, waving at him as she made her way up the short walkway to the house.

For the next few days, she avoided Michael when she could. Something about being around him made her feel uneasy. Or maybe it was the morning sickness, which she made attempts to hide from him by going on early walks and throwing up in neighbors’ flower bushes. The first time it happened, she attributed the sickness to food poisoning. Except food poisoning didn’t last for weeks on end. 

Gloria spent more time at her parents’ house, knowing Michael would generally steer clear of there unless absolutely necessary to go. Ironically, she spent more time with Anthony and Mary as a result, the kids asking her to bring them with her whenever she’d express her desire to go over. Her parents doted on them. Her mother and Mary were usually occupied in the crafting room, probably painting while Julia educated Mary on the ins and outs of New York's Democratic politics. Anthony had quickly grown close with her father, the two of them watching Yankee games in the living room whenever they were on. When they’d all walk to the park up the street, they’d play ball, Julia and Mary playing outfield while Gloria would referee from the wooden park bench nearby.

“Mary says you’re sick all the time in the mornings,” Julia said one afternoon, taking a seat next to her daughter.

“I drink too much,” Gloria lied. She hadn’t drunk since the bachelorette party, when after two days of vomiting she began to suspect the worst.

“When was the last time you bled?”

“Stress can cause that too.”

“You should make a doctor’s appointment.”

“They’ll tell me it’s nothing.”

Julia held up her hands in acquiescence. “Whatever you say.” That didn’t mean her mother was finished throwing hardballs her way. “When was the last time you went to mass?”

Gloria groaned. “Mom—“

“Drop the kids off at school tomorrow morning and then meet me at the church. St. Catherine's still has daily mass at 8:30.”

Anthony and Mary had been enrolled in the same Catholic school Gloria had gone to growing up. Even though there were parishes closer to Gloria and Michael, it had become their parish by virtue of her family already going there. They certainly weren’t going to turn down the generous donation to the parish on behalf of the Corleone family.

During the tour of the school before Michael had enrolled the kids, Gloria felt an indescribable deja vu sitting in the principal’s office again. Except she wasn’t in trouble, and the nun behind the desk was relatively young and incredibly nice, far more so than Sr. Margaret had been. Sr. Jeanne expressed that she’d do everything she could to make Anthony and Mary feel welcome despite starting there in the middle of the school year.

“I’m gonna drop the kids off at school tomorrow,” Gloria said later that evening. “I’m meeting my mother at 8:30 mass.”

“What brought this on?” Michael asked.

“She asked me. I guess I figured I’d humor her.”

“You’ve been spending a lot of time at your parents’.”

“So?”

“Nothing. It’s good to spend time with family,” he said, almost dismissively, but she could hear his displeasure lurking beneath the surface.

He noticed she was avoiding him and clearly thought her parents’ dislike of him had something to do with it. But he couldn’t protest it, not a man so obsessed with tradition and hierarchy. Despite how Americanized she was, Gloria and her family were still Sicilian, so as long as she and Michael weren’t married, her parents preceded him.

The following morning, Gloria drove her own car to drop Anthony and Mary off at school. It was a nice drive with the weather getting warmer, so they left the windows rolled down, Gloria’s favorite rock n’ roll station playing on the radio while the kids sang along to the songs they’d begun to recognize. 

When she pulled up to the school, she parked just between it and the church. She walked them up to the front doors, giving each of them a hug and extra lunch money.

Her mother arrived at St. Catherine’s just as Gloria made her way up the steps of the imposing church. The last time she stepped foot in St. Catherine’s was her high school graduation nearly a decade prior. It looked exactly the same as the last time she was there—marble floors and brick walls that led to a high ceiling supported by wooden rafters with ornate gold leafing. Each step one took inside the building would echo throughout. It was pretty much impossible to leave in the middle of mass unnoticed, which some people tried to do after communion.

She genuflected before getting into one of the wooden pews, her mother following. A few minutes went by, and they were joined by a friend of her mother’s, an older woman who also seemed to attend mass daily.

“Gloria, it’s been so long! Good to see you again, dear,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“And congratulations on the engagement. About time for a woman your age.”

Gloria smiled as politely as she could. 25-years-old and these people considered her nearly dead for not having a husband. If she had it her way, she wouldn’t even be engaged. 

“Any plans for kids?” she pried.

“Believe me, we’re trying,” Gloria said, feeling especially pleased at the scandalized expression that fell upon the old woman’s face, unable to react as mass was starting.

Though it’d been a while, Gloria knew weekday mass was always shorter than Saturday night or Sunday morning mass. She could endure half an hour of it.

As mass proceeded, she could still vaguely follow, though her Latin was rusty. St. Catherine’s offered four languages to its high school students. Gloria found French confusing despite her mother’s near insistence she take it, and Spanish was too close to Italian which was highly discouraged by her parents. She settled on Latin, and it ended up being one of the few subjects she consistently did well in, occasionally earning As on her report cards amongst the usual Bs and Cs.

She went through the motions of mass almost mechanically, her muscle memory of the service emerging from the mental depths she’d buried any piety under. The only reading for the mass came from Matthew, toward the end of chapter 18. Among the half-comprehensible verses, she caught one word in particular. Dimittam. To let go of or release-forgiveness.

Her chest tightened at recognition of the verse: Lord, how often shall my brother offend me, and I forgive him?

Jesus’ answer was symbolic, the nuns had told her. Forgiveness was limitless, to be doled out generously whether to one’s own brother or to those who didn’t deserve it. 

She thought back to what Connie had said at The Archer, the reason why she’d been avoiding her finance ever since. Coincidence, or a sign from a distant god that her suspicions about Michael were right. For as long as she’d known him, he could never let things go. She hadn’t minded it when it was for her benefit, like on their first trip to LA together. They had gotten dinner with Johnny Fontaine at a swanky nightclub he recommended. Gloria had nearly passed out when Johnny introduced them to Liz Taylor. Yet, later on that night, some up-and-coming actor wouldn’t give her the time of day despite her being a fan of his, complimenting his performance in his latest movie. The following morning he sent over a bouquet of flowers and personally called to apologize for his behavior, claiming he hadn’t been feeling well the night before when they met. Funny…she couldn’t remember his name anymore.

