#all he wanted to do was save his home country

[darkmagyk]

40 and 41 plzzzzzz

40) Almost Kiss 41) First Kiss This is an AU I've been thinking about. A lot of different prompts kind of fit into it. And this was a really obvious place to start.

Percy had not looked at her in a week. He didn’t dare. What had happened last week was treason.

He knew it. And she knew it. And thank every god no one else knew about it, because treason.

He’d almost kissed the Queen.

It wasn’t so surprising. Queen Annabeth was beautiful. 17, just like him, with gold hair and silver eyes. Adorned with jewels and silks and velvets.

A month ago, he’d called on her in the evening, after Prince Triton had tried to embarrass his new stepmother, a girl who was 20 years his junior, by parading King Poseidon’s favorite courtesan in court at the dinner the night before.

The tittering had seemed to cover the whole hall. And he had seen the Queen’s face go white when one of her ladies had explained who the woman who Triton and King Poseidon was dancing with, was.

The lady, some Baroness Percy couldn’t place, and seemed all too happy to inform her mistress. And Percy had felt awful for her.

He knew what it was like to be on the outside of the court. And he couldn’t help but feel like it was doubly awful for her. He was a bastard; his mother had once been one of the King’s favorite mistresses. They were supposed to be always a little bit on the outside, always a little bit mistrusted.

Queen Annabeth was just that, a Queen. But she had shown up in a home of an old man. Had found herself between a father and son constantly in a battle of wills. And a court who found Poseidon’s third wife to be a stupid waif they shouldn’t have to waste time on.

So, he’d gone to her. He’d meant to offer some friendship, make herself known to her women’s court. But he’d found her alone save for her lady’s maid. She’d said all her own ladies had left for the night, and that they rarely called on her in her chambers.

And so he called again and again. Promised he’d speak to the king. It was well known that though King Poseidon and Crown Prince Triton were often at odds, King Poseidon dotted on his bastard.

And between his recent Military Success, well praised on a boy of 16, and the elevation in title his father had given him, he knew that the Duke of Thera was not a bad ally for the young Queen to cultivate. And she seemed to know the same.

He learned, in his meetings with her, that she knew a great many things. The history of the country, a great deal about how court operated, though not always current gossip. Trade and war and diplomatic relations.

She was smart. Much much smarter than his father probably realized.

He could have made great work of such a queen, but King Poseidon was an old man, and did not seem to want that anymore. He had outgrown strong women the second Percy’s mother had decided she did not want to be his dismissed jewel. She wanted a part to play, or to be released to something better.

Percy wasn’t even sure why Poseidon had married again. And why he’d gone with a wife so very young. He had his heir.

But maybe that was it. He wanted a spare. And more than that, he wanted to remind Triton of his replaceability.

Percy was, frankly, glad he was a bastard. He had a title, and he had the lands and estates his father had gifted him. Enough so that he might always be comfortable. Might have means to care for a wife and children. But he would never have to play court.

Or, he shouldn’t, unless Triton decided to do something stupid.

But Queen Annabeth didn’t have the same option. She had to play court. And so Percy had offered his services. He was just starting to provide her with information, and make suggestions on who and how she might talk to various people.

She had been attentive and shrewd with all the information he told her. And she’d been a charming hostess, always offering ale or wine and cakes.

And this last time…this last time had seemed normal. It had been normal, really. They had been sitting and talking, she’d gotten them cider, something new and delicious she said came in a shipment from her uncle earlier that day. Her uncle, Percy knew, was a king of a land in the far north. The wedding was something of a peace offering to prevent raiding.

She had been melancholy, likely because of the reminder of home.

And as they had spoken, they had found themselves closer and closer. Until he could feel her breath on his face, until her soft hands were in his own, until her curls, unconfined from her cap, brushed his cheek.

He had only pulled back when he his lips were a hair’s breadth away from hers. Enraptured and horrified in equal measure.

He’d sputtered an apology, giving a very formal bow. And then practically flew from the room. Thank all the gods that his bastard status, plus his ducal title meant that his apartments were in the Royal family’s wings. He was able to put nearly a castle between the two of them.

When at court, he dared not look at her. And it had mostly worked. Until now.

The King had had entertainment tonight. A set of clowns, then the trouvere Chappelle De Rohan, and then some tumbling. The queen was more or less required to attend. And Percy had been requested by his father.

Triton looked furious at his inclusion; a fact Percy found almost comical. You would think after 7-years, the prince would be used to it.

And Percy spent the whole time not looking at the queen. He wondered what she was thinking. What she might have said about him to the king. Or anyone else.

Probably nothing, given that he still had his head. But who knows when that might change.

They were enjoying some after dinner refreshments, and his father, in full view of the Queen, was eyeing one of the serving maids, when Queen Annabeth yawned loudly.

Poseidon noticed, despite her attempts to hide it.

“You are tired, my lady?” He asked his young bride.

“Forgive me, majesty,” she said, “I am. I’m afraid I am one of those women who requires her beauty rest.”

Triton snickered, Percy couldn’t imagine why.

“Of course,” Poseidon said, glancing around the room. “You should get to bed, a young lady like yourself.” Percy thought he noticed a wince in her face. “Percy!”

“Sir?” Percy was already looking at his father and the Queen, but he found himself sitting up straighter under his gaze.

“Escort the Queen back to her chambers, please. I assume you will not want to be present for the next round of amusements.”

“No, your majesty,” He agreed, he father’s eyes were starting to get a little red already, and the prettiest of the serving girls were around. He did not want to be here much longer.

“Good, my boy, walk the Queen back to her rooms and then you may retire yourself.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Percy agreed, bowing, and then swallowing. Walking up to Queen Annabeth and offering her his arm. She smiled at him. No hesitation in the silver, and took it. He led her out of the room. None of the royal guards followed them. Which seemed a horrible oversight.

She sighed as soon as they turned down the corridor, “He is an easy man to manipulate, thank goodness.”

“Your Majesty?”

“Oh, I suppose I shouldn’t speak so of your father,” She said, “But then, I got exactly what I wanted.”

“What you wanted?”

“You’ve been avoiding me, Your Grace,” She said, which was very very true. “So I endeavored to get the king to dismiss us together. Now you simply must walk me to my chambers.”

“You have been wanting to see me?”

“I have,” she agreed. She said no more the rest of their walk. There was a guard standing outside of the royal wing, and he bowed low to the queen, and then again to Percy, even though he was not considered a member of the royal family. Despite no question of his paternity.

He led her to door, but she did not remove her arm as she pushed the door open and walked inside. Only letting go to turn the lock.

“I can guess why you’ve been avoiding me, Percy…” And she’d never called him that before. Your Grace normally, Lord Perseus occasionally. Never just Percy. Very few people did at court. His father, of course, a mark of affection. Triton as an act of diminishment. If he was to call at his stepfather’s estate in the country, the whole family would have called him it. Same with his old tutors and childhood playmates. But at court now, it was a rarity.

“You are my queen.” Percy said, a little desperately, “and the king is my father.”

“Yes,” She agreed, leaning close to him again, “The King your father. I am of an age with his younger son. But luckily, we are friends.”

“Are we, my lady?”

“I want to be, Percy,” She said, and then her lips touched his. Just for a moment, the lightest brush. His first kiss. “I want to be very much.”

He initiated the second kiss. It was much much longer.

[imminent-danger-came]

I really am so sad I don't like isat. The themeing was very good

[virtue-boy]

Its kind of insane like genuinely insane how many people on here have no idea what life is like for average people in the third world / global majority and the Neo-colonialism that creates those conditions to support conditions in the North and how insanely cruel they can be as the absolute baseline and the type of killing and death that maintains the boundaries between the north and the south.

Like tell me you've never met an immigrant or refugee without telling me. Do you genuinely not know what happens to people who get deported, or work in the farms or meatpacking factories that feed the North?? The child deaths in the border crossings? The mines all over the globe? The people that die from lack of baseline vaccinations and sanitation and healthcare trademarked by western companies? The literal MILLIONS of third worlders killed in the wars across the globe defending US economic hegemony? The agent orange, the land mines, the carpet bombing, the drones? What the fuck is wrong with you?

[malcriada]

Help save Bilal's family!

i want to talk about my friend Bilal @bilal-salah0. for over a year now, Bilal has been living in germany, trying to adjust to his new living situation in a foreign country, learning a new language and working full time. 

when the war started, he was far away from home and his family and has been living in daily fear for their lives ever since. 

being forced to work long hours and promoting his family’s fundraiser at the same time, he has taken on more responsibility than anyone ever should. still, he managed to raise money for their evacuation fund and helped take care of his family’s daily needs with the money he was making while working. 

in a cruel twist of fate, all of this got taken away in an instant. he lost his job and his apartment and even his residence permit. which means he is at danger of deportation from germany that could happen as soon as next week!

i have been in daily contact with Bilal for a while now and connected him with some of my friends in germany. together, we are trying our utmost to make sure he can stay in the country. anyone who knows german bureaucracy knows what kind of hell it is. but we won't give up.

without his job, he was forced to dip into the money of his family’s evacuation fund to cover their daily expenses like food and shelter. this meant he had to raise his goal from €70,000 to €100,000. this was not an easy decision for him to make, he even asked for my advice on whether or not to do it, because he did not want anyone to think he was scamming people. 

even in such a desperate situation, Bilal does not want to be seen as someone who would ever take advantage of people's generosity

his family is comprised of 18 members, 10 of them are adults and 8 are children under 16 years old, some of them newborns who were born amidst the chaos of war and displacement.

currently, he is sitting at:

€71,817 / €100,000

donations have been slowing down ever since he reached his original goal. i cannot stress how important it is that they pick back up!

WE ARE RUNNING OUT OF TIME! HE NEEDS TO REACH HIS GOAL BY AUGUST 15TH!

THAT MEANS HE HAS TO RAISE NEARLY 30K IN THE NEXT TEN DAYS. THIS CANT WAIT.

his campaign has been verified and can be found on @/el-shab-hussein’s and @/nabulsi’s list of vetted fundraisers here (#132, line 136) so PLEASE don't hesitate to share and donate.

With such a tight deadline, i cant do this on my own. So i implore you to PLEASE share this wherever you can– on your whatsapp groups, on your discord servers, please share his story on other platforms wherever you have reach! Please share his story wherever you can, so that we can ease this burden from his shoulders.

[ID: a gfm link with a picture of two small children sitting in the sand in front of a cooking pot. they are looking up a the camera, eyes half-closed. the title reads "Donate to Help Evacuate My Family from Gaza to Safety, organized by Bilal salah" End ID]

tagging for reach under the cut, please let me know if you'd like to be removed:

@meaganfoster @briarhips @dirhwangdaseul @mahoushojoe

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@deepspaceboytoy @post-brahminism @khanger @kibumkim @neechees

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@fridgebride @27-moons @tamarrud @familyabolisher @fleshdyk3

@decolonize-solidarity @palipunk @gothhabiba

[bakugotrashpanda]

Regency era Touya who marries you, the daughter of a baron, in secret when you’re both in the folly of youth and then goes off to sea. You get a letter saying the ship he was on went down and there were no survivors. All you have to remember him by are the three weeks of marital honeymoon bliss before he was shipped off, and a wedding ring you keep hidden on a necklace (Elizabeth swan style ya know). You don’t even get a body to bury.

Seven years go by and your gentle heart has hardened. You had love once, but you’ll never get it again. You’re on your second season, determined to have fun and not seriously look for a husband - let alone from any of the young men who pursue you (what do they know of the world. Save them for some naive blushing debutante).

You still get offers though, and when an earl and your guardian sit down to properly consider marriage, he tells you that all he wants is an heir, and that your inheritance will remain yours, and to top it off you’ll have both a country and city home where you can reside and conduct yourself however you like (after the heir is secured, and with discretion of course)

Not a marriage of love, but of convenience and duty.

And you agree.

Your dress is bought, the invitations sent; everything is going off without a hitch.

Until you walk down the aisle and stand next to your fiancé and the doors burst open.

A man with inky hair and wild eyes stares at you and calls for a stop to the ceremony. Scars and tattoos mar his skin. The crowd is in an uproar calling for the removal of the filth that dared enter the church and ruin the wedding of the season.

He only has eyes for you though. With a swagger in his step, he marches down the aisle and grins at you.

“Aw,” he teases, “don’t tell me you don’t recognize your own husband?”

[beloveds-embrace]

Thinking about designationless reader...

Imagine how alone she must've been for all her life. It started since she was young, her parents pushing her to the corner of the home, away from the family, and naturally, her siblings would follow their parents' lead, pointedly ignoring her, and finding any excuse available to be out of her presence. She wouldn't understand them anyway, she can't tell the difference between noises nor could she even recognize scents. It just wouldn't work.

Reader thinks that maybe she could find someone, anyone in school, but kids are like sharks, except instead of smelling blood, they smell the lack of all scents on her. Most kids have a combination of their own and their family members' scents. Reader has nothing, so everyone continues the pattern, but now with more stares and jeers and hushed giggles. Reader knows that bullying is bad, but anything would be better than simply not existing to anyone. That's what the others say, at least, that she's nothing, nobody. Never to her face, though, just in the whispers shared between friends.

She eventually tries to find others like her through the wonders of the internet. There's maybe a handful more scattered in her country, but none are her age, and all have their own families who care about them. Was it just her who wasn't deserving of love, of connection? Reader reaches out to them, and they talk a little, but before long, through no one's fault, it falls through. She was bad at talking anyway, even if she doesn't have to worry about scents or sounds that aren't there, she never knew much about context or connotation. She never had the opportunity to learn about the intricacies in communication. Reader is back alone.

The military eventually scouts her, and it's the first time anyone has ever really looked at her. Sure, they look at her like a valuable tool, but a tool is better than nothing. Reader obviously joins, desperate for crumbs. She climbs the ranks, gets the job done. She is good at her job, so people respect her. She learns how to talk professionally, emails, texts, and so one, but no one talks to her on leave. No one invites her to the pub after a good mission. No one even talks to her in the mess. But people do talk to her when they have to, and that's enough. Maybe she even gets a callsign. Doe. After Jane Doe, the placeholder name for unknown individuals, and insult if anything.

Now there's the 141. They invite her to things. They talk to her. They touch her. Reader exists for them. She isn't just an unknown person stuck in the background and invisible to everyone else, and Reader doesn't know what to do. Her speech is awkward and overly professional, even in personal settings. How is she supposed to be friends with someone, multiple someones? How is she supposed to move? To act? To express? She doesn't know, but she really wants to learn. At least now she has good teachers.

ANON YOU GENIUSSSS okay but this? Perfect. AHHHH I ADORE THIS IDEA!! Esp the jane doe callsign omg yes

You weren’t used to being seen.

Growing up, you learned quickly how to make yourself small- how to exist quietly, without taking up space, without asking for too much. Because the few times you had asked- asked for a hug, asked to be let into the nest, asked why you felt so different- the answers had all been the same.

No.

Not now.

Not you.

It wasn’t that your parents didn’t love you. You were sure they did, in their own way. But love was hard to feel when your mother flinched at your touch like you were something disgusting, when your father sighed like he was tired every time you entered the room as if you were taking up space he was saving for his other children. When your siblings built their nests without you, curling into piles of warmth and safety while you sat outside the door, knees pulled to your chest and hands balled into fists to keep them from knocking, a cold ache burrowing itself in your chest.

You stopped knocking eventually.

You stopped trying.

You used to wonder if you’d done something wrong- if maybe you could fix yourself and everything would go back to normal. But it wasn’t something you could fix. It was just… you.

Scentless.

Designationless.

Invisible.

School had been worse, perhaps the worst. At least your family had pretended not to notice how different you were. The other kids didn’t bother pretending. They stared openly, whispered behind your back, laughed when you walked by. You’d caught bits and pieces of what they said- weird, wrong, broken, as if they hoped by having you hear their words, they’d convince you to leave at last.

You’d started keeping your head down after that, slipping through the halls like a shadow. No one talked to you unless they had to, and even then they either did it with a mocking, jeering tone that echoes in your nightmares or with a meek tone; as if your lack of everything is contagious. No one sat next to you at lunch, either. When partners were assigned, you always ended up working alone per your teachers’ instructions.

It was easier that way.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

By the time you joined the military, you’d gotten good at being alone. You didn’t need friends. Didn’t need packmates. You had work, and work didn’t care if you were quiet or awkward or too stiff to laugh at the right jokes. Work didn’t care if you flinched when people got too close or froze when someone raised their voice. Work demanded to be done, and you had nothing and no one to stop you from that.

But the military also has the same teens who used to bully you so consistently. Rookies all to ready and happy to lord over you. It’s how you get your despised callsign, Doe. Jane Doe. A cruel mockery, comedy wherein you are the joke that has the world laughing.

Still, you wear it. It’s still an acknowledgment and that will always be better than never being seen. You flit from team to team, unit to unit, always an observer from afar, watching everyone around you speak a language you can’t.

But the 141 was different, when you eventually end up working for them.

They cared.

They cared in ways you weren’t ready for.

Soap was relentless, dragging you into conversations even when you barely knew what to say. He filled the silences like it didn’t bother him, kept talking for the both of you, lounging against you unbothered, until you started talking back. Gaz was gentlest, steadier. He never pushed, just lingered close enough to remind you he was there, waiting, whenever you were ready. Quiet, silent acceptance you’d never been given before, and you were yet far too afraid to so easily cling to it.

And the Alphas- Price and Ghost- were worse.

Price had a way of looking at you that made your chest ache, like he saw you, really saw you, and didn’t mind what he found. Scentless, with no designation and all. Ghost was quieter, sharper, but his eyes tracked you everywhere, presence wrapping around you like he was staking a claim you didn’t understand, like he was teying to etch every part of you behind his eyelids.

You didn’t know what to do with it.

They didn’t give you space. They sat next to you at meals, tugged you along when they went out for drinks, called you over during breaks like it was the most natural thing in the world. And it felt natural- until it didn’t, because sometimes you still felt like an outsider.

Like you didn’t belong.

You tried to hide it, but they saw through you. They always did, and they never shied away.

When you started avoiding the mess hall, it was Gaz who caught you, shoving a plate of food into your hands and dragging you to sit with him like it wasn’t a big deal. When you hung back during missions, letting the others fall into their pack dynamics without you, Soap was the one who looped an arm around your shoulders and pulled.

And when you flinched, once, at the sharp sound of someone’s voice echoing down the hall- when you tensed so hard it made your fingers tremble- it was Price who closed the distance, standing in front of you like a wall and letting Ghost linger at your back. Neither of them said a word.

They didn’t have to.

You weren’t used to being protected. You weren’t used to belonging.

But they made it hard not to.