What had been on her mind wasn’t a perceived slight from an actor, though. If his own family wasn’t spared from his wrath, then neither was she. The priest’s homily was about forgiveness, something Michael rarely if ever doled out. Gloria could certainly hold her own grudges, but she couldn’t exactly do anything about them like he could. Maybe she understood the reasoning behind his ordering Connie’s first husband to be murdered; she'd want the same if someone had set Jackie up to die. But she couldn’t shake Fredo from her thoughts. What could he have possibly done to be denied forgiveness by his own brother? 

Her gaze drifted up toward the large crucifix on the wall behind the altar. Try marrying Michael Corleone.

Miraculously, she wasn’t struck down by a bolt of lightning, but after receiving communion for the first time in years, she prayed for Fredo’s soul, wherever it was.

Mass ended not long after, and she left her mother to talk with her obnoxious friend. She froze upon seeing Michael waiting outside for her.

“Michael, hi,” she said.

He smiled a bit, “Just ‘hi’? No, ‘I’m glad to see you’?”

“Of course I’m glad to see you.”

She gave him a kiss, a bit awkward and chaste, but she could chalk it up to being outside of a church.

“It’s a nice morning for a walk,” he said.

She nodded. “There’s a garden behind the convent. It’s pretty this time of year.”

He took her hand in his, and they meandered to the convent behind the church, following the worn stepping-stones to the prayer garden. Colorful and full of flowers, beautiful in the springtime, each blossom at its peak in May when they’d celebrate the Blessed Mother. She paused to look at a rose bush. Probably only a few days away; she’d know if she’d been paying attention.

“Darling, are you alright?”

She hummed. “Sure, I’m fine.”

“If you’re trying to convince me, you’re not doing a very good job.”

“The homily today was about forgiveness.”

“And?”

Her fingers twitched against his palm. “It’s just–you seem to have a hard time forgiving people.”

“Forgiveness isn’t compatible with what I do. You know that.”

“Is it worth it?”

“Does it matter?”

“I guess not.”

“Forget about all of that. I have great news.” He squeezed her hand. “We got a letter from Cardinal Spellman this morning. The Vatican approved the annulment.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh my god. This is actually happening.”

“We can finally set a date.” He smiled. “How does this summer sound?”

Too soon. “Perfect.”

“Why don’t we head home? I’ll drive us back in your car. Ciro has to run an errand for me, anyway.”

The drive back to the house wasn’t nearly as pleasant as the one she took earlier in the morning. No rolled down windows taking in the spring breeze or rock n’ roll stations playing her favorite songs. It was almost eerily silent, and a foreboding grew in her stomach as they neared the house. Or maybe she had to throw up again.

Something was off when they walked inside.

“Where is everyone?” Gloria asked, the house unusually empty for a weekday.

“I sent them out, gave them the day off. There’s something we need to discuss alone.”

“Is everything alright?”

“Yes, it’s just something I want to keep between us. We can talk about it in my office.”

She nodded, though she was sure her heart was going to jump out of her throat when she followed him into the room. He closed the door behind her despite their being alone. A heavy dread set over her body, and suddenly she felt cold, shaking as she sat down on the couch. He leaned against his desk, lighting a cigarette in his mouth and handing it to her.  

“Very few people know what I’m about to tell you, Gloria. Kay didn’t know. Most of my family still doesn’t,” Michael said. “You cannot repeat this to anybody. Do you understand?”

“I won’t.”

“You’re not going to be my second wife. Kay was my second wife.”

“What happened to your first wife?” Her curiosity was slaughtered the moment she asked. Looking into his eyes suddenly felt like being dragged to the second circle of hell.

His words cut through her curiosity with a closely controlled violence. “She was killed in Sicily by a car bomb that was meant for me. Her name was Apollonia. We were only married for a few months.”

Gloria froze. There it was, that drowning feeling again. Limbs heavy, lungs burning, sound muffled, everything moving in slow motion as the cigarette fell from her hand and onto the carpet. Her head drooped, and she let out a pained wail.

Her father’s words from just a few weeks prior echoed in her ears. ‘Has he got you living in some fantasy world? Where all that shit won’t touch you? That if you look the other way or keep your head in the sand, nothing will happen? He has no right promising you peace or safety when he deals in the opposite.’

Michael approached her cautiously, the way one does a wounded animal as not to frighten it. 

“Why would you tell me this?” she asked, looking up at him through the mess of black hair that had fallen in her face, voice strained as she held back a sob.

He knelt beside her, brushing her hair back to reveal black tear tracks that streaked down her cheeks. “So that you understand why I do the things I do, things I can’t always tell you about. Kay never understood, I don’t think she wanted to, but now you do. I’ll do everything in my power to protect you, and our baby. I had the man who did it killed, and I’d do the same for you, but it won’t come to that. Do you understand?”

There was no denying it anymore. No use in throwing up in flower bushes on early morning walks in the neighborhood to hide the clear signs of morning sickness from Michael. Whatever was inside of her, she wanted it out. Wished she could reach inside of herself and give it to him if he wanted it so bad. Kay’s abortion wasn’t so puzzling anymore. 

Against all better judgment, she clung to him, burying her face in the crook of his neck. Trapped with him, by him, his arms wrapping around her like a snake. She’d heard being burned alive was the most painful way to die. Unless it was instant, Apollonia spared the agony and passed it onto Kay, who through her abortion passed it onto Gloria. But there was no one else to turn to or confide in, no one who could do a damn thing about it.

“Gloria, it’s alright. As long as you listen to me, nothing will happen to you. No one will touch you.”

“You can’t promise that! You don’t know!”

“I love you,” he said, holding her tighter. “I love you.”

“More than you loved her?”

He was silent.

[scarlet-traveler]

“Hey Kats, can you check and see if I have anymore clothes in the closet?”

“Sure.” Katsuki finished folding the neon green shirt he’d been working on (thank fuck, he felt like his eyes would catch fire if he looked at it any longer), and he added it to the stack with the other shirts he’d already finished before wading through the sea of boxes in Eijirou’s room.