[cheriecoke]

౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹ SAFEGUARD — dazai, chuuya, akutagawa

summary . . . they save you after you've been injured and captured by an enemy.

contents . . . sfw, f!reader (chuuya & dazai) and gn!reader (akutagawa), violence / blood, threats, injuries, hurt/comfort, angst, established relationship, and it's pmboss!dazai bc i can't help myself — 3.5k total

notes . . . i got this request so long ago lol. not my best work, but i have been in the worst writing slump ever and just wanted to finish something. i've also never written for akutagawa before so pls be nice <3

𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐔𝐘𝐀 . . .

there are very few times that chuuya feels he’s been outsmarted. he knows he’s not the mastermind of the port mafia, but he certainly isn’t a fool. when it comes to you and your well-being, though, his mind short-circuits, half of his intelligence draining away while his emotions take hold. 

your relationship isn’t a secret to anyone in the port mafia, which means that it isn’t a secret to your enemies either. and while most people know it’s hard to land a finger on chuuya directly, his pretty little girlfriend doesn’t have the power of a god nestled inside of her.

the rage sparks through him, growing fiercely into the blaze of a forest fire, until all he can think of is getting you home safely. he thinks of your sweet smile as he rips the door of the enemies’ base off the hinges, crushing it into a million pieces with the force of gravity. 

the men are quick to react, but chuuya hurtles the crushed door towards them, knocking three of them to their feet. another group charges at him, but their guns do little against his skill. after years of fighting some of the strongest ability users, simple criminal organizations are as easy to step over like ants. 

chuuya kills them all — except for one.

the man’s knees are wobbling, hand shaking around the gun as he realizes that these will be his final moments. there is fear in his eyes, brown ones that rest wide open, and chuuya almost hesitates. his remorse doesn’t last long, though, before he’s wrapping a hand around the man’s throat, thrusting him backwards. 

“where is she?” chuuya asks, voice sharp and commanding. 

he can feel the man swallowing. 

chuuya knows that backup is probably on the way, but it won’t matter whether they show up or not. he’ll crush the rest of his enemies just as he’s crushed the last twenty men. the poor soul in his leather hold seems to know that as well. 

“i-i’ll take you to her,” he rasps, dropping his gun to claw at chuuya’s hand. 

he drops him, lets him take a few heaving breaths and coughs, before he’s kicking at him, forcing him back to his feet.

the young man takes him up the elevator, weaves him through a hallway as chuuya leaves a scattering of bodies in his wake, not hesitating to kill a single man that gets in his way. there is nothing that can keep him from you. 

how fiercely and loyally he loves you — it drives him to near insanity. 

finally, with blood coating his face and his clothes, the young man enters a room, locked with a code, revealing you. 

chuuya’s rage is almost as blinding as his corruption, as he gazes at the sight of you. bloodied and bruised, tied up in a chair, so visibly harmed. his hands clench into fists. “get the fuck away from her,” he says to the man who seems to be monitoring you.

“what are you doing in here?” the men left in the room panic, but they don’t have time to react before chuuya throws them back at the wall, so quickly, with so much force, that their spines snap. they hit it with a sharp crack, skulls shattering against the plaster, the wall crushing beneath the weight of them. 

limply, they fall to the floor. 

chuuya rushes over to you. 

the young man that led him here disappears, but chuuya isn’t worried about him. he’s a coward; he’ll likely flee from the country and never look back. the men that truly hurt you are already dead, and he’ll burn this building to the ground once he’s gotten you away from it. 

“hey,” chuuya says, cradling your cheeks gently, trying to coax you back awake. he’s not sure if it’s exhaustion, blood loss, or the obvious head trauma that caused you to pass out in the first place. but you’re still breathing, so he counts that as a blessing. 

“hey,” he whispers again, kissing your forehead, like it will heal all your ailments. “wake up, baby. we gotta get you out of here, okay?” 

it takes you a few seconds to come to, eyes glazed over and shell-shocked as you blink at him. “chuuya?” you say; your voice is so hoarse it makes chuuya want to keel over and vomit. “is it really you?” 

guilt gnaws at him, almost crushing, at the fact that thirty-six hours passed, and you’re delirious enough not to recognize him. you probably haven’t eaten, either. 

he should’ve been there. no one should’ve ever had the chance to hurt you, yet…

“it’s me, i’m here,” he says, kissing your lips, your temple, brushing your hair away from your face. the strands are sticky with blood. “shit,” chuuya nearly shouts, pulling a knife from his pocket, sawing through the thick ropes around you as quickly as he can. “i’m so sorry, i’m so sorry.” 

he can’t get you free fast enough, and you smile at him, drowsy, your eyes fluttering shut once more. “it’s okay, chuuya,” you say, leaning your head on his shoulder. “you’re here now.” 

“you have to stay awake,” he says desperately, realizing your head is still bleeding. he doesn’t know how hurt you are. chuuya’s no expert when it comes to medicine, but he’s smart enough to know that internal injuries could be even worse than the external ones. 

“stay awake for me, okay, honey? i’ll get you back to the boss and we’ll find you a doctor. you’ll be just fine.” 

“okay, chuuya,” you hum, weakly gripping his back. seconds of silence pass before you mutter, “i just want to go home.” 

"i know." his heart pulls, and he almost lets out a cracked sob. but he refrains, knowing that there is plenty of time to drown in his sorrows later. 

finally, he gets the ropes under, lifting you from the chair. you’re so much lighter, weaker, and it makes him sick as he carries you. “let’s get you home.” 

𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐖𝐀. . .

the call comes just as akutagawa is getting ready to head home for the evening, his tasks completed, eyes heavy with exhaustion. 

normally, he doesn’t stick around to say any goodbyes, sneaking off into the darkness of the night like a shadow, blending right in. but, something about the evening, so gloomy and drizzly with spring rain, feels off. 

with a heavy knot in his chest, so much different than an incoming fit of coughs, akutagawa heads back up to mori’s office, if perhaps to only ensure that everyone else’s jobs had been completed. he’s a lot of things, but he’s never been a slacker; and he’ll do what it takes to ensure that his position in the mafia is eternally secure.

though, he doesn’t have the opportunity to get all the way upstairs before he run into the boss, who is calm, but with an air of irritation clouding him. 

he explains the current situation to akutagawa in a clipped tone, bored — an enemy group has kidnapped you, holding you hostage. 

“how rude is it to bother a man, just as he is getting ready to go to sleep?” mori says, sighing histrionically.

but what is a minor inconvenience to mori sends an entire wave of dread through akutagawa, his entire body feeling as if it’s been dipped in ice. he can’t explain the horror that washes over him, not really, because he shouldn’t feel so panicked. it is rare for him to get worked up about the danger his subordinates find themselves in, save for his sister, of course. 

but you… you’re different. 

“can i trust you to diffuse the situation?” mori asks, impatiently glancing at his watch as if that will change anything. “i can call someone else, but they will not be so quick.” 

akutagawa doesn’t even think before he accepts the job, hating the way he sounds pathetically desperate for more details. his hands flatten the edge of his cloak, as if his ability is going to take on a mind of its own. 

he calls for a driver, calm but breathing so heavily that an aching cough rises up in him. his throat feels as if it may begin to bleed, but he swallows, glances away from the driver and gets himself under control.

there’s a ransom — bring them the money and they’ll return you, mori had told him. you’re only a lower ranking member of the mafia, and someone that makes for a pretty poor bargaining chip, so the motive is questionable. 

mori probably would’ve let you die, akutagawa knows, his teeth gritting together, so much so that a splintering sound comes from it. but the boss, in his infinite, concerning wisdom, seems to also know that his loyal dog has an soft spot for you. 

as regrettable as that may be.

akutagawa has no doubt that whoever the enemy is, they are no match for him. still, a twinge of anxiety settles in his stomach, fingers jittery as the driver, despite the decreased traffic of the hour, seems to drive impossibly slow. 

“are we not in a rush?” akutagawa snaps, leaning forward.

“apologies,” the driver, says, not daring to even look at akutagawa from the mirror. but the car speeds up, enough for akutagawa to be able to notice, at least. it cools the simmer that has already begun deep in his chest.  

even so, the car seems to go at a snails pace, minute upon minute flying by, with you in the clutches of an enemy. 

akutagawa doesn’t care who they are. he doesn’t care why, or how they captured you. he wants them dead. he’ll rip them apart, easily, and he’ll make them suffer — they’ll be alive for all of it, for every second that he peels the skin from their bones, ripping the smaller ones out of their sockets. 

what he feels for you… well, it’s too hard for him to admit to himself. he has no experience with what it means to care for another person, doesn’t even know if that’s his goal. he just knows he wants to protect you.

and he can’t do that if you’re dead.

finally, the car pulls up to an old warehouse, one at the very outskirts of the port, beyond the docks and the shipping carts. it’s tucked far back, an obvious lair for some villainous organization that doesn’t want to be found. 

akutagawa gets there, but there is nothing. he hears nothing, feels no signs of life as he trudges through the puddles left behind from the earlier rain. 

a small string of panic begins again, as he wondered if maybe the call that mori had told him was only a ruse. maybe this entire time had been a distraction, a way to lure him away. there are other skill-users in the mafia, but none quite as dangerous as him. 

though, he hears it, then. a small little sound, muffled and hoarse, full of pain. 

he ducks into another corner of a warehouse, and you’re there — bound with chains and a gag across your mouth, one of your eyes blackened with bruises, your nose bleeding. 

his heart aches. never in his life has he so quickly made his way over, used the sharp edges of his ability to shear through the chains, falling to his knees as he unbinds the cloth from your lips. 

“where are they?” he rasps, mouth opening and closing, hating the sound of his own voice. he recognizes his desperation, his anger, but the affectionate sound that clips at the end is unfamiliar, as he shakily pulls himself closer to you. 

you glance up at him, eyes glossy and wide, and though you are scared, hurt, he’s so thankful you are alive. his heart flips once, as you grasp at his cloak, the material that has the blood of so many staining the threads. 

“gone,” you say, throat chalky, words nothing more than a note against the wind. “they fled when they heard it was you coming.” 

“and left you?” he asks, jaw clenching, as he hopes that the emotions aren’t as visible on his features as he thinks they are. “were you not a ransom?” 

“no,” you swallow, hard, as if in pain. he notices bruises around your neck, the shape of fingerprints indented there. “i was bait.”

anger rises up in him like a wave, engulfing him, wholly and relentlessly. he is no stranger to that, like he is the kindness you show him, the way you look at him as if he is your protector, rather than a bringer of destruction. “i’ll go after them. where are they headed? they’ll pay, i’ll slaughter—”

“ryunosuke,” you say, reaching for him as he stands, expression pleading as he backs away. “stay.” 

he has half a mind to ignore you — the enemy escaped, after all. but your voice. your eyes… you look so small sitting there, bloodied and bruised and broken. 

“please,” you try again, near tears, and though he has never been good with obvious displays of emotion, something within him snaps at the desperation in the word. 

he nods, slowing his pace as he returns to you, lets you wrap yourself in him, cling to him. his hands fall, naturally, to your waist, somehow knowing where they belong, even if akutagawa never has a clue what he’s doing with you. 

“i’ll call hirotsu,” he says simply, before pulling out his phone, not bothering to untangle himself from you. 

𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈 . . .

dazai is not a forgiving man, and will never learn to be. forgiveness is not a luxury he is often able to indulge in in his line of work, and his heart has hardened enough that until the end of time, those that are branded his enemies will remain his enemies. 

though, in his blackened heart, one soured over the course of time, you have carved out your own little space, lit it up with golden rays of light that are fiery enough to melt the stone casing of his chest. 

his only love — his only weakness. but it is a weakness that his enemies know about as well. 

dazai tries his best to keep you safe. he always has, and he knows that, sometimes, his grasp on you can be a little too tight. that the way he tries to keep you under his watchful eye can sometimes be stifling, frustrating. 

but he can’t always be there to protect you. and it is in times like these, that he regrets letting you go without a bodyguard. he regrets that he listened to your insistence that you could keep yourself safe. 

he should’ve at least told you to take a friend. 

“boss,” his subordinate says, bowing his head, his voice pleading, desperate. “i’m so sorry. your wife—”

“if anything… anything happens to her, you will be the one responsible, do you understand?” dazai says, his eyes cold as he glowers down at the man, only a few inches shorter than him, but feeling so much smaller. “i will personally see that this act does not go unpunished.” 

“of course, sir,” the man says, and he, at the very least, has the decency to sound resigned. to accept his fate and suffer the consequences, for allowing the boss’s wife to get herself into such a situation. 

and dazai means it, every last word; if he finds you in a state closer to death, anyone who put you in harm’s way will be torn apart from the inside out. he isn’t able to think of anything but bringing you home safely, his hands shaking with rage as he sends more than enough people out on a search to find you. 

with all the strings he’s able to pull as the mafia boss, it doesn’t take long to find you, for those that have bravely — or stupidly — used his wife as bait to come forward, and offer an attempt at some sort of negotiation. 

there’s little of the conversation that dazai remembers on the phone, even less that he remembers after that. the anger bubbles up in him and grabs hold of his conscience, the emotion directing his movements with a mind of its own. 

he’s already sent out every last one of his people into the field, ensuring that the organization that had the gall to threaten you is wiped off the face of the earth. deleted from every corner of the world, buildings flattened to the ground. by tomorrow, they won’t have ever existed. 

today, he doesn’t care what happens as long as he finds you alive. 

you’re held hostage by two men — so completely beaten that they’ve given up on any restraints. whatever they wanted from you, you seemed to refused to have given up, lip bleeding, eyes swelling so badly that you can’t even open them. 

dazai doesn’t hesitate before pulling the trigger on the first man, then turning to the other, shooting the hand that holds the pistol. the man recoils, shouts, and drops the weapon completely, as dazai lands another bullet to his knee, causing him to fall. 

slowly, dazai walks up, firing again to his other arm, a loud snap echoing throughout the room. the man winces, trying to crawl to the gun, one last desperate attempt to stay alive. 

he kicks the gun away, watching, as, pathetically, the expression in the enemy’s face changes — any of his remaining hope vanishes. 

“you told me she was unharmed,” dazai says, bending down, his coat flaring out behind him as he squats. 

the man coughs, gasping for air as the blood seeps out of him. “we lied.” he smiles cruelly, and though he shares the same sort of darkness as those in the port mafia, there is something even more twisted in his smile. 

dazai hums. “you the leader?” 

the man doesn’t give an answer, but the slight twitch of surprise on his face is all dazai needs. he’s no one — just a grunt whose life was put on the line to guard you. 

“didn’t think so.” dazai shoots him once, straight through the forehead, instantly killing him. but he is vindictive, angry, and the man he truly wants to destroy, the one who took you, is nowhere to be found. another bullet lands, tearing apart the flesh of his temple, then another, and one more, his skull beginning to cave in from the force of it all. 

dazai heaves, letting the gun clatter to the ground as it runs out of bullets, and then he realizes, all this time, you’ve just been watching him. the ugliest side of him — the worst side of him. 

you’re no stranger to it, of course. how can you be, when you’ve shared a life with him for years? but that doesn’t mean he wants you to see it, see how bloodthirsty he can become. 

he stumbles over to you, where you’re still sitting on the ground, your wrist in your lap, bent at an angle that he knows isn’t right. bruises are littered across your skin, and your hair is matted from the blood that pools at your temple. 

it takes every ounce of restraint he has to stay calm, a million feelings swirling under his skin. ones that he was never familiar with until he met you. 

“i’m sorry,” he says, taking your face in his hands so, so softly, worried that he’ll hurt you even more. “i’m sorry, darling. i should’ve — i should’ve been there.” dazai notices his hands are shaking and he balls them up into fists, leaning back. “fuck. fuck — i’ll kill them all, just tell me who it was. anyone who laid a finger on you. i’ll cut them down one by one.” 

“osamu,” you say, and your voice is raspy, cracking, as your unbroken arm reaches for him, squeezing his shaking hand. “i—”

you open your mouth to continue, but only tears come streaming down your cheeks, over your bloodied lips, saltiness soaking your jawline. no words don’t leave you, but a soft sob chokes itself up your throat.

“hey, hey, hey.” dazai’s voice softens, every muscle in his body relaxing as he draws you nearer to him, into his chest with a touch that’s barely there. “you’re safe. i’m here, okay? they’re not going to hurt you again, sweetheart.” 

you sniffle, barely making a sound, but he can feel the tears drop onto his clothes, soaking the material.

“can you walk? are you hurt anywhere else?” 

you hesitate for a moment before answering; he’s not sure if there’s a reason you only answer the first question. “i can walk.” 

dazai nods, and though the rage is still bubbling there, underneath the surface, there is a coolant streaming through him at the vision of you alive. the men who did this will pay the price, but he still has you — and that’s all that matters.

thank you for reading !!! ❤︎

[yeah-thats-probably-it]

Hot take maybe but I think Bertie would be FAR more likely to survive the first two months of Dracula than Jeeves would be. Bertie has a healthy sense of self-preservation. Jeeves consistently underestimates how dangerous a situation might get (Steeple Bumpleigh, the club book) because he’s overconfident about his level of control over any given situation. He'd handle Dracula masterfully if they faced off in England, but on Dracula's home turf? Much more doubtful.

I realize this might be a tough sell, so I will explain further (or it's not a tough sell, and I'm going to explain further because I want to). (criteria taken from @canyourfavesurvivecastledracula) Without further ado.

Would Jeeves and Wooster survive Castle Dracula?

Jeeves

Jeeves' survival will depend on how long Dracula finds him more entertaining than irritating. On that basis, I don't think he's long for this world. On the one hand, he has a huge wealth of knowledge about English society and culture that he can recite perfectly from memory. That should buy him at least a little time with noted teaboo Dracula.

On the other hand, he would be absolutely no fun as a vampire plaything. Jeeves cannot be got. Sneaking up on him while he's shaving will yield zero reaction (though that's at least good for his short-term survival--given that, although he DID take the crucifix from the old woman out of politeness, he certainly isn't going to wear it. The rules of fashion don't go out the window just because you're in a spooky castle). Then, although managing the whims of rich jerks is not an insignificant part of a valet's job, Jeeves usually does this by bending his employers to his will. Dracula is not the sort of employer this will work on. It'll just add insult to injury when on top of being impossible to scare, NOW Jeeves is telling Dracula that his favorite cloak is several centuries out of fashion and he's not allowed to wear it anymore.

Jeeves will 100% go exploring in the areas he was told not to go-- though to be fair, he MIGHT actually get away with this, what with his superpower of appearing in rooms without being seen or heard. Said superpower might save him from the brides as well (though this is by no means guaranteed). Since I find it doubtful that Dracula would come to rescue his annoying ass, not being noticed is his best defense.

There are a couple other things working in Jeeves's favor; the question is just whether they'll be enough to save him.

He DOES know shorthand, and could try to send coded letters. He might even have the foresight to squirrel away some extra stationary where Dracula can't find it. But could he get them posted? Would it even do him any good?

He certainly has enough cultural literacy to figure out what his new boss is pretty quickly. If he didn't chuck the crucifix out the carriage window, he might start carrying it around in his pocket.

Psychology of the individual, sure, but the individual in question is a 400-year-old vampire who lives in an isolated castle in a foreign country and is regarded as a terrifying mythological figure in the surrounding villages. Jeeves has never come up against anything this alien before, he's cut off from his normal resources, and opportunities to play people against each other are limited.