They had been at this for most of the day, working to clear out their dorms before they had to leave at the end of the week. Katsuki and Eijirou had wrapped up the former’s room yesterday, and now they were working together to sort through Eijirou’s belongings to see what he would keep and what he would throw away or send off to a thrift store.

It was a strange feeling, packing up their rooms. Ever since the summer of their first year these rooms—this building—have been their second home. They’ve seen their class grow and develop into the heroes they were now, seen them through everything from final exams to a fucking war, and all the emotions and memories to come with it, good and bad.

But now they were finally (finally) officially graduated, and now came the daunting task of getting rid of all the crap that had accumulated in each of their rooms throughout the past two and a half years so that the new first years could move in come April.

It was easier said than done. It never seemed like you had a lot of stuff to pack until you actually start trying to pack it away, and then you realize the three boxes you thought it would take to hold everything was nowhere near enough.

In Katsuki’s case, the number of boxes had been double what he’d guessed. He had way more junk than he’d thought.

It was also tricky to make progress when his himbo of a boyfriend kept getting distracted by whatever trinket he found stashed away under his bed or shoved to the back of a desk drawer. An easy bribe of barbecue if they could be done by tomorrow had instantly cut the distractions however, and now things were going smoothly. Eijirou was going through his clothes to see what would go home with him and what he could finally admit had been too wrecked by his quirk (dammit, the neon shirt went in the keep pile) while Katsuki handled the folding.

The closet was mostly empty, he saw, when he finally made his way over to it. “There’s just a few things left,” he called over to Eijirou as he reached for the articles of clothing still hanging in the back of the closet. He wrapped his arms around it all, aiming to grab everything in one trip, when his fingers brushed against plastic, and something crinkled.

Furrowing his brow, Katsuki tugged the bundle of clothes along the rack towards the front, revealing one of those cheap garment bags you get from a clothing store tucked away in the very back. Weird. Eiijrou didn’t usually have clothes fancy enough to warrant using this kind of bag. He usually left his dress shirts to hang uncovered with his regular clothes.

Curiosity had Katsuki rolling up the garment bag, and his eyebrows rose in surprise. “You still have our suits?”

They were just as tattered and dirty as Katsuki remembered them being, the sleeves of Kirishima’s shirt and blazer completely torn to shreds from using his quirk, the sleeves of Katsuki’s own long burned to cinders from a few too-powerful explosions, the flowers decorating his vest a dingy gray from soot rather than the vibrant white they should have been.

Some of the only physical remnants of that disastrous trip to I-Island in their first year. Katsuki had barely spared his own suit a second thought after taking it off following the events of that night, more focused on wanting to sleep the entire next day away. He hadn’t wanted to keep the suit, didn’t feel a need to considering the thing was wrecked, so he was surprised to find it with Eijirou’s in the redhead’s closet after all this time.

Eijirou looked up, a brief flicker of confusion crossing his face before his eyes widened, his face flushing red as his hand went to scratch the back of his neck. “Oh, y-yeah. I honestly forgot those were still back there.”

“Why’d you even keep them in the first place?” Katsuki asked, grabbing the suits along with the rest of Eijirou’s clothes and making his way back over to the bed. “They’re wrecked to shit and they don’t even fit us anymore.”

The simple question made Eijirou’s face burn even brighter, and he turned away from Katsuki, continuing to shuffle through the folded shirts as a distraction. “Wanted them for keepsakes, I guess,” he finally answered. “Sure, the trip didn’t exactly go as planned-”

“No shit,” Katsuki snorted.

Eijirou huffed, “Yeah.” A smile broke across his lips, sharp teeth seeming to gleam in the afternoon light filtering through the balcony door. “But even so, I didn’t want to forget it.” His gaze cut over to Katsuki, smile pulling wider. “Plus, it kinda felt like our first date, y’know? We had a whole love suite and everything.”

“Still can’t believe out of all the fucking rooms at that hotel that was the one we got.” Where that statement originally was steeped in anger, now his voice held an exasperated fondness. The room had been annoying at first, but looking back, he couldn’t bring himself to hate it as much.

Eijirou was right, after all. Katsuki couldn’t quite place when he had started to fall for the ridiculously nostalgic redhead he now called a boyfriend, but looking back, he was sure I-Island had been part of the push. He wouldn’t have chosen Eijirou as his plus-one if not for his then-unknown feelings, after all.

“Sap,” Katsuki elected to say instead of the disgustingly sweet thoughts filtering through his head at the moment. Eijirou laughed, because of course he did, and Katsuki couldn’t hide his own smile as he started folding the tattered suits to the best of his ability. “These go in the keep stack, yeah?”

Eijirou beamed, brighter than the sun, his smile always a star to guide Katsuki through his life. He hoped it never went away. “Yeah.” He suddenly grabbed Katsuki in a hug, squeezing him as he pressed his smile into blond spikes. “Love you, Kats.”

Katsuki hummed, eyes falling closed as he sank into Eijirou’s warmth. “Love you too, Ei.”

~

Fic I wrote for @krbkevents I-Island Week Day 1: Suits! Also on AO3!

[pixielovers2account]

What a cute voice.

This story is pure fluff! The reader doesn’t talk till the end she does talk in her mind. If that makes since.

I sat on her live watching her eat the kiwi. (Your so beautiful) a chat said (what’s your number Jenna?) she read out the comments with a smile raising a brow “why would I give my number I don’t know you.” She laughs a bit taking another (what are you eating) she read out that message licking her lips “what am I eating? Oh it’s a kiwi.” She shows it to the camera “it’s a fruit.” She takes another bite her lips wrapping around the brown and green fruit leaving and imprint in the fruit.

My finger pressed on the keyboard letter by letter I sent her the message. “How can I meet you in person?” She reads out loud leaning back “well I walk a lot, chance you might see me on the street. Uhm you can also come to like one of the meet and greets but it’s rare that you can get close to me so it’s really a matter of if you get lucky or not.” I listened closely to what she said I smiled to myself typing a quick “thank you” on the chat before leaving.

I looked out my window seeing the dark sky and the piercing moon burning the sky with it’s beautiful bright light.