He probably has enough upper body strength from all that shrimping and fishing to climb the wall, so he COULD escape if he wanted to, if he survived long enough. It's just, again, that overconfidence, and also Dracula has a vast library full of rare old books that are entirely at his disposal. He's keeping his eyes and ears alert for potential escape strategies, of course, but I don't see him being as desperate to get out as Jonathan was.

There are just a lot of "depends on"s here, and I'm not convinced that luck would shake out in Jeeves's favor, all things considered.

Bertie

Bertie is so perfect for the job of Castle Dracula Prisoner it's like it was made for him. Think about it. Being held against his will in big manor houses comes more naturally to him than breathing. He's afraid of things that are scary. A lifetime of dealing with Aunt Agatha has made him the world's preeminent expert in "curl[ing] up in a ball in the hope that a meek subservience [will] enable [him] to get off lightly." He will NEVER go exploring in places he's been warned away from if nobody is forcing him to (Rev. Aubrey Upjohn's office notwithstanding. There were biscuits in there). He's both fun to talk to and easy to toy with (and extremely English). A+ prisoner. Dracula adores him.

In my opinion, Bertie is at Castle Dracula either because Aunt Agatha got some wires seriously crossed and thinks he’s going to meet an eligible potential bride (I mean, there are certainly brides there), or because Dracula has something Aunt Dahlia wants him to steal (far less likely, given that one of Dracula’s THINGS is famously not owning anything silver). Either way, he's shown himself entirely willing and able to escape down drainpipes if a sitch gets too scaly.

He DOES take the crucifix, and DOES wear it (which is what will save him during the shaving scene, because you KNOW he's going to jump a foot and cut himself like the dickens). He's read enough supernatural goosefleshers to be genre savvy about terrified old women cryptically pushing crucifixes into one's hands. I also think his sunny disposish endeared him to the villagers, and they were particularly vehement about urging him not to go. He doesn't speak German or Romanian, but he's empathetic enough to recognize Pure Terror. So by the time he actually gets to the castle, his imagination is already running wild and he's plenty aware that he is in imminent danger.

I think the biggest risk to Bertie will be the brides; whether or not he's susceptible to trances, if he thinks they're trying to marry him, it's against the code of the Woosters to turn them down. But that only becomes an issue if he comes face to face with them, which, luckily, I think is unlikely on account of the aforementioned "won't go exploring" (and if he did, Dracula would definitely rescue him).

I'm inclined to say due to his drainpipe-escape habits that he WOULD be able to climb the wall and MAY attempt to sneak into Dracula's room to look for the keys if his desperation grows to outweigh his fear. Whether he does or not, though, he does NOT have the stomach to attempt shovel murder, and therefore won't get magic brain fever, and may very well simply walk out the front doors when the people come to take the boxes away. OR he climbs his way out like Jonathan did. Either way.

When Bertie tells this story at the Drones later, Tuppy will say that no doubt it's been greatly exaggerated and all that probably happened was that he spent a couple months in an oldish house entertaining a weird loner.

[cinnamqnx]

pairing. spiderman!rin x f!reader

💌 the five times you encountered spiderman ( knowingly & unknowingly )

ONE | the first time you met rin itoshi was on your first day at a new school unbeknownst to you that he was the anonymous hero who was currently going viral all over the papers and news. you had opened your pencil case, accidentally flicking your pen off your desk to which rin had impressively caught despite it going at 1000mph before handing it back to you.

“oh, thanks.”, you let out a half laugh while your brows sort of scrunched up, shocked at how he was even able to catch that.

he didn’t say anything in return, but gave you an awkward smile and a small nod.

TWO | the second time you came across him was when shidou was picking a fight with him. now, you was made very aware of shidou by his constant flirting and attempts to ask you out so it didn’t shock you when you saw him causing a fight on the school yard with rin.

“just leave him alone, shidou. this doesn’t make you ‘cool’ at all.”, you say, air quoting the word cool.

he lets go of rin’s collar, walking over to you with his goofy grin he always has when he sees you, “hey, pretty.”

you scoff, “not today.”, walking away from him, causing him to follow you like a lost puppy and lose all attention to rin, who was silently thanking you for stepping in.

THREE | the third time you met him wasn’t as rin, but as spiderman. the city was in chaos due to a villain who called himself the green goblin destroying buildings and landscapes, all to enact ‘revenge’ on spiderman.

you felt like your heart was beating out of your chest, all you wanted to do was go shopping with your girls, and now you wasn’t even sure if you’d be making it home.

as you stood on the highest level of the shopping mall, you felt the floor beneath you begin to crumble. panicking, you tried running to any exit as it continued falling at a rapid pace.

you began to brace yourself for the fall, knowing how this would end, your feet no longer on a solid ground. before you even got the chance to scream, you felt a firm grip on your waist, looking up to see the one and only spiderman.

you knew the fangirls he had were crazy, and you always thought it was the most ridiculous thing. but, after you suddenly felt your heart lighten from the previous dread, all because of him, you could understand why.

he quickly put you down somewhere safe, checking you over, “are you okay?”, he asks quickly, knowing he was needed elsewhere.

“yes.. thank you.”, you stumble your words, still slightly shocked.

“be careful, y/n, okay?”

“..okay.”, you nodded, but wait, did he just say your name? no.. it must be the shock, surely.

FOUR | the city was holding a parade for spiderman after managing to save countless people against the villain the country had come to know as green goblin. you decided to attend to show your appreciation. after all, he had saved your life; you was eternally grateful to him. after the parade began to die down and the children being taken home, you were met with an upside down spiderman right in your face after walking towards a more private area in the centre of the city.

you jump slightly at the sight of him, “hi.”, you say breathlessly.

“hi.”, he replies, you felt awkward, not expecting to see him like this.

“sorry. thank you, so much for the other day. i genuinely thought that i’d-“

“i know.”, he cuts you off.

you smile slightly, “i wish there was some way i could make it up to you.”

“…how about..?”, he mutters behind his mask while pointing to his lips, so quietly you almost didn’t hear him.

you thought it was cute, but was also surprised by his sudden request but who was you to turn him down. you smiled softly, gently lifting up his mask past his lips, “like this?”

he nods, feeling the softness of your lips on his. it wasn’t a passionate make out, but it was sweet and innocent. rin thought it was perfect for his first kiss, and especially with the girl he had the biggest crush on.

FIVE | by now you’d had enough. who was spiderman? you felt like everyone had been asking this question for months but it felt way more personal to you. there was something so familiar about the hero you kissed but you couldn’t quite put your finger on it.

“stop!”, you yell running through the rain which eventually lead you down a back alley.

spiderman actually did stop to your surprise, causing you to slowly walk closer towards him as if he was a skittish cat, “who are you?”

“uh.. spiderman.”, he states, his tone a little awkward.

“no, that’s not what i mean and you know it.”, you stepped even closer to him, hesitating before reaching for his mask and to your surprise he didn’t stop you.

you gently lifted his mask, only leaving his lips exposed, leaning in slowly and gently kissing him like you did back at the parade. and of course, he kissed you back.

you began to unravel the rest, pulling it over his head, still kissing him softly. with his eyes screwed shut, opening your own, you moved back to get a good look at his… wait- is that rin fucking itoshi?

[cyberesc]

BELLYACHE. (PART 1)

pairing: Prohero!kiribaku × Prohero!Reader

synopsis: You were in love with your best friends but were certain they didn't feel the same as they feel for each other, so you did what anyone would do, in an attempt to save yourself from heartbreak, you disappeared from Japan back to your home country after graduation, leaving everyone behind.

+*. • contains angst, slight jealousy (?), reader is a foreign exchange student, krbk and reader are bestfriends, misunderstandings, krbk aren't in an established relationship, required unrequited love, reader runs from their problems, eventual happy ending (poly)

note: this was sitting in my drafts for so long, this series will probably have a max of 3 parts depending on how much angst I wanna cut or include🤭

part 2 | part 3

The halls of U.A. felt more like home than ever, and yet, it was bittersweet. You walked alongside Bakugo and Kirishima, their banter filling the air. Bakugo's gruff voice mixed with Kirishima's hearty laughter—sounds that had become a constant in your life over the past three years. But today, you felt a little distant, not quite part of the trio, more like a shadow trailing behind them.

You glanced at them for a moment, catching the playful glint in Bakugo's eye as he shoved Kirishima's shoulder at a lame joke, and Kirishima's sharp smile that only widened in response. It was a scene you'd grown to love—too much, in fact. A sigh escaped your lips before you could stop it.

I never stood a chance.

That thought had been a whisper in the back of your mind for months, but now, with graduation approaching, it was louder than ever. You saw the way they looked at each other—the subtle glances, the easy smiles, the unspoken understanding that passed between them. It was clear they had something special, a bond that went beyond friendship. And you? You were just a person who couldn't hold a candle to either of them, never quite on the same level.

Bakugo and Kirishima had always had a connection that you could never quite breach, and you've finally accepted that you never would. They understood each other in a way that left you feeling like an outsider, even though you were their bestfriend. But that was all you were, wasn't it?

Bakugo and Kirishima couldn't help but notice the subtle shift in your demeanor. They didn't speak of it, but the thought was there, nagging at the back of their minds like an itch they couldn't scratch. You were a crucial part of their world, a balance to their intense, chaotic energy, and the thought of losing that balance even just a little bothered them more than they'd care to admit. There were feelings that neither of them dared to acknowledge, let alone act on.

Back when you transferred during the first year of U.A, the odds were stacked against you. As a foreign student coming into U.A, you knew you'd have to work harder than anyone else to prove that you belonged there. The language barrier, the cultural differences and the high standards of a prestigious school-all weighed heavily on your shoulders. But you were determined.

From the moment you set foot on the campus, you heard the whispers and curious glances of the other students, but they didn't faze you. Instead, they fueled you. You had to be better, faster, stronger—there was no room for doubt.

Your first encounter with Bakugo happened during combat training as you've been randomly paired up together by Aizawa. You heard what people said about him—about his explosive temper. But you didn't back down, much like you, he fought with the drive to be the best of the best.

The battle was fierce, both of you pushing each other to your limits. Before any of you could push yourselves too far, you were separated with Aizawa's capture scarf. After assessing your fight, it was deemed a stalemate, both of you breathless and covered in sweat. Disappointed with your loss, you felt something shift after your fight. While he didn't want to acknowledge it, Bakugo saw you as someone who could match his fire. From then on, there was a mutual respect between you, even if neither of you said it out loud.

Your encounter with Kirishima went much differently. It was during a late-night study session in the library, weeks after your transfer. You had been struggling with a particularly difficult concept, frustration and anxiety bubbling as time seemed to run closer and closer toward the third exam. Kirishima noticed and without a second thought, pulled up a chair beside you, offering his help with an easy smile. He was to your surprise, pretty patient, explaining things in a way that made everything click. The day after getting back your score on the exam, you gave him snacks from your home country as a thank you gift. That night, not only did you learn about the subject matter—you learned that Kirishima had a heart as solid as the walls he could create with his Quirk. From then on, he made it his mission to include you in everything, making sure you never felt out of place.

From then on, the three of you formed a bond that felt unbreakable.They both came to care for you as one of their best friends, and over time, you started to realize that they were more than just people in your pursuit to prove yourself—they were the people you trusted most.

They understood your struggles and admired the strength it took for you to come this far. Through countless training, late-night study sessions, and quiet moments together, they became more than just classmates-they became your best friends. And you, in turn, became theirs.

Your feelings for Bakugo and Kirishima didn't happen all at once. It was a slow, gradual process. At first, you admired them for their strengths but over time, something shifted. The admiration you felt for them started to evolve into something deeper, something that went beyond friendship.

It was in the small moments that your feelings began to grow. Each moment became more meaningful, and you found yourself looking forward to them, craving their presence in a way that made your heart race.

But it wasn't until an overwhelming sense of doubt started to gnaw at the back of your mind. They were your best friends, you knew how much they value their friendship, not just with you but with each other. The bond you all had was precious and the thought of disrupting your dynamic terrified you. The last thing you wanted was to be the reason for any tension or division.

You had seen firsthand how strong their connection was with each other, how they complement one another in ways that seemed effortless. They had a bond that you feared you could never fully understand or be a part of. So, you buried your feelings, convincing yourself that it was for the best.

It was better to remain their friend than to risk everything for something you knew was impossible.

Graduation day came and went in a blur. While saying your goodbyes to your classmates, you were stopped by Bakugo and Kirishima who had asked you what agency you were joining, both of them waiting for your answer in anticipation, wondering if you'd all fight alongside each other. Your chest tightened painfully as you dodged the question.

You were transferring back to your home country.

The decision was made before your enrollment at U.A. As they looked at you, faces filled with pride after surviving not only high school, but one of the top hero schools in the country (not to mention fighting a literal war before the end of their freshman year). You couldn't bear to tell them the truth-not when they looked at you with warm smiles that made you wish things could be different.

Instead, you left quietly. You'd already packed your things, already arranged your transfer. You didn't even say goodbye in person, just left a message that you were heading back home. It was a wimp's way out, you knew that. You'd always prided yourself on facing challenges head-on, but the thought of telling them you were leaving, telling them you might never see them again—that was a challenge you couldn't handle.

You stared at the message on your phone, fingers trembling as they hovered over the 'send' button. Once you pressed it, that would be it, no turning back.

You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to be brave and hit 'send': The message was short, deliberately vague, because you couldn't write what you really felt.

I'm heading back home. I'll miss you guys. Thank you for everything. - Y/N

For a moment, you stared at the screen, half-hoping they would reply instantly, asking for more details, demanding an explanation. But the minutes ticked by with no response. Maybe they were busy celebrating, caught up in the excitement of graduation. Or maybe they just didn't care.

You sighed, sliding your phone into your pocket. It was better this way. Easier for them, easier for you.

No messy goodbyes, no tears. Just a clean break.

As you walked away from the school grounds for the last time, from the second place you've called home, you couldn't help but glance back over your shoulder. The massive gates of U.A. loomed behind you, a symbol of everything you were leaving behind.

But you had to keep moving forward. And as painful as it was, you knew you were making the right choice. Still, as the plane took off, lifting you away from the life you'd built, you allowed yourself one final, quiet thought:

I'II always love you both.

Life hit you fast, in the weeks that passed after leaving Japan, you kept busy; getting hired as a rookie at your city's agency, diving into missions, and patrolling the familiar streets from your childhood.

It kept your mind occupied, the stray feelings of homesickness that quietly built up as you left your home to follow your dreams lifted. You were back to the city and its people you grew up with, back to your old roots, to your first home, whom you swore to protect.

But it didn't stop you from missing them. The longing gnawed at you in quiet moments, the ache of being apart from the people who meant the most to you.

Your silence didn't go unnoticed, your old circle of friends, including Kirishima and Bakugo reached out often—texts, calls, voice messages. You knew they were angry that you left, especially without a proper goodbye, but leaving without anyone holding you back was the best choice you could've made.

Ironically the guilt of abandoning your friends slowly pushed you from any sort of contact. You replied at first, brief responses. But slowly, you began to pull back, letting the messages go unread, letting the calls ring out. It hurt too much to hear their voices, to pretend everything was fine when it wasn't.

It wasn't long before you were ghosting them completely, blaming it under the false pretense of a busy work schedule.

Months passed. The guilt of avoiding them weighed heavily on you, but it felt necessary to protect your heart. You threw yourself into your work. You were a rookie after all, and you were determined to make a name for yourself, no matter how slowly you climbed up the ranks, hoping that someday, the ache would lessen.

One day, you received an email for a mission briefing in Tokyo—a high-profile case, something about an undercover mission that required cooperation between multiple agencies. They asked for you and your senior to attend. You weren't expecting anything as you took a plane back to Japan, the city was so large, you didn't think of the possibility of running into your old friends.

Once you arrived, you checked in with your assistant, receiving a tablet with the mission files and your hero badge for easier introduction among the agencies.

As you walked into the conference room, your eyes wandered around the room, taking note of who attended. Your heart stopped the moment your eyes landed on familiar ash-blonde hair.

Bakugo's eyes locked onto you the second you stepped into the room, a mixture of surprise and something unreadable in his gaze. You averted your eyes quickly, your heart pounding in your chest. Of all the people you could have run into, of course it had to be them.

Kirishima arrived a few minutes later, Tamaki and Mirio chatting alongside him. When Kirishima caught your gaze, his face lit up with a grin, waving in your direction. You managed a strained smile, nodding in acknowledgment, but didn't trust yourself to speak.

Bakugo was staring at you intently, his gaze never wavering. You could feel the weight of his scrutiny, and it made your skin prickle.

The beeping of a timer indicating the start of the meeting silenced the room. Your hero partner and assistant took the vacant spots on either side of you and you couldn't help but imagine if you didn't leave, maybe you would have been assigned this mission together.

The meeting felt like it dragged on forever. You avoided looking in the direction of either of them, keeping your focus on the mission briefing. When a break was finally called, you stepped out for air, heading for the rooftop to clear your head.

The city stretched out before you as you leaned against the ledge, the familiar sights and sounds of traffic below grounding you. You closed your eyes, breathing in the crisp air, trying to steady your racing heart.

"You've been avoiding us."

Bakugo's voice cut through the quiet, and you stiffened, your eyes snapping open. You hadn't even heard him approach.

"I've been busy." you replied after a moment, keeping your tone as neutral as possible.

"That's bullshit, and you know it."

You sighed, running a hand through your hair, but didn't turn to face him. *What do you want me to say, Bakugo?"

"The truth would be nice," he said, stepping closer until he was beside you, his eyes locked on your face.

You bit your lip, refusing to meet his gaze. You knew he could see right through you, and you hated it. You hated how vulnerable he made you feel, how just a look from him could unravel all the defenses you'd so carefully built.

"There's nothing to say." you muttered, trying to sidestep the conversation, hoping he would drop it.

"Bullshit." Bakugo repeated, his voice sharp but tinged with worry. He wasn't one to back down easily, and you knew that if you stayed there any longer, he'd pry the truth out of you. "You've been avoiding us for months. You don't just drop out of our lives without a damn good reason."

You could feel the frustration rolling off him in waves, but you kept your back to him, staring out at the city below. "I told you. I've been busy. New city, new job—“

"Cut the crap." Bakugo interrupted, his voice low. He took a step closer, his presence overwhelming.

"You've never run from anything. So what the hell is really going on?"

The words you'd been holding back for so long clawed at your throat, but you couldn't let them out.

You couldn't face the possibility that admitting your feelings would ruin everything—whatever was left, anyway.

You thought about the consequences of spilling your feelings. If you said what you really felt right now, what's the guarantee that it wouldn't affect the mission? If your feelings aren't reciprocated, and Bakugo tells Kirishima about your conversation, where would that put you? You couldn't afford to put yourself in that position, risking your focus and letting your team down. They had each other, and you had... well, you had yourself.

You shook your head at your thoughts, forcing a neutral tone. "It doesn't matter. Let's just get back to the meeting."

Before Bakugo could protest, you walked away, your hurried steps putting distance between you and the conversation you weren't ready to have. You knew Bakugo wasn't convinced, but you hoped he'd at least drop it for now. If he kept pressing, you didn't know if you'd be able to hold it together.

The meeting wrapped up eventually, and you made sure to slip out before either Bakugo or Kirishima could catch up with you. Knowing Bakugo, he most likely already told Kirishima about your conversation on the rooftop and you couldn't handle another confrontation, not after the last had left you feeling so raw. You needed time to think, time to steel yourself for the upcoming mission.

You stayed at one of your agency's temporary apartments, the busy life of Tokyo echoing in the night. You tried to distract yourself with preparations, going over the mission details again and again. But your thoughts kept drifting back to Bakugo, to the look in his eyes when he'd confronted you, to the way Kirishima had smiled at you in the conference room like nothing had changed.

A few days before the mission, you headed to the support department to pick up your upgraded stealth suit. The techs had been working on integrating some new enhancements to better suit your Quirk, and you were eager to see how it had turned out. You slipped into the fitting room and pulled on the suit, testing the fit and flexibility. It was perfect, as expected, and you felt a small sense of satisfaction at the way it hugged your form.

As you stepped out of the fitting room, you nearly collided with someone standing just outside. You looked up to find Sero grinning down at you, his usual easygoing smile stretching wide across his face.

"Yo, Y/N! Long time no see," he greeted, giving you a playful nudge.

You couldn't help but smile back. "Hey, Hanta. What are you doing here?"

"Just picking up some adjustments on my gear. Looks like you got some upgrades too," he said, eyeing your new suit with approval.

"Yeah, just some minor tweaks." you replied, flexing your hands and feeling the fabric move with you.

Sero tilted his head, studying you for a moment. "You've been pretty quiet lately. Haven't seen you in the group chat for a while."

You tensed, the familiar guilt creeping in. "Uh, just been busy."

"Uh-huh," Sero said, not buying your excuse. He didn't push, though, just smiled and clapped a hand on your shoulder. *How about we catch up over some drinks? It's been ages since we hung out?"

You hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Yeah, I'd like that."

The bar was comfortably noisy, filled with the hum of conversations and the clinking of glasses. You and Sero found a booth in the corner, beers in hand, and settled in to catch up. It felt good to relax a bit, to be in the company of someone who wasn't pushing you for answers you didn't want to give.

"So." Sero began after a sip of his beer, "you gonna tell me why you've been MIA? Or do I have to guess?"

You sighed, knowing he wouldn't let it go. "It's complicated, Hanta."

"Complicated how?" he asked, leaning back in his seat. "Does it have anything to do with a certain explosive blonde and a red-haired tank?"

You winced, "What makes you say that?"

"Just a hunch." he replied with a shrug. "Plus, Kirishima's been worried sick about you, and Bakugo's been, well...Bakugo, but more pissed than usual."

You frowned, your gaze dropping to the table. "I didn't mean to worry them. I just...I didn't know how to handle it."

"Handle what?" Sero pressed gently.

You took a deep breath, the words catching in your throat before you finally let them out. "I...I kinda have feelings for both of them. And I thought...I thought it would be easier to just distance myself. To let them be together without me getting in the way." Sero's eyes widened slightly, but he didn't look surprised.

"So, you just decided to ghost them? Leave the country without talking to them first?"

"It was stupid, I know," you admitted, frustration with yourself seeping into your voice. "But I didn't think they'd understand…I just didn't want to mess up our friendship."

Sero was quiet for a moment, then he sighed, a small smile playing on his lips. "Y/N, you're way too hard on yourself, you know that? They care about you a lot. And I don't think you're giving them enough credit."

You glanced up at him, searching his face for any sign of judgment, but found none. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that maybe you should stop running and start talking to them." Sero said simply. "You never know what might happen if you're honest about how you feel. And sure, Kirishima and Bakugo have been pretty close, but lately, there's been talk... you know, around the agency."

"Talk?" you asked, curiosity piqued.

"Nothing bad, just...people have noticed that those two seem kinda distracted. And it's not just because of each other, if you catch my drift." Sero said with a knowing look.

You blinked, your heart skipping a beat. Could it be possible that...?

"No fucking way" you muttered, shaking your head. "They look so happy together. They don't need me complicating things."

"Y/N." Sero said, his voice firm, "You don't complicate anything. You're part of their lives—whether you like it or not. And maybe, you're part of something bigger than you realize."

You fell silent, Sero's words echoing in your mind as you silently sipped your beer. Could he be right? Was there more to their relationship than you'd assumed? And if so, where did that leave you?

The conversation drifted after that, Sero taking your mind off things by sharing stories about the others, filling you in on the latest gossip from your old circle of friends. By the time you parted ways, your heart felt a little lighter, the dread that had been hanging over you for weeks starting to lift.

© property of cyberesc 2024. please refrain from plagiarizing any of my works and do not repost/edit/translate/copy onto any other sites.

[puck-luck]

change-up | luke hughes

warnings: unprotected p in v, creampie, oral f!receiving, multiple orgasms, squirting, dirty talk, praise praise praise, fingering & masturbation, references to prior & future hookups, hookup culture, TW: hinge😩, mentions of size difference pairing: luke hughes x fem!reader summary: “because of how shy luke was when he first met reader, she thinks that he’s going to be inexperienced in bed and she‘ll to have to take the lead..but really lukey absolutely ruins her”, “could I please request luke Hughes smut where he loves being so much bigger than you”, “LOVEEDD the luke hughes one def write more dom stuff” wc: 4382

“Do you, maybe, want to go back to mine?” Luke asks quietly, his lips a mere nudge against the shell of your ear. Even in the loud bar, his voice cuts through the chatter like a flash of light. 

You’d only met Luke earlier that night, a Hinge date gone right for you and your best friend. When Luke had invited you out to the bar he was at with some of his teammates, your best friend had jumped to point out that this could be your Kylie Kelce moment– you had to go and meet your Jason, even though Luke didn’t resemble the football player at all. Not that you minded.

You consider his words– Luke’s arm is thrown over your shoulder comfortably. His body is warm against yours. He’s been pretty shy all night, quiet enough that you felt like you had to control the conversation, but while Luke was in the bathroom, one of his buddies had revealed that that was normal for Luke. He was a quiet boy around new people– it didn’t mean he didn’t like you.

Clearly, it didn’t mean he didn’t like you. If he didn’t like you, he wouldn’t be inviting you back to his apartment. You’re not a fool. You know what that means. 

Regardless, you agree. “Sure,” you say with a smile. 

Luke returns the smile, leaning over you to gesture towards the bartender. He closes his tab, which houses both his and your drinks. You each had only had two drinks, so you’re feeling tipsy, but not drunk enough to stop what’s about to happen.

Once Luke has closed out, he guides you to his car and opens the door in a gentlemanly way for you. The ride to his home is silent save for the country music playing from the radio. Luke’s hand rests on your knee, a weight that has you squirming.

As shy as he is, you’ve come to realize that Luke’s love language is easily physical touch. He’s been sweet when he speaks with you, and he paid for all of your drinks, which kept words of affirmation and gift giving in the running for a while, but he’s kept a hand on you all night. 

He had seemed hesitant to do so, playing it safe by touching your arm or your knee or your shoulder. When you hadn’t shrugged him off, but rather presented him with a smile and a lean into his heat, Luke had become more sure with it.

You don’t know anything about his sex life or how experienced or inexperienced he is, but you expect that you’ll have to do the same thing in bed. You’ll have to reassure him that yes, you actually want to do this, and you actually like this. He’ll want to make sure he’s being good for you, because he’s the sweetest, but if you’re honest, you’re a little disappointed that you’ll have to take the lead.

One of the reasons why you had matched with Luke on Hinge, aside from how cute he was, was that he looked like an athlete. You’ve always been someone who likes to be overpowered a bit, liking someone bigger than you, and Luke looked like he could throw you around easily. You wanted him to do so, but that just doesn’t seem like it’s in the cards tonight, and you can accept that. You’ll hook up with someone else who will toss you around eventually– but Luke is too pretty and too kind to pass up.

When he pulls into the garage and parks, Luke rounds the car and opens your door for you. He leads you by the hand into his apartment. Your purse slips down your arm and, once inside the apartment, Luke takes it from you and hangs it on a hook near his front door. 

The apartment is still dark and you find yourself distracted trying to look at his furniture through the shadows. Giving up, you turn back to face Luke with a smile on your face. 

Shockingly, he’s already moving toward you. 

Luke pushes you against the wall, his hands on your hips. He’s kissing you, swallowing your noise of surprise. You’re frozen against him for just a moment, caught off guard by his insistent movements and confident grip on your sides. You melt into his touch when his presence finally registers, the catalyst being Luke’s fingers shifting to tug at the belt loops on your jeans. You place your forearms on his shoulders, crossing your wrists behind his head. 

Luke pulls your hips against his, pressing into you with his growing length. He’s leaning over you, causing your shoulders and head to rest against the wall while your back and hips arch into him. Smoothly, he steps forward and moves one of his hands so he’s bracketing your head. 

His tongue flexes when he enters your mouth, his muscle sliding against your own. You melt even further against him, moaning against his lips. You sag against the wall and Luke’s strong hands catch you, holding you upright. 

His fingers roam along your skin, eventually resting on the swell of your ass. He squeezes your cheeks harshly, grunting in appreciation as your bottom fills his large hands. Luke lifts you up and you wrap your legs around his waist, sitting prettily with your clothed core barely brushing his cock. You grind down against him, and Luke’s mouth curves in a smile, lips still touching your own. 

“Eager,” he mumbles, sounding smug. 

“Happily surprised,” you correct, words muffled and interrupted by your kisses. “I thought you’d be shy.”

“Mm, not when we’re alone,” Luke hums, holding you with one hand around your waist. He starts to march down the dark hallway, pushing open his bedroom door with a bang. “Not when I’m so close to getting what I want.”

Luke gently lays you on his bed, hands splayed across your back. He’s still kissing you, adamant and consistent. Now, he’s got gravity on his side. His body is covering your own, trapping you against the soft mattress. A soft curse leaves your mouth, filling Luke’s. You’re sharing the air between yourselves, aching for the other person.

“What do you want?” You ask, one of your hands finding his curls and toying with the strands. 

Luke groans, parting from you to nuzzle against your neck as you continue to scratch against his scalp. He mouths over your neck messily, his tongue painting your skin like long brush strokes across a canvas. 

“Want to mark you up,” Luke mutters, nipping at your neck. He sucks the fleshy skin at the base of your neck between your clavicles. “I want you to remember this night.”

You moan, curling a hand along his collar and pulling at the t-shirt adorning his body in an entirely unnecessary way, in your opinion. You expose his collarbone, sharp and smooth all at once, but you don’t get to reap the rewards. 

Luke instead just chuckles and bats your hand away, capturing it in his own. He presses your wrist into the mattress above your head, exposing you further. “I want to make sure you think about me for weeks.” Luke feeds the promise to you with a swipe of his tongue against your bottom lip and a tiny nibble along the same path. “That every time you get yourself off, you think about how my fingers would be better than your own, or that my cock would fill you better than any toy you own, or any other boy you find.”

You knew that this would be a hook-up sort of thing, nothing more serious because Luke’s Hinge profile clearly stated he wasn’t looking for anything long term, but his possessive tone fuels a fire in you that has you whining and tugging his hair.

He shifts your hand to join the other, his fingers gripping both of your wrists while his other hand starts to explore your body. He dances over the curves of your breasts, along your elongated stomach. Your ribs are prominent and your stomach is flatter with your back against the bed– and Luke touches your skin like you’re precious to him. For a first night together, you already feel so seen. 

After caressing your skin, Luke pulls your shirt up and bundles the fabric near the base of your neck, revealing your little lacy bralette to him. He licks along the band, going from your neck down the V of your chest, then back up to your other shoulder. You watch his nose bump against your curves and your jaw slackens a bit with the possibilities that are running through your head.

You’d give anything to get his mouth on your clit, already swollen and pulsing with faux-lightning shocks from each of Luke’s touches. 

“Eat me out,” you say, a push in the right direction. Boys like when girls speak their mind, right?

Luke stills, his lips hovering above your sternum. You watch him smirk, then resume his kissing, sweet wet pecks marking the space where your breasts meet. “Lost your manners?” He finally asks, pulling away from your body to remove your shirt. He leaves it tangled along your wrist, wrapping it a few times and tucking the end into the band of your watch to secure the fabric in place.

You pout petulantly and Luke slides off the bed, kneeling between your legs that are bent over the side of the bed. He runs a finger along the seam of your jeans, taking extra care to rub his knuckle over your clothed entrance. You keen and he draws his hand up, resting it on your mound with his thumb stationary and heavy against your clit.

“Baby, I want to,” Luke assures you, his thumb lifting up and patting your clit a few times, causing you to jolt. “But I can’t until you ask me nicely.” He starts to rub your clothed clit, up and down in slow movements. He’s peering up at you with wide eyes, blinking like he’s innocent even though he’s driving you crazy.

“Please?” You try, your voice a little squeaky. 

A tiny smile on his face, Luke tilts his head at you. “You can do better than that,” he says, shifting forward to plant a kiss where his thumb rested. “Give it a second try.”

“Please eat me out, Luke,” you say, putting another pout on your face for good measure.

“Better,” Luke teases, trailing off. He reaches for your zipper, dragging it down. He inches the denim down your legs, revealing the panties that you’re practically soaking with your slick. They match your bralette– a purposeful decision that doesn’t do unnoticed by Luke. He thumbs over your clit again, then dips lower to flick over the wet spot staining the fabric. “Keep going. I want you to beg.”

He removes your pants with a kiss to the inside of your knee. His hands move to your thighs, feeling up the skin, keeping you warm in the chilled apartment. His breath passes over your core as he switches sides and you ache for him. It breaks the floodgates and you give him exactly what he wants, falling into that submissive role you’re able to fill so well.

“I need to feel your mouth on me, Luke. I know it’ll be so good– I know you’ll make me feel so good. Fuck, Luke, I want to come on your tongue. Taste me, please, please fuck me with your tongue.”

Luke’s crooked grin returns, his teeth peeking out from behind his lips and glinting at you. “Such dirty words for such a pretty girl,” he teases, but he hooks his fingers along the crotch of your panties and tugs them to the side, revealing your wet folds. He flexes his tongue, pointing it into a solid spear that he uses to spread your lower lips and locate your entrance. “Let’s see how fast I can make you come,” Luke murmurs before diving in and lathering your clit in a wet kiss. 

He pushes your legs apart, using his strong hands to pin your hips to the bed and keep them there. You want to wiggle out from under him and grind against his face, but Luke forces you to relinquish control with his size and strength.

It’s just what you wanted. Whining and tugging at the fabric around your wrists (easily removable, although you choose not to do so), you relax against the mattress and let Luke have his way with you.

He loves it, eating you out like he could do this for hours, like he could die happy between your leg. He’s moaning against you and massaging praise into your skin, all while licking every inch of your cunt. He fucks his tongue into you, he spits along your folds and watches the saliva drip down the crack of your behind before scooping it back up with his tongue and closing his lips around your clit. He leaves you wetter and wetter each time he pulls away, admiring his handiwork from a distance with a slack jaw before locating his next target and assaulting it with his tongue and gentle scrapes of his teeth. The first time he swept his bottom teeth against your clit, you flinched, but it quickly became a moan for more.

You’ve always been a glutton, addicted to toeing the line between pleasure and pain. 

It surprises you that Luke is the same way– although he would prefer to inflict the sensation than receive it. You align perfectly.

The sharp press of his tongue inside you draws a litany of noises from your mouth and it reinvigorates Luke’s efforts, with him flicking the muscle as far as he can within your cunt. He clutches at your skin, reaching under you to envelop both of your ass cheeks in his palms and lift your pussy to meet his face. There’s no room for reprieve, no space between you, and Luke is bullying your core with inconsistent nudges of his nose to your clit. 

“Luke, my clit,” you beg, chest heaving with how badly you yearn for your release. “Please.”

“You can come without that,” Luke replies, licking over the bundle once in consolation before returning to your hole, where you’re leaking fluids. Slick, saliva, and your impending orgasm all find their way onto Luke’s tongue, running down his chin and moistening the bed beneath you. You can feel the sheets growing wet beneath you, but you don’t care. Luke is making you feel even better than you imagined he would. 

You come over his tongue with a series of moans, bringing your still-tied hands down to his hair and tugging at his locks. Luke flicks over clit with quick kitten licks, only stopping when you’re crying out from oversensitivity

Luke kisses up your body, capturing your nipples between his lips over the lace fabric of your bralette, leaving the peaks pointed and cold when his mouth travels further north. 

He brings his lips to yours, ravishing the plush curves until they’re red and bruised. All the while, Luke mumbles praises to you until they blur together and you’re arching your back to feel his torso against yours again.

“You wanna go again?” Luke checks, nibbling on your bottom lip. “Ready to give me another one?”

“Yeah,” you breathe out, nodding and knocking your nose against his. He leans in and gives you a proper Eskimo kiss before pecking you one last time. 

Luke uses his strong hands to maneuver you the way he wants– chest pressed into the bed, ass pulled up and flush with his groin as he kneels behind you. He snaps the band of your bralette against your shoulderblade, then kneads the skin of your hips. 

“Close your eyes, babydoll,” Luke commands in a gentle voice. “I want you to feel this, just focus on feeling me.”

He rolls his hips against your behind, his cock still clothed but poking at the fabric like it’s trying to find its mark and sink into your heat. He pulls you against him and you wiggle your hips, obeying his command and closing your eyes. Your t-shirt fell from your wrists during the repositioning, so you clutch freely at the pillow under your head with one hand and hold your breast with the other. You squeeze the skin, moaning at the pleasure.

Luke brings your attention back to him with a sharp spank, making you yelp and clench down with both of your hands, scrambling for something to ground you. Luke chuckles and spanks you again, harder this time and on your other cheek. 

“Can’t wait to see this ass bounce,” Luke announces, smirking obviously even though you can’t see it. “I’m gonna make sure it’s pretty and pink while I fill your pussy up.”

If your eyes weren’t shut, they’d be rolling in your head at his words. You’re helpless, reduced to a moaning mess beneath Luke. 

You had no idea that the night would turn out like this, having fully expected to push him down and ride him until he came inside of you because he just couldn’t take the pleasure any longer. The tables have turned– now you’re the one leaking beneath him, your hole spread open from his thorough meal and positively waiting for him.

Luke disappears from behind you to remove his shorts, you assume. You keep your eyes closed and you hold your position, hoping your obedience will result in a reward. 

His voice washes over you, warming you like he’s still draped over your shoulder back at the bar. 

“Keep yourself full for me while I grab something, eh?” Luke asks, a prodding question that you’re scrambling to fulfill before he can even finish his sentence. 

Your middle two fingers slide into your hole, a wet squelch pushing a breath of a laugh out of Luke from his distance. You grind against the heel of your hand, spreading your knees for more leverage. 