I got up from my chair flopping onto my bed curling up into a ball as I yawn. “Meet her while she walks…yea right there’s no way she’s had complete different time period…” I criticized closing my eyes tears falling as I remembered a lost memory a memory that she’ll have forgotten.

I sat alone on a bench. Looking down at the sad sandwich that had been ran over. I frown as I threw it away groaning to myself with a childish pout. “What’s wrong?” A voice spoke behind me I turn meeting beautiful feel brown eyes. A younger Jenna stood in front of me. I slowly nodded. She tilted her head her eyes looked to the sandwich. “Did your food fall? Is that why your mad?” She looks back to me with a kind smile reaching in her purse, pulling out a couple of bills. I licked my lips tilting my head. “Here, it’s enough to get you another one.” She hands me the money and change I looked down at the money a twenty dollar bill and two silver coins on top of the dollar. “This is way to much” I thought to myself as I looked up at her but she was already walking away “keep the change!” She yells back to me turning the corner.

From that moment on I promised myself to repay her. And to finally give her a proper thank you.

…

I sat at a table drinking my coffee holding a book when a storm of people took out there phones. Mumbling about something. I ignored this keeping my eyes down “what the hell was happening? Some famous stars here or something?” I asked myself In my head. I turned the page of (MIDNIGHT SUN) a book from a series. I was on the part where Edward finally met Bella and-“Jenna over here!” I looked up from my book my mind flaring with memories a hope to see the small girl as my head pounded in my chest. “Jenna?” My mind raced as i thought about the girl I stood up turning my head a crowd of people. I needed to get closer.

So I pushed and moved the crowed out the way. My eyes glowing with hope. As I seen the girl smiling at a girl that held her hand saying hi to her. “Jenna” my mind raced as I never called her out loud. I smiled as I tried to get closer but was pushed away “watch it kid!” A man yelled at me. My face contorted in disgust. He had a gray and black beard his hair line slowly deceived as his bear belly poked out of the way to small shirt. He huffed at me as he watched the girl walk away. “Damn it see what you’ve done you annoying brat.” He spat at me as his eyes met mine I frown feeling embarrassed and scared.

My lips quivered as he placed his hands on my pulling me by my white T-shirt ripping the fragile material. He pulls me up high high enough that I can see Jenna leave with her coffee and heading into a black BMW. I frown more. “Jenna” my favorite person was heading away.

“Look at me you bitch.” The man said. I looked at him with disgust and concern. I looked around the crowd noticeably growing as people pulled it there phones not bothering to help.

I looked at the man kicking his stomach. “FUCK!” He yelled as he dropped my holding his fat rolls. He curled his fist kicking me right in the head I fall back feeling myself bleed from the brim. That’s gonna hurt later as people groaned and cheered. How sick

I looked back up kicking the man in his heels standing up now I was serious. I balled up my own hands wrapping my hands around his big body pushing the man onto the frown and punching him into the wooden floor. People yelled and the manger pulled me off after a whole 40 minutes of fighting him.

I was kicked out the store banned from the place.

And what’s worse. As I went home it was all over the news. My face luckily blurred in some shots. But one I noticed you can see me clearly. “FUCK! God damn it!” I screamed in my head kicking my bed pushing my materials off of the counter. Glass broke.

Tears fell out of rage as I fell back into the flood curling into a ball crying myself to sleep on the broke. Floor.

…

My eyes slowly open to a stove a sink and broken glass. “Did I sleep here all night?” I thought slowly getting up. “My arm hurts” I looked at the dried up blood. “Maybe that’s why…” I slowly got up stumbling to the bathroom hitting every wall falling over any bag or decorations. I opened the bathroom door turning the light on seeing my fain bruised posture.

I gripped a med kit pulling the glass out of my arm. I searched for a bandaid but only found a role of duck tape…so I used it placing it over my cuts. But not before putting some cloth there obviously.

I let out a sigh going up to my room. I sat on my chair before turning on my computer finding myself on Jenna’s new video/live stream. It was 2:00 in the morning 2:00…I sighed as I watched her answer questions. (What do you think about the video) one asked another asked (is she a crazy ex girlfriend!?) I read all of the insults and praises. “No guys please I don’t think the fight was really about me maybe something happened to where she fought him.” She defended me. Suddenly I was glad that they don’t have suck a great picture of me the only clear one was me with my head down as I was thrown out the store.

I let out a sigh as she answered more and more questions defending me each time. (What do you think about the girl? Is she innocent.) this one I typed myself “is she innocent? Yes yes I really do think she is but you never know I guess.” She shrugs. This gave me some peace of mind as I logged off. Closing my computer and going to sit on my bed.

Tomorrows a new day…

…

I sat in front of the computer. A guitar in my hand and a mask over my face as i started to play a tune. A live stream I had. (Your such a good play)

(Face reveal?)

(Omg Jenna’s here!)

(Guys Jenna is here!)

(My wife finally came lol)

(Oh cool Jenna Ortega is here.)

I looked at the messages likes and comments people told me over and over again that Jenna was here. I decided to look for myself. Spotting the girls account. (Why is she here doesn’t she not like TikTok?) a lot of people questioned having Theory’s that she was my girlfriend or some type of connection to that.

I smiled to myself in the mask.

(Should I make a song about Jenna?) I asked the community with a comment. I got a lot of unanimous responses. I started off a slow tone. I see Jenna making a comment on the video say that I don’t have to and that she was just a fan…a fan of me Jenna Ortega the nice girl was a fan of me.

I made a soft song no words to it just a calming melody. I wasn’t one to talk to I let my guitar do the talking little word hidden in the song if you listen.

(Your eyes shine so bright your hair just like honey like the bees your on a bright shinny day voice just as calming soft like the waves. Man what is happening I feel my heart dancing away from my body jumping out of my body your eyes keeping awake your size leaving me a trace of something that I can’t believe what’s happening to me? Oh yeah I love the way your eyes shine so bright your perfect-) the lyrics cut off I didn’t know what else to say. I mean I am saying all of this in my head but still. But also writing this down.