“Good girl,” Luke coos, making his way back onto the bed. He’s behind you once again, naked, and you wish you could open your eyes and sneak a peek at his cock. You want to see how well endowed he is, feeling him brush against your thigh before a line of spit drips down your crack and crawls toward your hole. 

You fuck yourself on your fingers, hips rocking back. There are whimpers and whines filling the room, sounding needy and desperate for more, and it takes you a minute to realize that the words are muffled into the pillow, falling from your mouth. Biting down on the pillow to silence yourself, you curl your fingers inside yourself, hoping to reach your g-spot. In this position, you fall just short.

Luke’s index finger traces over the valley of your fingers, nearing your entrance. He’s silent, his moves calculated, and his index finger presses into you. He joins your middle and ring finger, his index finger reaching your insides in a way that has you keening. You can feel his fingertips against your nailbeds, then Luke wiggles his finger in further. 

You feel like you actually drip onto the bed when he pets over your g-spot, the spot that you couldn’t find on your own. Your knees are wide and your hips are slowly coming lower and lower. Your body is defaulting to the position in which you’ve gotten off so many times– hips flush against the bed, clit rubbing against your palm as you clench down on your own fingers. 

Luke uses his knee to bring your ass back up to its previous height, swatting at your flesh when you let out a complaint at the loss. Your clit is feeling neglected, practically calling out for pleasure, but the feeling of your fingers– and Luke’s– inside you is too good to take away.

So Luke does it for you. He removes his finger from your heat and digs under your knuckles, removing your digits from their wet home. The loss of contact comes with a devastating empty feeling and Luke soothes you with a cooed praise when you express your discontent. 

He solves the problem by slapping his thick cockhead against your open hole, resting it there until you’re squirming against him and pleas are leaving you with increasing intensity and higher pitch.

“Shh, baby, it’s okay,” Luke murmurs, pinching your skin as a reprimand. “You’ve been so good, listening to me so well. I’m going to reward you, don’t worry. Let me take care of you.”

He inches his cock inside your pussy achingly slow. You can feel every inch of him, every vein rubbing against your walls. You can feel the precum leaking from his slit and mixing with your own wetness. His tip finally nudges at your cervix, kissing the opening with another blurt of precum, and you ache for Luke to fill you up. You wish you were facing him so that he could drop a line of spit onto your tongue in a similar way.

When Luke starts to move, drawing himself out of you then forcing his way back in, all images disappear from your mind. His cock is all you can focus on– the warmth, how it’s pulsing inside of you, how it’s stretching your hole even though you had three fingers inside of it just minutes ago. 

Luke is consistent, fucking into you with hard and sure thrusts that leave you moaning. A puddle of drool is pooling on the pillow and your mouth is nearly constantly open, your tongue dry and breaths ragged. Your noises continue in their high-pitched tone, spurring Luke on. He pounds your pussy, ruining it for everyone else. 

Luke was right. You’d be thinking about him for weeks to come. 

He has you shrieking with each slap to your ass, the skin growing hot and becoming more red with each swat. You had no idea that you could be so loud in bed– you’ve normally got a handle on yourself. Normally, you’re not so wet that each thrust results in a pornographic sound of skin meeting skin. 

Luke is in a league all of his own.

“So tight,” he groans. “‘M gonna come, baby.”

“Come in me,” you beg. “Fuck, Luke, come in me.”

“I will,” he promises. “I want you to come first.”

Your abdomen is tight, burning with the need to release. You feel like you could explode and the thought pops into your head– you’d never been able to before, not with another man nor when fucking yourself, but you bet you could squirt now.

“Can I touch?” You ask, desperate. “Please, wanna touch my clit. Wanna come for you. Wanna be good. Please, Luke, tell me I can.”

“Go on,” he encourages. “Let me feel you.”

It’s like an out of body experience. You have control of your hands, but your fingers feel foreign as they find your clit and start to rub frantic circles over the bundle. Your chest is snug against the bedsheets. You spread your legs even further, needing the space to keep yourself open and feel even wider. Luke notices and loops a hand under your thigh, lifting the leg and holding it up. He’s able to keep you balanced, able to keep you steady as your fingers slide over your dripping cunt.

His grunts and moans spur you on, your back arching. His tip finds your g-spot and abuses it, knocking the air out of you with each bump.

“Luke,” you whine, his name elongated on your tongue.

“I’m here, baby, let go.”

He’s reassuring and calm, so sure behind you and panting. He drapes himself over your back, kissing behind your ear. 

It’s the smooth brush of his lips that sends you over the edge. Your vision, already black, turns into a staticky void that you fall down like you’re skydiving. 

Luke is your parachute, fucking you through the spray of your orgasm and releasing his own seed inside of you. He fills you up with his warmth, fucking you until you’re sagging on the bed and breathing hard, barely able to move. Luke drags his cock out of your cunt and brings some of his come with it, although he promptly plugs you with his fingers and a kiss once he’s turned you over onto your back. 

His fingers are mostly still inside you, slowly pumping in and out in a way that isn’t meant to derive pleasure. He simply wants to feel you. His kisses are soft and sweet, soothing you and bringing you back down to Earth. 

Eventually, you regain control of your limbs. You shift one of your legs over Luke’s hips and cuddle close to him, rolling your hips against his finger. Your tongue slides against his, tasting your first orgasm on his lips. 

The moment dies slowly. You’re both tired, ready to sleep. Luke draws his fingers out of your entrance, pecking your lips one last time. 

“Go pee, baby,” he tells you. “You’re not getting a UTI on my account. I’ll get some PJs for you while you’re gone, then we can take a shower in the morning after I serve you some breakfast in bed.”

“Mmm,” you hum, beaming. You lean up to kiss Luke again. “How’d you get so good at aftercare? Lots of experience?”

“Just want to make sure you’re satisfied,” Luke replies, fondly smiling at you when you roll away and patter towards his ensuite bathroom. He laughs a little as you cringe, the mixture of come seeping out of your hole and dripping down your thighs.

“How about I take a quick shower now and we’ll discuss that breakfast in bed when I’m done?” You tease, already pulling back his shower curtain and turning the nozzles to find your optimum heat. 

“Don’t pee in my shower,” Luke calls, pushing the covers off the bed and gathering the wet sheets to throw in the wash. He’ll put new sheets on the bed while you’re cleaning yourself.

“I’m not!” You deny, affronted. “How dare you assume such a thing?”

The last thing you hear before stepping into Luke’s shower is his cheeky, throaty laugh. You fail to bite back the smile that comes with it.

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | fake marriage au [18+]

in holy matriphony ch6. the in-laws

ᰔ pairing. fake marriage au - neighbor&realtor!gojo x nurse!reader (ft. choso x reader & suguru x reader)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is your extremely annoying next-door-neighbor who you're pretty sure is the most insufferable man you've ever met. given the fact that you exclusively work the night shift at a chaotic emergency dept, just got broken up with your boyfriend of seven years, and have been taking care of your sick mother ever since her multitude of diagnoses, yet somehow your neighbor is the main source of stress in your life should speak volumes. but when your mother's medical bills start to skyrocket to more than you can manage, and you learn that said neighbor of yours has the best private health insurance plan in the country, you ask him to enter a matrimonial agreement with you for the spousal benefits all in the name of saving a few hundred thousand dollars. but you'll have to see if suffering cohabitation w him is worth any amount of money.

ᰔ genre/tags. fluff, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), annoyances to lovers (that's more like it), small town romance, fake marriage, next door neighbors, lots of bickering, suburban shenanigans, slow burn, mutual pining, gojo likes to play house but you don't, hatred for the american healthcare system, gojo always forgets to mow the lawn, jealousy, an insane amount of profanity, mentions of cigarettes, depression/anxiety; btw gojo in this fic is in his mid 30s n reader is in her late 20s

ᰔ warnings. reader in this fic has a sick mother w alzheimer's & cancer so there is secondary medical angst!!

ᰔ chapter. 6/x

ᰔ words. 12.6k

a/n. hiii my ihm lovelies!! hope you all had a great holiday season. i wanted to get this chapter out as a christmas gift but i failed and then i wanted to get it out as a new years post but failed and then i got food poisoning yesterday and while i was rotting in bed i ended up finishing the chapter LOL. it seems i can only write when i'm under duress? but anywho. hope you enjoy haha and see you at the bottom!

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“Alright, let’s head out,” you hear Gojo say from the bottom of the staircase, followed by the sound of dress shoes on the hardwood floor, and you glance over to see him clad in a navy suit with a white button up shirt that had one singular button undone. He’s messing with the cuffs of his suit jacket as he makes his way over to you. You catch the scent of his cologne, and it’s alarming how familiar it’s become to you.

Days go by shorter lately, mainly because it’s winter, and so the sun has almost fully set by 6pm. The sky outside is a dark hue of purple, seen past the windows of Gojo’s house, and the warm, dim lighting inside makes you feel strangely nostalgic. Like in a way that feels like home.

You tirelessly tousle with your hair at the mirror hanging above the foyer table that was snug up against the wall at the front entrance. Your hair wasn’t cooperating. You attempted to curl it, for the first time in forever given you can’t remember the last time you had enough time to do your hair, so you were out of practice. It was obvious, given the way some strands were curled outwards from your face, some inwards, some straighter than others, some curlier than others, and you were about to have a full blown mental breakdown before you remember your grounding exercises– 1, 2, 3, 4.

You turn to face Gojo, who you saw in the mirror was standing behind you and watching you with amusement, and you breathe in deep. “How do I look?” you ask, petting down the fabric of your dress as you face him. The thought occurs to you–why do you give so much of a fuck how you look right now? It’s just Gojo’s family. It’s not like they’re actually your in-laws. And from what Gojo’s mother had told you, it was just an intimate little get-together with Sana’s family. It’s really not a big deal. Yet the necessity to impress still consumes you.

Gojo threads his hands into the pockets of his pants and tilts his head to assess your appearance, and you watch his gaze trace the frame of you. “Nice,” he says, “you look nice.”

“That’s it? Just nice?”

“Well, I tried to call you hot earlier, but it got me yelled at.”

You roll your eyes and grab your purse off the foyer table, “okay, whatever, I’ll take it.” And then you head towards the front door. You hear the jingle of car keys from behind you as they’re shoved into a pocket.

The outside air is chilly in a way that’s almost sobering. Gojo opens the door for you to get inside his car and the warmth of your peach cobbler in your lap comforts some of the nerves you felt. By the time Gojo clicks his seatbelt into place in the driver seat, you realize you’ve never been in his car before, or driven anywhere by him before.

The interior smells of pine and something more familiar too, with sleek leather seats that are so comfortable they make you feel like you’re floating. You know it’s a Benz, you’re just not sure what year or model, and you’d usually ask most people out of a friendly curiosity, but for some reason your pride always got the best of you when it came to him.

“I seriously can’t wait to eat that thing you made,” Gojo comments after he’s backed out of the driveway, “it looks really nice.”

“Do you have a sweet tooth?” you ask him, glancing over at him, and you try not to stare at the strong one-handed grip he has on the steering wheel as he corrects it. 

“Oh yeah,” he answers, “big time.”

“You don’t seem like it,” you mindlessly say, turning your head to glance out into the dim street, passing by houses that idly sit in this neighborhood.

“Why’s that?” he asks.

“You seem to maintain a steady weight,” you politely comment.

You can hear the smile in his voice. “Is that the closest I’ll ever get to a compliment from you?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s just science. Hard to maintain a build if you eat a lot of sugar.”

He turns onto the mainroad, and you keep your gaze plastered to the outside. “I seem to manage.”

“It’s because you're tall. Tall people get to eat whatever they want.”

You see him nod his head once in your periphery, and you take it as some form of dismissal. “Sure.”

It doesn’t take terribly long to get to Gojo’s parents’ house, just a thirty-five minute drive without traffic. He kept surprisingly silent throughout most of it, and the few moments you did glance at his face, you could even say he looked like he was deep in thought. With a creased brow, a grip on the steering wheel that sometimes faltered, sometimes strengthened, but rarely fully eased. It was all so different from his usual impulse to talk. You know that you often wish for Gojo to shut the fuck up sometimes, but the silence seemed unsettling today.

His parents’ house is large, maybe twice the size of the homes in your neighborhood, but it’s tucked away in a slightly remote area, where the next closest house is about a quarter of a mile down the road. The driveway is long and runs downhill, so you stumble a little on the high heel of your shoe when you step down onto the pebbled pavement, but Gojo holds your elbow so you don’t fall onto your face. And also so you don’t drop the peach cobbler he so desperately wants to try. You’re not sure which of the two was the bigger priority for him.

As you two walk up the driveway towards the front entrance, you hear him sigh behind you. “Just so you know, my mom doesn’t really have any sense of boundaries.”

“Ah,” you comment, “nice to know where you get it from.”

He gives you an irritated look, seen in the corner of your eye, and it’s hard to fight the small amused smile that makes its way onto your face.

He sighs again as you two make it to the top of the steps. “Seriously, though. Chances of you wanting to leave me after this dinner are high.”

“Why? You’ve got a hot older brother I don’t know about or something?”

“I am the hot older brother,” he tells you.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, and then face him fully. “You’re not the first guy that’s warned me about his parents, okay? I’ll handle my own. What good is life if your in-laws–er, fake in-laws–aren’t at least a little strange?”

He lifts his finger to the doorbell, and just before pressing it, he says, “alright, then.”

It only takes twelve seconds for the door to swing open, the aroma of fresh herbs and something more sultry like vetiver arouse your senses, along with a warmth beckoning you from the inside of the home. 

Gojo’s mother stands at the doorway, surrounded by a halo of warm lighting, and her face instantly morphs into one of delightful glee.

“Oh! My dear, you’ve made it!” she exclaims happily, and just when you think she’s about to pull Gojo in for a hug, she pulls you in for one first instead, which startles you. “How lovely!”

“Oh—” you stutter, stumbling slightly as your nose becomes buried in the fluff of her silk pressed hair, but the delicate fragrance of lilac is somehow comforting.

She pulls you away to hold you by your shoulders. “You poor thing, you’re shivering! Come inside.” She hastily ushers you inside and you can feel the heat from Gojo’s body as he follows closely on your tail.

When his mother closes the door behind you, you find yourself surrounded by the kind of warmth only a house could provide. 

You take a small look around the foyer, noticing that it’s large with tones of deep wood and a bright white and golden chandelier that hangs daintily above in the cavity of the high ceilings. Leather, wood, velvet, silk, these are the textures that you see as you look around. It’s an old-fashioned taste, with a polished grand piano off to the right in the hall and display cases of vintage dolls and porcelain plates. So very different from modern, but it’s comforting. Like a wave of nostalgia, but from something you’ve never experienced before.

“What’s this?” Mrs. Gojo asks with curiosity lilting her voice as she walks up to you and points at the casserole dish you were holding.

“Oh, it’s peach cobbler,” you say, holding it up slightly with a small smile adorning your face, “for dessert.”

“How sweet! You’re an angel,” she coos, then twists her torso towards the kitchen, “honey! Come here, will you?”

Shuffling down the hallway from the heart of the house is, who you presume to be, Mr. Gojo. He’s tall, with his shoulders slightly curved forward as he approaches you all, and you note that he looks more aged than his missus.

“Ah, this must be my new daughter-in-law,” he says, his voice gruff and crackly from years of use. You smell the faintest hint of smoke from his clothing.

You glance at Gojo, who is watching you interact with his parents, an unreadable expression on his face as his hands remain shoved into the pocket of his suit pants.

Mr. Gojo takes the peach cobbler from you and gives you a curt smile before taking it back towards the kitchen.

“Darling, I must say, you have a lovely figure—” Gojo’s mother begins to say, reaching her hand out to hover it over the curve of your waist, but just at that moment, Gojo comes up to stand in between the two of you.

“Alright, what time’s dinner?” he asks.

Mrs. Gojo glances up at him, her face immediately twisting into a frown. “Nevermind that. I want to take y/n with me back to the kitchen to help braise the chicken,” she says, grabbing a hold of your wrist and tugging you towards her.

“Oh—” you stumble slightly.

“Nope,” you hear Gojo say from beside you, and suddenly there’s a strong arm wrapping around your waist as he pulls you back to his side, “she stays with me for the night.” You’d remember to blush at the feeling of being pressed flush up against him, but the shock overshadowed.

“Satoru!” Mrs. Gojo exclaims, rather loudly, and she lets out a hmph noise before placing her hands on her hips. “You’re no fun!”

“I’m not gonna let you indoctrinate her into whatever multi-level marketing scheme you’ve fallen victim to this month,” he says, his hold on your waist tightening.

“How petulant!” she says, trying to manage a stern look but Gojo doesn’t seem fazed by it, “quit acting like I’m going to corrupt her! I’m not some witch.”

“Your track record would prove otherwise,” he comments.

“Oh please, the only other time was when you brought—”

She suddenly stops speaking, her eyes going wide, and she glances at you. You cluelessly tilt your head at her.

Ah. The other woman. This mysterious ex-wife. Would you be the other woman in this case? Seeing as to how his entire family seems to walk on eggshells about the subject around you. And they all seem to think that any mention of her would devastate you, when really, you and Gojo aren’t even actually lovers.

But there’s a small part of you,

A teeny tiny part,

Revealed from the way your heart sank at the realization of who his mother was referring to,

That actually does feel some type of way about it.

You want to know who this woman was to him. Does he still think of her? Does he still love her? What happened between them? Was she the one that got away? And how does he feel about the fact that he’s now here with you?

You shake your head vigorously to get those thoughts out of your head.

It was like method acting. You stepped into the role of wife this evening, and now you feel the way that they expect you to feel at the mention of your husband’s ex-lover.

That must be the reason, right?

You slowly push yourself out of Gojo’s hold, and you try not to become hyper aware of his eyes on you as you smooth out the fabric of your dress, then you glance at his mother.

“I’d love to help you braise the chicken,” you say.

There’s a brief silence as you find your voice in this house, and then Mrs. Gojo flashes you a grin.

“Come with me, honey,” she says before wrapping a delicate hand around your wrist and pulling you towards the heart of the house.

There are pictures hung up on the walls as you brush past every hallway, along with peeling wallpaper that is peppered with florals and striped prints, sanded off from years of shoulders brushing against their surfaces in a way that creates an old, dated charm. You learn quickly that Gojo has always been pretty tall, judging from the photo of him standing with, whom you assume are his middle school friends, out on a boat, holding a bass the size of a small child. 

There’s photos of the four of them together, like one professionally taken photo where Gojo and Sana are knelt in front of their parents, and your gaze fixates on the strong grip Mr. Gojo has on his son’s shoulder, digging deep in the bone, creasing the fabric, almost desperately. Gojo looks young in the photo, maybe a recent high school graduate, and his smile is bright but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

And, God, the trophies. The trophies that adorned the surfaces of aged cedar wood dressers, seemingly random in the order they are sprawled across the display yet you know there was intention behind it too. Ballet, soccer, tennis, spelling bee, FRC, even dragon boat racing. 

“Feel free to take any of those home,” Mrs. Gojo says with a teasing tone, “you eventually get tired of staring at them.”

You wouldn’t know. Your mother never had much extra cash hanging around to take you to tennis lessons, or ballet lessons, or SAT prep, or whatever. You were lucky enough that you got into college with the cards you were dealt, but you sometimes wonder what your potential could’ve been if you had parents like Gojo did. Maybe the house you live in would be your own, and not something that your mother has spent the past forty years of her life trying to pay off. Maybe you’d have a freshly renovated kitchen and a pretty boat out on the street. But throwing a pity party for yourself right now wasn’t exactly going to get you through the evening.

Mrs. Gojo finally leads you into the kitchen, and the aroma of fresh herbs overwhelms your senses. 

“Smells wonderful,” you comment.

“I know,” she cheekily comments, “will you turn the meat please?”

You grab a pair of tongs and attempt to sear the cuts that were sizzling on the stove.

“Sooooo,” she coos, wasting no time to playfully bump her hip to yours, “how is married life?”

“Nice,” you respond, your cheeks warming slightly, “it’s nice.”

“It won’t always be that way, you know,” she muses with some underlying sense of sincerity that isn’t lost on you.

When you remain quiet, concentrating on the searing sizzling noises coming from the pan, she decides to keep speaking.

“Eventually, you two will settle in a little too much…start to care less about your bodies…and then, oh gosh, when kids come into the picture, forget about having any time for yourselves,” she continues, “some days you’ll resent him, others you’ll feel like it’s the first time all over again.” She sighs. “Marriage is a funny thing—”

“Mrs. Gojo,” you interrupt her, turning to face her, “I—…I really appreciate you, I do, but, um, I’ve already learned a lot already about marriage from my own parents. Things are fine between Satoru and me.” You look into her widened eyes. “And…if something does happen down the line, and we choose not to be together anymore, then that’s okay too.”

After all, you had to prepare her.

“But that’s the thing!” she chirps, “your generation is too—…too impatient. Unwilling to work anything out! A marriage is supposed to be hard, but also it’s something you aren’t supposed to give up on so easily.”

It’s your turn to meet her with widened eyes in response to her preaching, and her posture immediately deflates before she holds you gently by your arm.

“I’m sorry, honey…I know it’s too early to be saying all these things to you,” she says, managing a small smile, “I always forget that I’m too old to be doting on my children like this anymore.”

Your expression softens and you wrap your palm over her bony knuckles, feeling the thinness of the skin that stretches over them. In a brief glimpse, you see your own mother in Mrs. Gojo’s eyes, something familiar, a universal expression of the love a parent has for their child.

“Well…” you say after clearing your throat, “for what it’s worth, you have nothing to worry about, Mrs. Gojo.” You try to manage a small smile. “I’m—…I’m really happy with your son.”

It was hard to lie to someone like this, especially from the way there’s relief that floods her irises, a genuine feeling that is so hard to come by in these days of false niceties. You often wonder how far a single white lie can stretch before it shatters against its own resistance.

“That’s a relief,” she says, managing her own prim smile, “I’m so glad.”

The two of you finish up in the kitchen, and when you circle around back into the hall, you see Sana standing in the warmly lit family room with Gojo and their dad.

Sana catches your eye, and you purse your lips together hesitantly before walking up to her.

“Hey,” you say softly and she returns the small smile you give her.

“Hi,” she says back to you.

“Um, where’s Juno?” you ask, looking around.

“Oh, she has a sleepover at her friend’s house tonight,” Sana says, “Jun’s dropping her off, and then he’ll come by here later.”

“Ah, I see,” you comment, itching at your elbow from the awkwardness.

“Well,” Mr. Gojo says, gesturing towards the dining room, “let’s eat, shall we?”

The three of you nod at him.

It’s fascinating to watch how the family falls naturally into their chairs, an assigned seating pattern that stays consistent among all dining halls and rooms and tables in the world, one that every family has. Mr. Gojo sits at the head of the table, his wife to his left, his son to his right. Sana sits quaintly to her mother’s left, and you sit across from her to Gojo’s left. The one empty seat is left for the presence of Jun.

“Food looks wonderful, darling,” Mr. Gojo says before leaning over to place a kiss on her bashful cheek.

Your heart does something weird at the sight. A simultaneous twinge paired with a warmer feeling that follows. You hardly witnessed any affection within your household growing up, not between your parents at least, probably because you were young when they got divorced and so the turmoils and tribulations started long before you had any higher order of cognitive discernment beyond the childish interest in Disney princesses and The Backyardigans. For you, the only memories that last of your parents’ marriage are those that feel like nothing more than the frigidity of a business arrangement. Ironically similar to the one you were currently in with Gojo. Except at least yours hadn’t been initially built on a foundation of love and a promise to be there for one another until death did you two apart.

Death was knocking on your mother’s doorstep now. But your father was nowhere to be found. So much for a vow.

Mr. Gojo pours his son a glass of whiskey, single malt as read on the label. Mrs. Gojo pours you and Sana a glass of red wine, and you try to hide the grimace, because you would’ve much rather had the whiskey.

“To y/n,” Mr. Gojo says, raising his glass up into the air, “for being our newest addition to the family.”

You all clink your glasses together, then in a variety of pairings, the last one being the tap of Gojo’s glass against yours, before you all take a drink.

“So…” Mrs. Gojo speaks up, “exactly how long have the two of you been married?”

You glance at Gojo for help, which isn’t exactly an unsuspecting thing to do.

“Four weeks,” he says.

You watch Mrs. Gojo’s eyes twitch. You can understand. Her own son gets married and doesn’t tell her anything about it for four weeks after the wedding. Well, in your case, a courthouse arrangement.

“Where did you two go for your honeymoon?” she asks, and Mr. Gojo clears his throat.

You look at Gojo for help again, and mentally pinch yourself for not being more discreet about how fake this whole thing is.

But Gojo surprisingly looks at ease. “Greece,” he says, and leaves it at that.

Mrs. Gojo’s body language turns to you, clearly irritated by her son’s short and curt answers. “Did you have a fun time, dear?”

“Oh! Yes, it was a very fun time. Definitely did all the newly wed stuff. Just as normal newlyweds do, you know. Because we are newlyweds,” you say through an awkward cough.

“Like…?” Mrs. Gojo pushes, and you can tell that she’s asking out of a genuine curiosity over the itinerary you two had allegedly carried out, but you crack under the pressure.

“W—…We made love,” you say, “we made lots and lots of love.”

The sound of silverware clanking onto ceramic plates startles you out of the blissful ignorance you had to the words that you had just said. Like you were so caught up in your mind about wanting to seem like an actual real life couple to his parents that you almost forgot about the number one social rule when meeting your (fake) significant other’s parents: no references to copulation. 

You glance up to find Mrs. Gojo’s eyes are wide, a slight tinge of pink to her cheeks. The width of Mr. Gojo’s eyes match his wife’s except his expression is also duly accompanied by a furrowed, perplexed brow. Sana looks visibly uncomfortable, shifting in her seat and trying hard to put on a poker face as she pretends like she didn’t just hear what you said.

You finally glance at Gojo, who’s looking at you with the most what the fuck? face you’ve ever seen someone make, and there’s concern on there somewhere too, like he’s not even fully convinced that you’re mentally sane at the moment because why on God’s green Earth would you say something like that at a family dinner table.

Trying your best to laugh it off, you say, “ah…ahaha, d-did I say make love? I meant–I meant that we–”

“Just–” Gojo interrupts you. “Just stop.”

Everyone are still stunned silent and the flush to your cheeks grows warmer. While clearing your throat, you set your lap napkin up on the table and clumsily scootch yourself out of your chair.

“Ex…cuse…me...” you mumble under your breath, knocking the table with your knee on accident, your wine glass almost toppling all over the pretty linen tablecloth but your reflexes catch the stem to steady it. “I need to…use the restroom.” And then you head straight down the hallway without sparing them another glance.

“Use the upstairs one!” Mrs. Gojo calls out to you, “the guest bathroom is under renovation.”

“Of fucking course it is,” you mutter under your breath, but flash them a polite smile before rounding the staircase pillar and then briskly walking up the stairs.

You quickly realize there’s more personality to the house upstairs, with some clutter in the theater loft and mismatching decorations that don’t reveal the careful deliberation of an indoor designer. The master bedroom is directly to the right of the top of the staircase and you glance across the loft at a narrow hallway that leads into the three bedrooms tucked away into the heart of the house.

One foot after the other, you float in that direction as if some force were compelling you towards it. Some trance of curiosity that no human being could ever resist. It’s fine. You didn’t actually need to piss anyways.

The first bedroom you walk past is rather boring, with beige tones all around. Beige bed sheets, beige wall paint, beige lamp shade, beige curtains. But the air smells crisp, and you notice there’s a shelf that has about half a dozen plants lined up in a variety of artistic pots. Similar to the set-up Gojo has in his house at home. You walk inside and brush your fingers across the dresser surface, rubbing fine dust over the pads of your fingers, and with your next inhale, you sneeze.

A guest bedroom, you think to yourself.

The next bedroom you walk past is sweeter, kinder, warmer. There’s pink hues scattered across, the most obvious one being the pillow covers, and there are some shades of a baby blue as well. But the furniture looks modern, sleek, and new. There were two identities at war in the room, like that of a little girl and a grown woman. Neither able to find its voice among the chaos of friendship bracelets sprawled across the desk and the Louis Vuitton purse resting at the foot of the bed. 

Sana’s room, you think to yourself. 

Childhood bedrooms are like time capsules if left untouched for very long. You’ve lived in your room at home for as long as you can remember, only recently having shifted to the master bedroom. The room grew up with you. It had no chance to become some entity of its own. 

The next bedroom you walk by feels familiar, even before you walk inside. There’s a comforting feeling that envelopes just from the lighting alone. You push the door open with a gentle palm.

The culprit of any young man’s room–navy blue sheets. Stretched taut against a made-up bed that has some sort of feminine flair to it, like it wasn’t set by Gojo, but rather his mother passing by his room one day to sit in his absence, only to needlessly mess with the sheets because it gave her a sense of purpose. You go eighteen years pouring blood, sweat, and tears into raising a child, protecting them, nurturing them, being the one they lean on for all of life’s woes, only for them to pack up and leave one day. You suppose that if you were a parent, you would find melancholy in that loss of responsibility too. 

His desk is a large expanse of cedar wood with a desktop monitor and some bookshelf speakers set up on it. The PC itself has collected dust over the years but there’s a small mechanical whirring noise you hear somewhere within. The rest of the desk is mostly empty except for some unopened mail tucked away with some books, the spines creased at the last few hundred pages, but never to the end. 

You pick one of the books up, flipping the pages open, and see sticky notes on some of them. Like English literature notes one would take in class, with studious words that over exaggerate the significance of the prose just to make a teacher happy. Who cares if the curtains were blue? Maybe the author just wanted them to be blue. Why does everything in life have to have meaning?

Setting the book back down with a sigh, you walk over to the bookshelf. There are some more trophies, some sets of comic books, some strange robotic-looking figurines. Small picture frames of foreign scenery are set up in different corners wherever there is empty space, like an afterthought. 

“Hmm…” you hum to yourself, tilting your head to the side to read the vertical spine of a thick black book that was tucked flush up against the shelf's side. 

West Valley High School. Class of 2007.

With your index finger hooking the spine, you slowly pull the book out from its comfy corner. It’s heavy in your hands and you notice that there are ink smudges across the tips of your fingers.

When you open the cover, you’re met with a page filled with a variety of colors and handwriting, and you realize they’re signatures. And to no one’s surprise, most of them are feminine. With hearts, some merely outlines, some shaded in with ink, scattered across the page. Bubbly handwriting, neat handwriting, cursive handwriting, a lot of it in pinks and purples and reds. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think it was like those Valentine’s Day cards all the girls would sign in grade school to pass onto their crush, except imagine if all of them were intended for just one guy.

You roll your eyes as you flip the pages, seeing no end in sight to the signed ink. I mean, come on, how many signature pages does a yearbook even need? This was excessive. And, no, you aren’t bitter simply because your high school yearbook has maybe a max of fifteen signatures (four of which were from your teachers). It’s just frustrating. And confusing. Why does everyone on this planet adore Gojo except you? Is there something wrong with you? Are you the problem?

There are some signatures from boys too, most likely his friends. Otherwise, you’re not sure what random fleeting classmate you’ve only spoken to a couple times would be brazen enough to draw pictures of penises squirting in whatever empty space they could find in your yearbook, if not for his high school friends. These boys are probably in their mid thirties now, just as Gojo is, maybe with wives and kids they’re now responsible for. You wonder if they’d still find the drawings funny all the same today.

You flip the pages more, taking in image after image after image of smiling portraits. ABC…DE…F…ah, G. Hmm, there. There it was. 

Gojo Satoru.

Seems like his high school didn’t allow yearbook quotes, but you try to imagine what his would be. Probably something corny and lame, like See kids? I told you I was sexy in high school.

He looks cute though. With his hair fluffy, boyishly ruffled to pair with a charming smile that’s at ease. He just looks a little younger, that’s all. Not that much different. Perhaps a bit more scrawny, a bit more mischievous-looking. As opposed to his adult self, who appears sturdy. More serious. But you realize that cheeky part of him that comes out every now and then when he’s teasing you or pissing you off is that boy within him that looks exactly like the portrait in this yearbook that you trace with the pad of your finger. 

You close the book, suddenly a little out of breath, and then slip it back into place. Your eyes catch the shimmer of the trophy at the top of the shelf. It was shaped like a baseball glove mitt, and in the palm cup, there is an actual baseball in there with a black ink signature. You gently pick it up and turn it in your palm to try and read the ink.

Ichiro.

Your dad used to watch baseball. You’re familiar. Seattle Mariners, Ichiro Suzuki. The first Japanese player to ever make it to the Major Leagues. Ten time all-star, and tenth member of the Mariners hall of fame. He retired when you were just a little girl, but you still remember the look of awe in your father’s eyes as he stared at the box TV in the living room of your house when Ichiro took his last stand at the plate.

Gojo was also a boy at that time. Living in this house. Maybe his old man was watching that game at the same time. And maybe Gojo was watching the look on his father’s face, too. It’s the romance of life–you look up at the moon in the sky, and you know that there is someone else out there, someone that you’ll meet some day, maybe even someone that will mean the world to you someday, who’s looking at it too. But you just don’t know it yet.

Lost in endless, rather fruitless thought, you continue to turn the baseball in your hand to pointlessly assess the seams, but it slips out of your hand and onto the carpeted floor with a loud hollow thud that startles you, and when you attempt to bend down and pick it up, you accidentally push it with your toe and it rolls underneath the bed.

“Shit,” you mumble, getting down onto your hands and knees to look underneath the bed.

You see the ball rolled a few feet away, and when you reach for it, it becomes clear that you don’t have the arm span to grab it. You struggle and you struggle, the tips of your fingers barely tickling its seam, and the frustration makes you sweat a little.

“Come…here…you…stupid…thing,” you mutter. You’re sure your hair is a static mess now, too. 

You finally manage to roll it towards you a couple inches and then your palm wraps around it before pulling it to your shoulder, but not without something collateral that’s dragged along with it.

A photograph. Printed out, vintage. You pinch the corner between your two fingers and stand back up onto your two feet in order to better assess the image under the light of the floor lamp.

The first person you notice in the photo is Gojo. He looks younger than in the yearbook, but he’s wearing a suit and a tie. It’s a little big on him, ill-fitting as most teenage boys should look in a suit, like a rite of passage. His smile is less warm than the one in the yearbook too, more prim and stretched into a thin line that’s only slightly curved upwards. It’s only then when you notice the slender fingers sprawled across his chest near the collar of his undershirt, black nail polish blending in with the fabric of the suit. Your eyes trail the dainty hand, and your heart skips a beat when you see a girl standing next to him, pressed up against him, her smile much brighter than his. Pink braces line her teeth and her hair is that classic mid-2000s side-swept bang mess, but she’s pretty. Dressed in a pink-ish purple gown that almost looks like a bridesmaids dress, and you finally see the banner stretched across behind the both of them in the picture that reads Homecoming 2005. 

It’s hard to explain it, but you can just feel it somehow. That this person is important to him. Not just some last-minute date to Homecoming, or an old high school girlfriend he’s long since lost touch with. It seems larger than that, somehow. Unlike penises drawn on yearbook paper, this feels like something a person never outgrows.

Of course, people have lived fully-fledged lives before you’ve met them. Just as you have as well. But you’re overtaken by the insane curiosity to want to learn every single detail about this past life that Gojo has lived. Where did he and his friends hang out after school? When did he learn how to drive? When was the first time he got shit-faced drunk? When was the first time he snuck out of the house? And who was this girl in the picture? 

“Find what you’re lookin’ for yet?” a voice calls out, entirely startling you to where you almost jolt out of your skin, and you swiftly turn on your heel towards the entrance of the room. 

You see Gojo standing in the door frame, leaning against it with his arms crossed as he levels his gaze at you. He has a blank expression on his face, although you would say it’s more serious than playful. 

“What–...I–” you stutter, shuffling the picture you were holding behind your back so he doesn’t see. 

His eyes don’t flit to the movement. “You don’t have to tear the room apart to find my illicit drugs. You could’ve just asked.”

 You roll your eyes. “As if you would do drugs.”

“You say that like it’s an insult.”

“It is.”

“So, then, if you’re not looking for drugs, what are you looking for?”

Your cheeks are warm. “I don’t know. Petty cash? Human body parts? Playboy?”

He snorts. “Playboy? Who still has a subscription to Playboy?”

“Maybe your teenage self did.”

“I’m not that old,” he says, “I was watching porn like the rest of my peers.”

“Ew, you freak,” you say, and you grab one of his pillows and throw it at him.

He lets out a laugh before catching the pillow with ease, and then walks up to you, placing the pillow on top of your head. You half-glare, half-pout at him.

“C’mon,” he probes, “tell me why you’re hiding away up here.”

“I embarrassed myself,” you confide in him with a sulk of your shoulders. “I mean. Seriously. What the fuck was that? What a humiliating thing to say in front of your parents. I just feel so weird pretending like this.”

His expression softens. “Sorry,” he says, “for dragging you into this dinner.”

“No,” you sigh, “I’m the one that did. I forgot you can’t necessarily fake a marriage without…doing the typical couple things.”

“Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,” he hums as his gaze flits towards the bed, “doing the typical couple things, you say?”

You roll your eyes. “In your dreams.”

“Oh, in my dreams alright,” he says with a grin.

“And if I strangled you? What then?”

“I like that. It’s kinky.”

“And I’m supposed to believe you don’t have magazines lying around?”

“Brown box underneath the bed. You didn’t look hard enough.”

You give him a disgusted look. He laughs.

“I’m joking,” he says, pushing his hands into his pockets.

“I’m not convinced,” you say, turning your body away from him slightly to keep the photo hidden behind your back.

He tilts his head at you, gaze flickering down to your other hand. Your heart skips a beat. “I could’ve guessed that.” 

His hand reaches out and you flinch ever so slightly, something he thankfully doesn’t notice, and then he’s grabbing the baseball out of your palm.