I stopped playing saying to the chat I was lost I didn’t know what else to say or really play.

Maybe one day she can help me.

…

The rain pattered on the the streets floor as I walked to the bus stop. It’s been a month after all the times I’ve tried to find her. I think I’ve given up. I looked at the 20 dollar bill and the two dimes and one carter that had fallen out of my hand that day I met her. I let out a sigh as I sat on the bench a familiar one. I frowned as I pulled out a sandwich. Picking at it throwing it on the floor. I pouted grossing my arms as I crossed my leg letting out a groan

“Hey what’s wrong?”

My eyes widened at the soft voice such a familiar vanilla like voice I slowly looked up spotting the girl with damp hair and a small smile. “Hi” she said now sitting beside me. I looked in front off me quickly as she laughed a bit “isn’t this funny here again huh?” My eyes widened she remembered that? “Here.” She held her hand out with money inside. I shake my head rejecting her “oh?” She raised a brow as I pulled out my own money handing it to her. She smiled taking it in her hand “thank you so much.”

She looked at me licking her lips “you don’t talk much do you.” I shake my head my hair bouncing with it. She nodded to herself “I wonder why…” i think this was supposed to be for herself as she said it quietly. She slowly stood up stretching “I should go…bye oh and keep the change.”

My eyes shinned with amusement as she started away “Jenna” my voice was small yet noticeable. She stopped dead in her tracks. As she looked at my with a curious and surprised expression “what did you say?” She seemed excited “Jenna thank you Jenna.” She showed her pearly whites as she turned to me. “What’s your name?”

She asked kindly.

“My names Y/n” she nodded licking her lips.

“Y/n what a cute voice”

And for the first time I stepped out of my comfort zone and called out to her.

[shinsouscatpisssmell]

My husband is a sea lion?!

Driving on the rocky road in your quaint little coastal town of a place called Seaford, rolling hills swooshing by and the soothing sound of crashing waves could be heard as your carry on your drive. Whistling a soft tone to the music you had on shuffle glancing over at the expensive bags you were carrying home. Some moments fidgeting the shiny rock on your finger not containing the smile that broke through. Truthfully, today was the mark of your second anniversary with your husband ,Kaelan.

Remembering like it was yesterday, a dark night of crying on the bench for getting stood up for the upteenth time. Only getting asked out as a dare because you were deemed the “chubby“ or “fat“ girl. You never let it get to you before always wearing the curves and shape of your body with pride and never letting it dampen her spirit.But tonight you had felt that the guy this time was different. “hi, pretty mamas, whats a woman like you doing by herself?“ there he stood at 6’5 in a gray track suit with shaggy hair in his face. He slides onto the bench next to you after not getting a response.

“you know I should call the police?“ he lets out a long whistle looking over for your eyes to meet on directly. Watching you look at gim confusingly,“ because you stole my heart.“ letting out a snort and soft giggle at his corny joke. He smiles proudly, “if you give me your number i can promise to make that smile never falter.“ and the memory fades as you pull into the driveway.

Gathering the various of bags from

the floor of the passenger side and enter the cozy cottage. Closing the door you noticed an unusual silence that hung in the air. Curiosity mingled with concern, as you call out softly for kaelan only to have your heart drop at the sight of his abandoned clothes in the hallway. Breaths turning heavy and emotions raging wild. Slowly turning to anger as you dig through the hallway closet and find a baseball bat. Creeping to the door you let it creak as you inch it open ready to see thw sightnof another woman in your bed accompaning your husband. Yet nothing laid there but rose petals in shape of a heart and a gift bag. Inside was a jewlery box containing a necklace. Making your heart flutter. The sound of water splashing broke you out of your heartfilled trance. Seeing the bathroom door a jared. Rushing toward the bathroom dragging behind the baseball bat in your loose grip. Not expecting a scream to escape her body.

There, you find sitting in the bathtub a sea lion splashung water on its skin happily and merrily until it heard your scream making it use ita fins to cover its body with haste. Seeing yourndeath grip on your wooden weapon swinging it at him. “wait,y/n-“ it jumps out the tub as you scream louder at it being able to speak the human language. It slips and slides on the bathroom floor dodging you making you become a heaving and huffing mess. Before watching you in fear watching the scene of slipping occuring in front of it.

Groaning in pain you feel the back of your head to make sure no bleeding occurred. Only to feel a pillow placed underneathed you and the same ocean critter standing before you as its black doe eyes look upon your person in worry . heart racing as you came to a startling realization. Your husband, the man yoh had adored for years, was not who you thought he was. He was a sea lion, hidden beneath a human guise, waiting for the touch of water to reveal his true nature.

“kaelon?“ she asked after her revelation.

The critter nods its head and the feeling of

Confusion and disbelief washed over like the waves crashing against the shore behind the house . How could this be? How had you never noticed? Questions flooded your mind, and a mix of emotions swirled within ypu. But amidst the shock, an unexpected warmth filled her heart.

When you gazed into the sea lion's eyes, you witness fear, love ,and vulnerability. You saw the same soul you had fallen in love with, now wrapped in a different skin. And in that moment,you couldn’t speak a word Or question.

An:// im going to make a chapter page and banner for it later on <3 but how do we like it so far? It’s my first story like this 🥹🙏🏾

[theamazingwhizzo]

For As Long As It Takes

After years of not seeing each other, Kit and Ty find each other on a rainy night. - 2,395 words

Based on the song Memories by Conan Gray. Title also comes from the song.

Tw: Angst.

In AO3

I don't celebrate Valentine's day, in my culture lover's day is in April, so it's more of a coincidence. Enjoy!

Kit-Normal Ty-Cursive

It was raining, as it was most of the time in England. Three years hadn’t made him like it more or even tolerate it. Sometimes he missed the LA sunlight, even if he had gained more colour to his skin now that he didn’t spend most of his time in a basement.

It was Saturday, so there were no classes, and Tessa and Jem with Mina had gone to London for some business and wouldn’t come back until Sunday night. He didn’t mind being alone, he had his comics, and his videogames, and could chat or call his friends.