“I always thought I could sell this thing for major money,” he muses, throwing the ball up into the air to catch it. And then doing so again a couple times.

“It’s authentic?” you ask with genuine curiosity.

“Oh yeah. I caught it. First ball game my old man ever took me to, and it happened to be Ichiro’s last.”

Your eyes widen. Gojo was at that game. He wasn’t just watching it from home on some TV like you did with your dad. He was living in it.

“Wow,” you say, “must’ve been quite the game.”

“Don’t really remember too much about it to be honest, other than how stoked I was to just be there with my dad.”

“Mm,” you hum, “I’ll have to ask Mr. Gojo more about it when we get downstairs.”

His expression falters slightly, his smile dropping in the most subtle way that you wouldn’t have even noticed if you hadn’t been intently staring at his face. 

“Yeah,” he says, “maybe.”

Gojo continues to stare at the ball in his palm as he rotates it in inspection. There’s an awkward silence that settles between the two of you, and you feel the burden of conversation has suddenly fallen on you. 

“My, um. My dad was a fan too,” you say.

His eyes glance up to meet yours. “How come I’ve never met him?”

The question catches you off guard. “Wh–...I’m sorry, what?”

“Your dad,” he says, as if it was something so casual. 

“That–...well, he’s–...I don’t know, I haven’t seen him in years,” you admit, “not since…not since my mother was diagnosed with cancer.”

He stares at you earnestly, studying your expression, before he decides on saying nothing else except, “I’m sorry about that.”

You sigh. “Satoru, I–” you start, keen on the way his body stiffens slightly when you say his name, “I really don’t have the capacity for much else tonight. I mean, the questions. And the lies. And walking on eggshells around your mom.” 

“Well. I was sent up here to get you,” he says, “and I can’t exactly go downstairs empty handed.”

“Fine. Let’s just get this dinner over with as fast as possible.”

“Sure,” he easily agrees, “I’m with you on that one.”

You take a step forward to head towards the door, but then suck in a sharp gasp when you remember what was being held behind your back.

“Wait,” you say, “look away.”

“...huh?” he huffs, a puzzled look on his face.

“Just look away for a second.”

His eyebrows furrow before he lifts one in a questioning manner. But he acquiesces and turns on his heel to face away from you. “Have I ever told you how strange you are?”

“No,” you say while discretely crouching down, playing along in an attempt to distract him, “you haven’t.” You flinch a little from the sound of your hip popping, but he doesn’t seem to notice and so you bend your wrist in preparation of flinging the photo back to the abyss underneath his bed.

But you stop.

And you take one more glance at the photo.

And your stomach flips the same way it did the first time you saw it.

If you asked, would he tell you?

But the more pressing question is,

Why are you so scared to find out?

You shake your head vigorously to get rid of all your pestering intrusive thoughts. It was the stress, you played it off. A hyperactive mind leads to hyperactive ruminations. And besides, it’s just silly. Sure, there’s your gut feeling that suggests otherwise. But this girl in the photo could really just be an old friend or girlfriend that had no significant impact on the trajectory of his life. Why be the crazy one and lose sleep over this? You’ve lost sleep over plenty of other things in your life, but not stuff like this. It’s just not like you.

You fling the photo across underneath the bed and then stand up just in time for when Gojo turns around to look at you out of curiosity.

“Alright,” you say, dusting your hands off, “let’s go.”

You walk over to where he stands by the doorframe, a slight warmth to your cheeks when he doesn’t move out of your way like he usually does, but instead he leans towards you slightly as you brush past him, and your heart jumps a beat in your chest when you feel his hand gently fall to the small of your back, softly urging you forward ahead of him. A feather of a touch, yet intentional, almost naturally so, like a curious test of the boundary between you two that he’s been dying to understand a bit better. And the fact you don’t turn on your heel to face him with that same undeserved and petty rage that you always do, and instead slightly shudder at the feel of his touch, means that somewhere along the way, you’ve moved the line a little closer.

He’s hot on your trail as you walk down the stairs slowly and when you turn around the post at the bottom then make your way back to the dining room, you see his family staring at you with wide eyes.

His mother stands up. “y/n! Come sit back down, dear.”

You nod meekly, and Gojo pulls your chair out for you to take a seat before he resumes his seat next to you.

The food is slightly cold by the time you finally get to pick at it. It’s not very seasoned, either. Not enough salt for your taste. But somehow Mrs. Gojo having a phobia of sodium is a study of character that makes perfect sense in your head.

Eventually, the awkward silence is too much for you to bear, and you set your fork and knife down on your napkin with a slight bit more force than you probably should’ve.

Everyone looks at you.

You sigh. “I’m sorry for earlier,” you say, “I’m…uh, I’m just not really used to these sorts of dinners…I don’t have much family here in this town, and it’s always just sort of been my mom and me. And I—…I guess I’m just a little nervous.”

Wide eyes blink at you. Mr. Gojo shifts a little uncomfortably in his seat while Mrs. Gojo blinks her long lashes at you. Sana tilts her head, and you have no interest in seeing what Gojo’s expression looks like. You fear it’s the one you’d remember the most.

You were just being honest with how you felt. And it doesn’t take you long to realize something you probably should’ve realized earlier walking into a home like this where everything was perfect and on display with no evidence of the way a true family can crumble on the inside—a house like this does not value honesty. Your mother couldn’t afford you many luxuries in life, but you never felt like you couldn’t be honest in front of her. 

You glimpse up at Sana, and there is some knowing expression on her face. It’s almost sympathetic. As if you two were on the same page about something right now. When you glance at Gojo, you see him staring down at his plate with his brow slightly furrowed.

“It…it’s quite alright, dear,” his mother says through a prim voice, and in an attempt to change the subject, she says, “I do hope you are enjoying the chicken.”

“Ah,” you exhale, “yes. I am.”

“So!” Mrs. Gojo chimes in again as she dabs her mouth to a linen napkin. “Tell me about what you do for fun.”

You blink at her. “Oh, umm…binge watch TV? Occasionally I’ll go for a walk.”

“Ahh interesting! What about reading? Do you enjoy reading?”

“Well, the last book I purchased was a picture book about North Korean missiles…so.”

She lets out a laugh. “And where do you see yourself in five years?”

You hear Gojo sigh beside you before he reluctantly sets down his silverware and then he turns to Mrs. Gojo. “Mom. C’mon. This isn’t a job interview. Just let her eat.”

There’s a slight tinge of pink to the tips of her ears from the interrogation interruption as she glances between the two of you. She looks over at Sana for help but finds nothing other than a gaze tipped down towards a plate full of picked-at food. Mr. Gojo folds a hand over her frail knuckles as if to silently communicate, but Mrs. Gojo retreats her hands to fold in her lap underneath the table.

Feeling somewhat bad for the two of them, you turn the face Gojo’s dad. “Um…Mr. Gojo, Satoru was telling me about how you were a big baseball fan and a big Ichiro fan…do you still keep up with the Mariners?”

The man’s eyes grow wide with a visible confusion and you swear you hear Gojo clear his throat beside you.

“Ah…that’s–” he starts before the sound of the doorbell ringing startles you.

Sana immediately stands up without a word of excusal or a glance in anyone’s direction and she heads straight for the door.

You all look around at one another before Mrs. Gojo says, “must be Jun.”

You were at least glad to find you would not be the only “in-law” at the table full of a tension-laced family dinner, especially given the fact that in most of the cases where you’ve met Jun, his penchant to talk overshadows any other energy.

“What’s up, y/n!” Jun shouts when he waltzes into the dining hall, a few steps ahead of Sana. He throws his jacket over the first surface he finds, body language matching that of someone twenty years younger than he actually is. You can’t tell if it’s overcompensation for something, or if he just genuinely believes he’s still in his twenties. 

To your surprise, he opens his arms out for you to greet him with a hug, and you hesitate before standing up slightly to give him a well-meaning wrap of your arms around him, but it lacks any warmth of familiarity.

“Welcome to the fam!” he jovially exclaims before patting your arm. He then hugs Mr. Gojo, then Mrs. Gojo (paired with those cheek kisses that the French do in greeting), then daps up Gojo (to which you notice Gojo is less than enthusiastic about) before he finally kisses Sana on the cheek and then takes his seat at the other end of the table. Your eyes are keen on Sana now, watching her intently, but she remains staring at the food on her plate. You had a feeling there was someone in this room that didn’t want to be at this dinner even more than you did.

“How was traffic, Jun?” Mr. Gojo asks.

“Oh it was nothing. Took a shortcut. Backroute off of Lake City Way. Full of pot holes though.”

Sana turns to him and scowls. “While you were taking Juno to her sleepover?!”

He lifts an eyebrow at her. “Yeah? We were running late.”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to take that route to get into the city! Those pot holes are so dangerous.”

“Honey. Chill. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Just last week I saw news of three plot holes on the Mercer Street intersection opened up. Three people were injured, including a young boy.”

“Okay well if I also believed everything I saw on the news was going to personally happen to me too then we’d have never gotten this far in life.”

“Jun,” Sana deadpans.

“W-Why don’t I fix you a plate, Jun? You must be tired.” Mrs. Gojo chimes in. 

Sana breathes in deep and exhales slowly before slumping down into her chair. 

“Thanks,” Jun says, easing his brow as he sits back in his chair nonchalantly, before he turns to Gojo and starts to talk about mundane things like the stock market, the recent election, something about a new bowling record, and this one Thai restaurant he really wants to try on the other end of town, all within the span of time it takes Mrs. Gojo to set a plate down in front of him.

Mr. Gojo jumps in on conversation from time to time. Mrs. Gojo listens idly, sometimes placing a laugh where she feels appropriate. Jun gets particularly animated about this incident he ran into earlier last week when he was dropping Juno off at school, a story that you notice everyone at the table is for some reason entirely intrigued by, but you suppose it’s the most interesting topic of conversation you’ve all had tonight thus far. At certain critical points of the story, Sana jumps in with a that’s not what happened, Jun and you find yourself finally settling in somewhat to the evening.

Just as Jun’s story is ending, you glance up to Mrs. Gojo and find that she’s staring at you with a smile on her face. It makes you jump in your seat a little, luckily unnoticed by the rest of the table because of Jun’s engaging theatrical hand gestures as he attempts to keep his wife, his brother-in-law and his father-in-law engaged. You would’ve expected Mrs. Gojo to avert her gaze the second yours locked with hers, but she doesn’t. She just continues to look at you with a soft smile on her face and a slight tilt to her head, like she’s getting used to the sight of seeing you at this table.

Her gaze flits downwards slightly and you follow her line of gaze, tracing it to the ring that was adorning your left hand. 

Your eyes widen slightly.

“Oh–” you stutter, the words already getting caught in your throat, “I–...I forgot to say, it’s an honor to wear your ring, Mrs. Gojo.” The table suddenly goes quiet, and you can’t tell if it’s because of you, or if it’s because there was no more story left to tell. “It’s beautiful.”

It truly felt like for every two steps you took forward, it was ten steps backwards. Because you watch the way that soft smile of hers entirely drops, her expression replaced with one of confusion, brows knitted together as she looks at you like you’ve just spoken in a language no one on Earth can speak. 

She glances at Gojo, and you don’t have to look at him  to tell that he’s stiff in his seat. You could’ve felt the tension from a mile away. 

Mrs. Gojo looks at you again. “Oh honey, that–” She glances between you and Gojo. “That’s not my ring…”

Your eyes widen, cheeks already flush from whatever’s to come.

But suddenly, and to your surprise, Sana speaks up. “It was our mother’s ring.”

You look at her with confusion. And then you glance at Gojo. And then you glance back at Sana. And then at Mr. & Mrs. Gojo.

“But…” you trail off.

“Sumiko and Daichi are our aunt and uncle,” Sana says with a strained voice, “our real parents died in a house fire when we were younger.”

You blink at her in shock.

“He didn’t tell you?” Mr. Gojo asks.

“I–” You glance at Gojo and see that he’s poking his tongue to the inside of his cheek as he stares down at the glass of scotch he was twirling around in his hand.

“Of course he didn’t,” Sana interrupts, the bitterness in her voice matching the attitude she’s since displayed this entire evening. Her gaze is locked onto her brother’s face, and when his gaze flickers up to meet her eye contact, his expression is set with a tense jaw. “He never wants to mention them. He never wants to acknowledge their life. He never wants to honor them. He just wants to pretend like they never existed.”

“Sana,” he cuts her off, and a chill gets sent down your spine from the seriousness and rigidity in his voice. “Now’s not the time for this.”

“When is the fucking time?!” she spats at him, the simmering tension brewing over. Ah. Yes. The moment you had been expecting. After all, what family does not have its baggage? Sana abruptly stands up from the table, startling everyone with the clanking of silverware and ceramic from the motion. “When is the fucking time for you to admit that you never gave a shit about mom and dad dying? When is the fucking time for you to admit that we moved on to live with these people so fast? When is the fucking time for you to admit how wrong it was for you to force me to call the people here my mom and dad my whole life when they aren’t?” Her voice cracks near the end.

You glance at Mr. & Mrs. Gojo, who both look shocked, hurt, even embarrassed as they gaze down at their food. Your heart stalls in your chest for them.

When you glance back at Gojo, you see that his gaze is hardened even further now. “You’re being rude,” he says, in as steady of a voice as he can manage from the way his brow is creased with disappointment. 

“Yeah, whatever,” Sana says as she wipes at the tears with her sleeves, and you notice that she looks young like this. Younger than the usual prim and proper self that she portrays. Too young to be a mom, too young to be a wife, too young to be an adult. Like someone propelled into a life that she never wanted. “That’s always what you say, isn’t it? No answers, you just claim that I’m being childish and rude.” Jun tries to reach out to hold her hand but she snatches it away from him. Under her breath she says, “I didn’t want to come here. I should’ve just stayed home.” And with a rough swipe of her sleeve across both of her cheeks, she suddenly storms off somewhere deep into the house. Jun immediately stands up to follow her, leaving the four of you here with stale, cold food.

The timer in the oven goes off, the sound heard in the distance like a lifeline, and Mrs. Gojo immediately stands up. “Ah, must be…the roasted potatoes. I’ll be right back,” she fusses, and you avert your gaze from her face so she doesn’t feel embarrassed over the streak of a tear you saw streaming down her face.

“Let me help you,” Mr. Gojo says in a small sheepish mumble before following his wife into the kitchen.

And then there were two.

You only have a moment to process the dramatic outburst and subsequent fall-through before you turn in your chair to face Gojo, your face narrowing in contempt. You see him running a hand through his hair, entirely ruffling out any sort of neatness he had combed it into earlier, and he undoes the top button of his shirt with an impatient thumb like he was letting go of whatever image he had been trying to keep up for tonight, because after what just happened, there was no use. 

“So when were you going to tell me that they aren’t actually your real parents???” you hiss at him.

He sighs and runs a hand down his face. “They’ve raised us since Sana was just three years old. I didn’t think it mattered.” 

“Okay well if I had known then I wouldn’t have mentioned the ring??? Now everyone’s left the table because of me.”

“It’s not because of you,” he quickly corrects you, “it’s because of years of unnecessary drama of which I’ve still got no fucking clue why it still gets brough up at every. family. dinner. If you didn’t bring it up, then they would’ve figured out a way to bring it up somehow anyways.”

You blink at him, a little taken aback by how dejected he was by this entire conversation.

“Are you going to go check on Sana?” you ask him.

“No,” he says without hesitation, “she’ll calm down soon enough.”

You press your lips into a thin line, contemplating his dismissal, before you let out a huff of disappointment and disapproval. You pull your napkin off of your lap, setting it up on the table, and slip out of your chair to head into the house in the direction you saw Sana storm off into, leaving Gojo to himself at the table.

As you walk down the hallway, all those pictures you saw hung up on the walls, those photos of illusion that painted this pretty picture of a nuclear family fall apart in the narrow space, those firm smiles and hesitant postures making much more sense to you now. They aren’t even his real parents. Baseball and wedding rings. Those details belonged to a life he never intended on sharing with you. 

You walk past the kitchen, stopping briefly just beyond the entrance before backtracking and you find Sana standing near the sink with her arm across her chest as her other hand wipes at her cheeks. The soft sound of a sniffle echoes in the room and you’re surprised to see that Jun left her alone.

Tentatively, you shuffle your feet across the wooden floor. She seems to make note of you in her periphery but refuses to glance up. 

“Hey…” you start when you finally make it to the space in front of her, your hip leaning against the edge of the sink counter in parallel with hers as you face her.

“I—” she starts, shuffling her palms across her cheeks again. “I am so severely embarrassed.”

Your eyes widen slightly at the honesty. “Don’t be. It’s just family.”

“No but that’s the point,” she says through a crack in her voice, “I’m thirty-one, I’m married, I’m a mom, but they’ll always just see me as some immature little brat because I always behave like this.”

You don’t know what to say. You suppose if you were a therapist, or a priest, or a mentor, or a mom yourself, or any other person with an emotional IQ higher than yourself, you would know the right thing to say to her right now. But you don’t. So silence is all that you can offer her, and you hope that it’s enough.

It seems to work in it’s own magical way, as she slowly opens herself up to you within the next passing sixty seconds. A fleeting glance up to your face. The halt of pointless fidgeting with the fabric of her sleeve. The way she stands up straighter, her hip no longer leaning against the kitchen counter, and you find that you mirror the same movement.

She clears her throat, rubbing her nose with the knuckle of her index finger, her eyes no longer glistening with tears but the corners of them look puffy.

You glance down at your feet for a moment before inhaling deep and making eye contact with her. “Hey, listen…” you say, “I’m—…I’m really sorry…about earlier today. For overstepping about the bullying. Juno’s your daughter, and I really shouldn’t have given her advice before at least running it by you beforehand. Especially for something so sensitive.”

The delicate muscles of her brow lift in surprise at your words, lids fluttering slowly as she processes your words, and the wave of melancholy is contagious as it washes through you as well.

“I’m sorry too,” she says, “for how angry I got with you. It’s just—” she hesitates, and you see that semblance of her that you’re more familiar with. Strict, stern, rough around the edges but for a noble reason. “Y’know, with kids…we tend to get overprotective over them.” Her gaze drops to somewhere beneath yourselves as if she suddenly lost confidence in her train of thought. “I’m just trying to do the right thing for her.”

A silence settles between the two of you before you realize you ought to respond to her.

“I get it,” you finally say. “I mean—…I don’t. Because I’m not a mom. But…I’m sure that when I am one some day, I’d understand.”

She finally offers you a smile in return to your words, polite but genuine nonetheless. And a soft remnant sniffle makes her ruffle her nose.

Her expression softens, and she stares straight ahead to your collarbone rather than your eyes. “She really likes you, you know?” Sana glances up at you now. “Hasn’t stopped talking about your ‘blubbery’ pancakes since last week.”

“Aww.”

There’s a sad glint in her eyes when she turns her torso away from you slightly in resignation before some hint of optimism flashes by in her face and she turns to you again.

“Do you…think you could give me the recipe?”