His bedroom was a complete mess of clothes and bags and comics. Usually, Jem and Tessa let him have the room as he pleased and he could only remember twice they had asked him to put order for very particular situations. He was just a messy person, he knew where everything was, and that was enough.

Except when he didn’t, like now. There was a particular number of Captain America that was nowhere to be found. He tried in his room, the kitchen, the living room, the library. There were too many rooms, and the comic didn’t turn out. He even cleaned and ordered most of his room in hopes of finding it, with no hope.

Someone knocked.

This place was big, bigger than he had expected. He was wet, and tried, and felt like he was going to fall any moment. Nonetheless, he walked toward the house. The road was full of mud from the rain, but the garden had a small path made of stones. At the front door, with his fist up, he hesitated. Maybe he shouldn’t, maybe he would close the door to his face.

He was cold, he could barely feel his fingers, his lips, his toes. The way back would be as long and as harsh as the way in. Maybe he should get going. He knocked.

Kit went to get a pair of socks and walked down the stairs. He screamed “Coming!” while putting the first sock on. It was difficult to walk as he was putting socks on, so it was more like little jumps with the leg he could still use.

He waited, without much option. He heard a noise, then some more. Someone was coming, the steps irregular and messy. Someone said something. Coming. It sounded like Kit, but he couldn’t be completely sure. The steps are closer, Ty feels overwhelmed.

He was pulling up the second sock on while he opened the door, so it took him a few seconds to see who it was.

*Sorry, I for…

He finally looked up and saw Ty Blackthorn at his front door. His mind went blank, trying to process what was going on. He was taller, taller than Kit. And wet. Very wet. His dark clothes, like his hair, looked soaked. And Kit couldn’t, for the love of God, think for a reason as to why Ty would be there. They stood silent while the rain still fell outside, angry.

The door opened and the only thing he could see was gold. Gold hair falling everywhere, he realised he was putting a sock on. He started saying something. Kit hadn’t yet realised it was him. It gave him a moment to take him in before the magic breaks.

*I need your help. There’s no one else who can help me.

Kit blinked and moved aside. Ty’s shoulder’s fell and entered. Kit closed the door after him, and the hit of the heavy door echoed through the corridors of the mansion. In the light, Ty looks even worse. Pale, his lips looked almost blue, and his hair, longer than Kit used to see him (Maybe this was how it was now?), stuck to his face and it dripped to the floor.

Kit looked up and saw him. He had stopped talking. Kit is taller, but still not as tall as him. He’s wearing pyjamas and looks comfortable, and warm, and safe, and everything anyone could possibly want.

And rain still fell and he was still wet and cold, and finally he was talking, the words escaping from his mouth before he could even think them. He waited for Kit to close the door, to tell him to go away, that he was not welcome, that he hadn’t yet forgiven him.

*Come *Was all Kit said.

He went to the kitchen without looking back and trusted Ty would follow as he had told him. There he just told him “Wait”, and left.

Kit moved and Ty went inside. He knows this is not forgiveness, this is not friendship. Maybe he looked just pathetic enough that Kit had taken pity on him. Kit is finally saying something, and his voice is lower. He did as he was instructed and followed Kit when he told him to and stay still when Kit told him to wait.

He sat down on a chair.

Kit took one of the towels from the cupboard in the closest bathroom. He looked for the big ones, white, and turned around. He wasn’t surprised to see Livvy floating on the bathroom floor.

He shouldn’t have come. He needed Kit. He had been the only other person present during the ritual and while buying the ingredients. Anyone else was a risk too high and complicated. But also, he needed Kit. He needed his company, his comments, his smiles, his hugs. No one else was him.

But Kit didn’t want him. He knew, even before he came here, that Kit didn’t want him there. It was a mistake; one he chose to make anyway. Kit had left it very clear he had wished he had never met him. Ty had ruined everything, his friendship with Kit, even Livvy’s death.

*You look older *Livvy said.

*You look the same *Kit answered.

He knew Livvy would understand it for what it was; an apology. She was dead. That wasn’t his fault, but she was also a ghost, and that was his fault. In part. She tried to smile, but it looked wrong.

Coming here, where he knew he wasn’t welcome, was a particular type of pain he had never experienced before. This couldn't end well. Even if Kit forgave him, he would fuck up again, and Kit would hate him too deeply to ever forgive him. He should just got up from the chair and leave before Kit came back.

*Please, don’t turn him away, he needs you.

Kit had to turn away.

*I know. I think deep down I knew this would happen eventually. I’m not going to run.

*Good.

Kit exited the bathroom and carried the towel to the kitchen, where Ty was still sitting on one of the chairs. His head was down, and he was dripping water everywhere, a puddle was forming under him. Livvy couldn’t stay away from Ty for long, so she had to be somewhere near, but he appreciated the attempt to give them space.

He gave Ty the towels, walking as near Ty as he could without soaking his socks. Ty used it to dry his gear and Kit thought of something to say. He had never had problems talking to him until that moment. There was this big gap between them that made it impossible to communicate with him.

Footsteps approached and a towel appeared near him. Ty took it, and noticed that Kit stood a good distance from him. Meticulously, he started to dry his Centurion gear. The material was thick, but mostly waterproof, so it wasn’t that difficult to dry it.

He stood like a statue until Ty finished and left the wet towel on the farm table. Ty, older, taller, in unfamiliar gear, sitting in the kitchen of Cirenworth, was something coming from one of his nightmares, not real life.

Ty had his hands over his legs, his eyes fixed on them. No one of them dare say the first word. Whatever he had imagined, dreamed, about this moment, it hurt. He remembered seeing strangers with black hair and earphones and realised they weren’t Ty hurt. This is worse. Every feeling, every moment, echo, impression, remembrance or reminder he had buried very deep in himself the moment he stood before the portal at Magnus’ wedding and looked at Ty at the beach, it was fighting to come out.

Kit didn’t say anything, didn’t move. Just waited at his side, his presence was impossible to ignore, like a flashing light in the middle of the night, too bright for the dark, and as much as you closed your eyes or put your hand over them, it was impossible not to see it.

He had hoped Ty would go away, would stay and never leave him again. That he would hug him, punch him again, take his hand, to push him away. He wished Ty would just take whatever he wanted and let him be so he could lick his wounds and they would finally heal. But if, after three years apart, he hadn’t managed to really heal them, did that mean they never would?

Ty didn’t say anything, neither did Kit. He didn’t know what he wanted, why he had come. Does the Scholomance know? Julian? Tessa and Jem? Dru? He had to stop his thoughts. He wished he had pockets to hide his hands. They’re trembling, his fist so closed that he can feel the nails digging into the skin.

He puts them behind his back. Ty doesn’t seem to notice.

*I… *Ty made a stop *I know you don’t want to see me. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t an emergency. There’s no one else I can go to.

Kit waited for him to continue. Finally, Ty does.

*There’s something wrong and it's connected to the necromancy. I can’t do it alone.

*I… *Ty had to stop because he felt like he was going to throw up. He swallowed and used the breathing exercises Catarina had shown him. * I know you don’t want to see me. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t an emergency. There’s no one else I can go to.

He waited for Kit to say something, anything. He doesn’t. Ty had no other option but to continue.

*There’s something wrong and it's connected to the necromancy. I can’t do it alone.

He couldn’t, he just couldn’t do it. Talk to Ty, see him, be with him. He had promised himself he wouldn’t let himself do the same he had done when he was with Ty. Doing everything to make him happy, even if he knew better, he should have, all because he couldn’t just say no.

This was the moment, Ty thought, this was the moment he had finally had enough and would tell him to get out. He hasn’t forgiven you, he was not his friend, his Watson. There was no Watson for him.

He had never prayed to Raziel, wouldn’t even know how to even if he wanted, but he didn’t believe Raziel went around just answering them, so what would be the point? Still, he hoped for a miracle, for Kit to accept, because he just missed him, and didn’t think he could stand being rejected for a second time.

Too scared to be alone, too scared to lose his only friend, his only… He couldn’t repeat history again, and he knew it would happen if he accepted Ty’s call for help. But he also knew he couldn’t just say no to Ty when he was asking, almost begging, when he clearly needed it.

The kitchen stood silent, the clock still clicked, the rain still fell. And then a noise broke the silence, a simple word, so easy he almost believed he dreamed it.

For all the life he had constructed these last years, he felt in that moment less solid, more like he was in a stupid bouncy castle. He felt stupid, so stupid, because even if he knew better, he was going to do it anyway. Not if he needed help, he couldn’t have turned his back on him in that way.

*Ok.

*Ok.

He didn’t know where it came from, it just came and he couldn’t get them back. Ty glance went up from his hands to Kit’s shirt, and Kit was scared about what it meant.

And this must be a dream. Because there was no way Kit had accepted. Kit, who in his nightmares repeated how he wished he had never met Ty, was never his friend, he hated him. And then he woke up and he was in the Scholomance and in reality, most of it wasn’t a dream but memories from a day he wished he could just forget.

And then Kit left, and didn’t even leave anything behind beyond the memories Ty had of them and the messy sheets of what was once his bedroom to prove he had been there, he hadn’t been real.

And then there was only Livvy to hold onto, but a ghost, he learned fast, was not like the living. As ghosts couldn’t be touched, they also couldn’t be someone’s anchor, only someone’s damnation. And there was Anush and other students that could almost be considered friends, but mostly his studies to focus and held on to. But every piece he took kept crumbling in his hands, falling and breaking and disappearing, and he just wished a little bit of peace.

He wanted to scream, cry, burn. But he barely showed any emotion. It was a dam he couldn't handle opening.

And this hat to be a dream. Because there was no way Kit had accepted. Kit, who in his nightmares repeated how he wished he had never met Ty, was never his friend, he hated him. And then he woke up and he was in the Scholomance and in reality, most of it wasn’t a dream but a memory. But he just couldn’t forget.

And at the end, when all hope was lost, he could only go back to the person he knew for certain didn’t want to see him and pray that the memories of what they once were would be enough for him to help him.

But he looked at Ty, and knew he was lost, and he would only be able to find himself anew.

In the end, he just wished for enough.

[piratewithvigor]

MAY

BCC!Bryan x Retired!Kane celebrating May 19th

AO3

“Thank you… for coming back.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I just want you to know I appreciate it.”

“But that isn’t like you. You don’t… I’ve never known you to get mushy over stuff like this.”

“Things change. It’s not exactly like you to be so team-oriented. Let alone a stable.”

His stable. His boys. They were all at home, probably all snuggled up together… probably wondering if he was okay.

They hadn’t exactly approved of this idea. They didn’t approve of him taking Kane’s call. They definitely didn’t approve of the fact that Bryan hadn’t blocked Kane’s number yet. But that was where the problems started coming up: Daniel hadn’t blocked his number. Daniel was the one who got a boner from yelling matches. Daniel was the one who would get misty-eyed if he was cuddled too tightly and got too warm overnight. Daniel was the kid who couldn’t figure out what a healthy relationship was.

Bryan was supposed to be better than that. The good example of what a respected veteran should be. He was the one Yuta was looking up to now that Regal wasn’t traveling with them anymore. Coaching him through the nights where he began wondering if he should check on Chuck and Orange. Reminding him why he’d swapped teams. That they were weaknesses. Parts of his past he had to let go. Yuta had to be cured of his past. Hypocrite as he was, Bryan couldn’t do the same.

He would chastise Yuta for his weakness– letting his emotions get the better of his career. Yuta would have to ignore countless messages and delete endless voicemails… Bryan had somehow been summoned to Kane’s bed with a single call. 

It was Daniel’s weakness. Under his years of being The Dragon, he kept feeling like Daniel. Daniel, who didn’t even have the strength to fight for the right to use his own name. The only person left who called him Daniel was Kane. The way he said it made it sound like it was the only name he’d ever have or ever want to have.

“It’s not like we’ve spent much time together lately. People change.”

“Don’t I know it.” It’s an attempt at a joke, but it’s a poor one. Kane’s changing was what ripped the two of them apart in the first place. When he’d taken off his mask and put on a suit and became this fake, plastic thing. Their team had broken up, but their relationship grasped at fumes for almost another seven years. Even after he changed back. He’s more like how he was in the beginning. Still not a good man, but a real one. One who’s aware of how big a deal it is for Bryan to be there. He’d practically begged, after all. When Bryan accepted, he resolved to play nice. No fights. The one issue remained that since their relationship had been built on fighting, the awkward silences are all the more awkward. “How are they?”

“Who?”

“Your boys. Dean and Cesaro and Regal and the little one… Yuta?”

Daniel would have been touched that Kane even remembered. Probably even initiated a second round in gratitude. Bryan can only remind himself that he’s told Kane a number of times who his boys are. Daniel would have made excuses, citing memory problems resulting from the very reason he agreed to show up. Bryan begged his resolve to stay strong. His boys needed his resolve to stay strong. 

“They’re okay. Regal’s retired now. Keeps sending us old man selfies from gray English beaches.”

“Been meaning to do some of that myself.”

“What’s stopping you?”

Kane shrugged, tracing a finger over the dip in Bryan’s hip. “Guess I’m not ready to go back on the road. Not when I’m finally home.”

“Mm.”

It’s a nice home, it really is. A few miles away from Taker, deep in the woods with a big lake in the backyard. It’s secluded, but not so far from the main road that it’s inaccessible. He built it himself, custom-built for his own comfort. The doors and ceilings are higher, most of the walls are primarily windows to let in natural light and almost all of the furniture is custom as well. The only piece Bryan recognizes is the bed they’re in. It’s the one from their old shared apartment; long enough for Kane to stretch out in, wide enough for them to each have their space (even though they always migrated to the middle and became a tangled mess of limbs) and their initials carved into the headboard, the result of a slightly tipsy night of foodplay. It’s a nice moment that Bryan doesn’t fault Kane for wanting to keep. God knows the genuinely good memories aren’t frequent.

Both of them want to break the silence. Daniel wants to bring up more of the good times. Reminisce on how much fun they had together. If Daniel had his way, he’d talk himself into wanting to move right back in with Kane. All Bryan wants to say is that this can’t happen anymore. When people are divorced, they need to stay divorced. No more going back and no more yearly calls. If it were Yuta, he could say it. He could tell him to stop living in the past and move on. He could tell Mox to tough it out. Claudio wouldn’t need to be told, it was what made him the best. 

Bryan tilts his head up and it feels obscenely familiar. Daniel would lace his legs together with Kane’s, more or less straddling one to be curled along his side, using his chest as a pillow. He’d tilt his head up and get kissed so softly, it would make his heart ache. It almost feels wrong that Kane doesn’t kiss him, just looks at him expectantly. 

“We can’t do this anymore,” Bryan murmurs, barely able to make out the words. Daniel almost regrets saying anything when that damn heartbreaking look reaches Kane’s eyes. He doesn’t say anything for a while, just tilts his head back and sighs deeply enough that Bryan can feel it through his bones. 

“I know.”

He didn’t want to have asked. He’d probably felt fine on May 16. He’d probably distracted himself with household tasks on May 17. May 18 got him dialing Bryan’s number more than once before finally daring to call. Bryan had taken the next flight to Texas and made it to Kane’s doorstep the morning of the 19th. Taker mourned in his own way by tending to the graves of their parents. Kane mourned by darkening the house as best he could and sitting on the floor in the darkest corner. The makings of breakfast were already out by the time Bryan arrived; proof that he’d tried to make it through the day. That he’d sworn to himself that he could handle it this year and still came up short. 

Calming him down was arduous. But it always had been. The steps never changed. He hadn’t used it in years, but Bryan still understood the sign language Kane used when he couldn’t speak. He got him fed as best he could (which involved cooking meat, but all the time around Mox lately had gotten rid of most of his avoidance to it), then to bed. He’d cry a little, sleep a lot, then it was a gamble on how he might be feeling afterwards. Thankfully, this year was one of the easier ones. Kane felt up to talking afterwards, then up to touching. The sun was almost down when he felt up to going beyond. By that point, Bryan had taken a backseat to Daniel and allowed himself to be bent over for one of the few times since their divorce.

“Please don’t call me next year.”

“I don’t want to.”

“But you might?”

“I can’t promise I won’t call. I won’t want to.”

“But you want to be alone less.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t want to tell you how to grieve-”

“Why does it sound like you’re about to?”

“I think it’s time you and Taker acted like brothers about today.”

“Danny–” 

“Don’t call me that.” It feels biting. More than he intended it to. It’ll be a fight he doesn’t want to have. Bryan takes a breath and settles his weight onto Kane a little harder. “Don’t call me that anymore,” he repeats, softer this time.

“I know, I know, you’re Bryan now. I’ve just called you Danny for so long…”

“Yeah. But I’m Bryan now. Just like I was before we met. You called Danny and he showed up, but I can’t keep letting him show up. Danny shouldn’t exist anymore.”

Kane tilts his head. An old gesture he never quite grew out of. It makes Bryan sigh and push up onto his elbows so they can look at each other properly.

“You married Danny. You loved Danny. I’m not him anymore. Danny doesn’t exist anymore. It’s not good for us for him to exist any longer.”

“...is it wrong that sometimes I feel like I’d do anything to have him back?”

No. But he can’t say it out loud. To feel the ghost of his former husband everywhere he goes. To wish he wasn’t a ghost, but flesh and blood and warmth that could be touched. He feels Kane’s ghost all the time. Feels him every time he’s looking at someone a little too tall. His radiating heat permeates every scorching night and sends Bryan away from the arms of whoever is trying to care for him. The ‘I love you’s that used to get whispered mid-tag echo back when Yuta tries to say it on occasion, desperate for a returned one, or even an acknowledgement that it was said. 

“Try and stop. The wishing will drive you crazy.”

“...then I guess tonight’s our last night.”

Daniel’s begging for the opposite. That maybe they can spare one night a year. Skip out on the week before the week before Double Or Nothing. He’ll be there for the go-home show, that’s what matters. But nothing of note happens on the 19th. The only thing that ever happened on the 19th for the last decade was that he’d be in bed with Kane. He can’t do it anymore. 

“Yeah… guess it is.”