You want to ask her if everything is okay. But instead, you say, “sure.”

The sound of footsteps approaching is heard near the kitchen entrance and the two of you glance in that direction to see Jun walking in. He offers you a fleeting glance before taking his place beside Sana, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling him towards her before placing a kiss on her temple and saying, “hey honey.” 

You watch as she averts her gaze down to the tips of her toes.

“Feeling better?” he asks her but there’s this lack of warmth you cannot quite discern.

“Yes,” she responds, scratching at her cheek as a discreet way of getting rid of the last remaining wetness that had streamed down her face earlier.

He rubs her arm soothingly and then looks at you with a smile pressed into a firm line. “Doing alright?”

You blink at him. “Wh—…yes.”

“Say, y/n, how’s your mom doing by the way?” he asks.

“She’s…better. She’s in hospice now.”

“Palliative?”

“Well—” you say, “I guess. It’s just temporary.”

He shuffles inside the pocket of his coat and takes out something. A small card with finely printed black ink on it. He hands it to you.

“I can’t imagine how expensive that all must be,” he says, and you glance down at the card.

Carevest Capital est. 2016

Invest in a healthier you!

You glance up at Jun. Sana’s gaze has now shifted to the inside of the sink.

“I started this business,” he says, “where we’re revolutionizing the way healthcare costs are managed. In our platform, we basically invest our clients’ money into the stock market, leveraging our high-reward algorithm to maximize returns. But here’s the unique part: we partner with leading healthcare CEOs who match a portion of the profits as an incentive for stock purchases. Together, these funds go directly toward paying off hospital bills and easing related financial burdens.”

Your eyes widen at his words. The speech was practiced, one you can only assume he has pitched to many potential clientele. But there’s a hint of personable grace to it as well.

“I’m telling you, y/n, we’ve had clients who have overcome six figures of medical debt in just six months,” he says, “and you’ll only need a couple thousand dollars to start yourself up.”

You purse your lips together, your finger pinching the corner of the card. “That’s amazing, Jun.”

He smiles at you, releasing Sana’s waist. “Sorry if this kinda came out of nowhere, but I heard through the grapevine that things have been rough.”

Oh, like how your card has declined publicly at the grocery store multiple times, or how you haven’t been able to afford your insurance deductible to get that chipped off part of your bumper fixed, or the fact you haven’t paid your landscapers in over three months so your lawn now looks like a swamp? It was a small town. And people’s finances were always a topic of interest for most.

“I just wanted to offer any help I can,” Jun says.

“Thanks,” you say, returning his smile, “I’ll, um, I’ll look into it.” You push the card into your pocket.

He offers you that same firm smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes before he pulls Sana to him again, placing another kiss along her hairline and the PDA seems like overcompensation on some front from the way Sana is entirely frigid to his touch. 

Maybe it was a woman’s intuition,

But you felt like something was wrong.

“Kids,” you hear Mr. Gojo’s crackly voice say as he stands leaning against the doorframe near the kitchen entrance, “let’s finish dinner?”

The three of you exchange glances before nodding and heading back towards the hall.

Your peach cobbler was apparently very good, the only thing that seemed to cut through the tension of the night. But that was the thing with family, right? You can yell and scream and cry and lecture and mope and roll your eyes at each other all you want but at the end of the day, they’re still family. Sana still seems slightly dejected though, and you can see Gojo in the corner of your eye at the table glancing up at her every other minute or so. His own way of making sure she’s doing okay, you think to yourself. Sana refuses to meet anyone’s line of sight except yours, however, which makes you feel some slight burdensome responsibility of sisterhood you had never signed up for. Nonetheless, you try to offer her a soothing smile whenever she looks up at you, and it seems to put her at ease.

The news of Sana and Jun moving seemed slightly anticlimactic, as Mrs. Gojo mentioned that they had already had an inkling that Jun and Sana would be moving closer to the city. You briefly wonder if Mrs. Gojo knew all along, but decided to make the announcement into some big affair just so that she could see her niece and nephew over a meal.

You make no more embarrassing comments. Conversation dulls into anything and everything unpersonal to you all, such as the news and weather and gossip of other people. And somewhere along the night, you relax your knee, the ball of it pressing into Gojo’s thigh underneath the table. It was wordless, innocent contact that occurs when two people become more comfortable with one another. Only excusable due to the slight buzz you felt in your veins from the wine. He’s kissed you before, yet somehow the press of his thigh against yours feels even more searing. There’s a point along the night where you tip your head to the right slightly, daringly close to resting your head on his shoulder due to the tipsy dizziness weighing in your head, and it would certainly put on a convincing show of newlywed affection for his aunt and uncle, but you manage to catch yourself. And subsequently refuse any more glasses of wine.

“Thanks for having me,” you say to Mrs. Gojo at the front entrance before she pulls you in for a hug.

“Oh, anytime dear,” she says as she gently pats your back, “please.”

When she pulls away from the hug, she holds you by your shoulders before her eyes glance down towards your left hand and the shimmering diamond that sat on the ring finger. She holds your hand in hers and lifts it to examine the twinkle underneath the lights of the chandelier.

“It really is a pretty ring,” she says, her eyes glossing over. “It looked beautiful on my sister, and it looks beautiful on you too.”

Your breath hitches slightly in your throat. “Thank you, Mrs. Gojo.”

“Please,” she says in response to the title, “Sumiko is fine.” But in less of a way in which she’s relaxing formalities, but rather in a way that acknowledges she never had the sovereignty to be called that in the first place.

You hear masculine voices approaching down the hallway as the three men make their way towards the front entrance as well. Gojo glances at you in the midst of their conversation, and he leaves the two of them to make his way over to you.

“Alright,” Gojo says, turning to face the rest of them as he stands beside you. “We’ll head out now.”

Sumiko pulls him in for a hug, then his uncle, and then obnoxiously by Jun as well. Sana fidgets with her fingers as she remains at the end of the line, and you catch a glimpse of surprise on her face when Gojo pulls her in for a hug too. You see him whisper something to her, and it’s only after she hears what he said that she returns the hug and wraps her arms around him as well.

You’re jolted out of your people-watching trance when Gojo walks up to you and takes your hand in his, shoving his other in his pocket. You glance down at the sight, the way his large hand engulfs your own. It’s warm in a firm hold, delicately squeezing your hand once right before you feel the cold air behind you when his uncle opens the door.

Well, you survived. That’s what you think to yourself as you sit in the passenger seat of Gojo’s car, watching the city lights twinkle as you two drive by. You don’t know what you were expecting. Drama? Ease? Tension? For a piece of the sky to fall and land on the roof? There was a part of you that wanted to impress. You want to be one of those daughter-in-laws that the in-laws just adore. You know, where they’re like, god am I so happy that she’s a part of the family now! The one that the mother-in-law is just so ecstatic to know that her son managed to hold down such a catch.

But any expectations and pressure dissolve with the reminder that this is all fake. Fake, fake, fake. And you’d do really well to remind yourself of that reality whenever you spent time with Gojo. Whenever you find yourself acclimating into his life for even a moment, just remember that it’s fake. Can you have a little fun here and there? Sure. Will you probably find yourself in even stranger situations going forward? Yes, because, well, that’s how life is. But it’s just fake. No obligations, no responsibility, nothing. Nada. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

But as you walk through the front door, staring straight ahead into the dark house at Gojo’s back as he sets down the keys by the foyer table, and even as you follow him further into the house towards the kitchen, that feeling inside you surges. 

A woman's intuition.

That something between Jun and Sana was wrong.

Not just routine marital issues,

Or the occasional argument,

Something worse. Something dangerous.

And it’s not something you would ever expect a man to pick up on, even Gojo.

Because it was from the way Sana’s eyes silently communicated with you from across the table,

Something so subtle, a silent plea across a shared dimension,

That she needed help.

“Hey…” you speak up softly, standing in front of the fridge. 

Gojo glances over his shoulder at you from the other side of the kitchen island, barely illuminated by the moonlight through the windows. He turns to face you. “What’s up?”

You blink at him. 

“Um, I really don’t want to overstep again, but—”

There’s a sobering thought that flashes through your mind when you recall that you have never seen yourself as the hero in anyone’s story.

Simply because you could never, ever, ever trust yourself.

You could never trust your feelings or your decisions.

Because you cosigned on hundreds of thousands of dollars of medical loans. Because you stuck around for five years with a man that didn’t love you anymore. Because you still feel naive enough to believe that your best friend who betrayed you still misses you somehow. Because you still foolishly believe your mother will be around to hold her grandchildren someday.

Because you thought that your best bet in order to pull yourself out of hell was to fake marry a man,

And then act as if it’s all real when his aunt looks you in the eye with bittersweet tears as you now wear her bereaved sister’s ring in honor, entirely unaware it was actually being worn in vain.

How could you ever trust your judgement when you behave this way? 

Never the hero. If anything, the villain.

“What is it?” Gojo repeats when he sees that you’ve been silent for too long. He tilts his head at you, his hair falling over his forehead haphazardly and he runs a hand through it to try to get it out of his face. Even in the dim light, his eyes shine a breathtaking blue.

You swallow hard.

“Um,” you say, and then glance down at the wetness you find at your heel. “The, um, the fridge is leaking again.”

He blinks at you for a solid ten seconds, and then the tension in his shoulders drops when he sulks and closes his eyes with exhaustion and defeat.

“Fuck. Okay.”

.

.

.

[end of chapter 5]

a/n. looool i really keep thinking i can post shorter chapters and them bam they be 10k+ words. but i swearrr it's just cuz i be yapping :(( anywho hope you enjoyed this chapter!! a lot of characters were kinda introduced and mm given a bit more depth in this chapter. sorry there wasn't as much romance or anything in this one though haha there will be more in the next one :0 big big thank you to my lovely ihm beta readers ayelin, jules, leni & mirl for helping me out w this chapter!! i believe i may have mentioned this before but i STRUGGLLEEEE with multi-character scenes (i'm much more comfy writing scenes that just have back n forth between two characters) so this chapter was challenginggg esp the whole dinner sequences and there were also a lot of complicated feelings at play, descriptions, stuff i wasn't sure if it was coming off the right way (and tbh am still not sure haha) but they really helped me work my thoughts out n gave wonderful suggestions too so tysm :'') much loveee!! hope to see you all in the next one <3 - ellie

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[reidmania]

love letters | s.reid

summary; when you miss spencer while he is away on a case, you re-read all the love letters he has written you over the course of your relationship

warnings; established relationships, mentions case but doesnt go into detail, fem reader, reader is not a coffee drinker, fluff fluff fluff

an; fic six!! this is just pure fluff tbh. also can we appreciate the colouring on this fic. ITS SO PERFECT PRETTU PERFECT.

You’re lying on the bed that feels too big without him, your fingers idly tracing the edge of a soft, worn piece of paper. The clock beside you reads 2:12 a.m., and you can’t shake the emptiness settling over you as you stare at the ceiling, too awake to sleep and too tired to do anything else. Spencer’s been away for three days now, and every hour without him feels like it stretches on and on, the silence heavier than you’d ever thought silence could be.

Your eyes drift back to the drawer beside your bed, a drawer he never opens, but where you keep something he would recognize instantly. Tucked away are letters, dozens of them, each one a quiet reminder of him. They’re notes, really—not grand declarations, not epic poems. Just little reminders he’s left you over time, slipped into coat pockets or left folded on your pillow. You hadn’t intended to save them all, but now, having them close is the only thing keeping you grounded while he’s away.

You open the drawer and pull out the little bundle tied with a piece of twine. Your heart swells as you untie it, gently unfolding the first note. It’s one of your favorites, written on a torn scrap of notebook paper, one corner crinkled from a drop of coffee. Spencer had left it on your kitchen counter before heading out to work, months ago.

“If I could leave you notes all over the world, I would. But for now, just look outside—it’s raining, and I know that makes you feel calm. I’ll be home before the storm’s over. – S”

You smile, remembering that day. You’d found the note just before noticing the rain falling in gentle streams outside your window, and you’d waited with a blanket by the window, watching the clouds until he came back, just like he’d promised. He always knew how to turn your little quirks into anchors.

Setting that note aside, you reach for another. This one’s written on the back of a receipt from the bookshop downtown. It’s short and scrawled in his neat handwriting.

“You pick up this book as if it’s a friend you haven’t seen in years. It’s beautiful to watch. Don’t forget to mark your place in the story—I want to hear what you think. – S”

You laugh to yourself, remembering how he’d tucked it into the back of the book after you bought it. He hadn’t let you see it until you found it yourself one night, and the memory of the way he’d watched you read that note makes your heart ache just a little more.

You lie back against the pillows, shifting so you’re curled around his side of the bed. It’s silly, maybe, reading these notes over and over. But as you go through them, each one reminds you how much he loves you, how he notices things about you that you hadn’t even noticed about yourself. His love is a quiet kind, a series of small gestures and words, but somehow, it feels bigger than anything else you’ve known.

Another note catches your eye. This one’s on a tiny sticky note, a bright yellow square you’d found on your mirror one morning.

“You make coffee exactly how I like it, even when you don’t drink it. I don’t think anyone’s ever done that for me before. I’m lucky. – S”

You can still remember the warmth of his hand over yours when he found you reading it, how he hadn’t needed to say anything else.

The letters become a timeline of your relationship, a way to measure time not by dates but by memories, by little notes that remind you of the person you are when you’re with him. Each one has a tiny piece of his heart tucked into it, a small reminder that he’s with you even when he’s halfway across the country.

You read through a few more, feeling your eyes grow heavy but not wanting to close them. There’s something grounding about seeing his words, knowing that he took the time to write these little messages just for you. In a way, it makes the ache of missing him almost bearable, makes you feel connected to him in a way that’s both heartbreaking and comforting.

You’ve just set down the last one, a note he left in the middle of a crossword puzzle—“How do you always know the words I can’t think of? I love you.”—when your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

It’s him.

You answer on the first ring, not even caring if he’ll be able to hear the lingering sleepiness in your voice. “Spencer?” you say, unable to help the warmth in your tone.

“Did I wake you?” His voice is soft, low, and there’s a hint of worry in it.

“Not really. I couldn’t sleep,” you reply. There’s a beat of silence before you add, “I was reading some of your notes.”

The smile in his voice is unmistakable. “You kept those?”

“All of them.” You can practically feel his surprise through the line. “It helps. You know, with you being away.”

He hums softly, a sound you know means he’s thinking. “Do you have a favourite?”

There’s a hundred favourites, but you know the answer without hesitating. “The one on the mirror, about the coffee. I don’t think anyone’s ever noticed something like that before.”

The line goes quiet for a moment, but you know he’s smiling. “I think about those little things a lot,” he admits. “I keep thinking about how much I miss you. I know I’ll be back in a few days, but it doesn’t stop me from wishing it was sooner.”

Your heart tightens, and you can’t help but imagine him sitting in some unfamiliar hotel room, thinking of you just as much as you’re thinking of him. “I miss you, too,” you whisper, barely able to keep your voice steady.

There’s another pause, the comforting kind, where neither of you needs to say anything. It’s enough just to be together, even like this.

“Do you want to hear about the case?” he asks gently, as if he’s afraid you’ll say no. You do, because it’s part of him, and you always want to know. So he tells you, his voice a familiar comfort in the dark, weaving through the details with that measured precision he’s so good at. You listen, nodding at the right places, even though he can’t see you, letting his words settle over you like a lullaby.

When he’s finished, there’s a soft exhale on the other end of the line. “Do you have any notes for me?” he asks, the hint of a tease in his voice.

“I could think of a few,” you say with a smile, glancing down at the scattered pages on your bed. “Maybe a sticky note on your phone: ‘Call your girlfriend as soon as the plane lands.’”

You can hear his smile widen. “I think I can manage that.” His voice softens, the words almost like a whisper. “I’ll keep leaving them, you know. Notes, I mean. Just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“In case you ever need a reminder. That I love you. That I notice the little things. That I’ll be there, even if it takes a while.”

You’re quiet, just for a moment, because the words stick in your throat. He always knows how to get to the heart of things, how to make you feel so understood. “I don’t need a reminder for that,” you say. “But I’ll still read them every time I miss you.”

“Then I guess it’s a good thing I’ve written so many,” he murmurs, the warmth in his voice unmistakable. “Get some sleep, okay? I’ll be home before you know it.”

You nod, letting your eyes close. “I love you, Spencer.”

“I love you, too,” he replies, his voice like a gentle embrace over the line. “Sleep well.”

The call ends, but you hold the phone to your chest, listening to the quiet in your room. For the first time in days, it doesn’t feel lonely. Spencer may be miles away, but his words are here, resting against your heart, waiting for you in every corner of every room.

[marsian-tango]

Yandere Vampire

Finally! Your friends and you have saved up enough money to make a trip. Europe is such a vast continent. So much culture, food, and landscapes. You’ve worked so hard to fulfill this dream, everything is finally paying off!

But you don’t want to be like the typical tourists, you crave for something more than just Paris or London. So when one of your friends hears about a recently renovated Romanian castle where you can stay…

Well, how could you refuse?

It’s in the middle of the woods, there’s barely any signal, and you’re starting to get a weird vibe from all this. But don’t you worry! It’s so calm here, just relax! It’s just you, your friends, and the owner that hasn’t shown himself yet.

What’s the worst that could happen?

Yandere! Vampire who decided to take some advantage of this modern time and its technologies. He doesn’t need to leave the comforts of his home to find food anymore, he can just lure the dumb tourists to stay in his castle instead! All he has to do is tidy the place a bit. Get rid of some of the skeletons. Shooing the spiders away. Cleaning the dry blood. It’s a bit confusing though, he’s not entirely sure how to create a website and all. But he’s a grown man. He just turned 215, he’ll manage!

Yandere! Vampire who smiles darkly from the shadows, watching you and your friends entering his domain. Completely unaware of the fate that awaits you inside. At last, he’s been asleep for so many years, and his appetite is ablaze! He can’t wait to ravish on your blood and your screams.

Yandere! Vampire who likes to play with his food, and who seems particularly interested in you. Your friends are alright and all. But you, sweet, oblivious, little thing. You just seem so…different. He watches you from afar, and a strange feeling seems to unravel inside of him when he does. How peculiar. He might let you all live just a little longer. After all, he needs to find out what this feeling is.

Yandere! Vampire who enjoys seeing you walk through his garden. You like to explore the castle when it’s dark, you look so peaceful and at ease. You crouching down to smell the flowers that he planted himself throughout the years. The soft smile that spreads across your face. The way the moonlight covers your delicate form. Oh, you absolute minx. You can’t possibly be so effortlessly…bewitching. You must be doing it on purpose.

Yandere! Vampire who, at the end of the day, knows that you are just a tourist. You leave the castle with your friends, looking to take in all the beauty that this country can offer. You want to visit other places, and he can’t blame you for that. But he just loathes not having you in his line of sight. He’s had enough of that. So can you really blame him when he locks the doors of the castle? Is it really his fault when he purposely leaves your friends out, just so he can be alone with you? Is it?

Yandere! Vampire who shows himself to you for the first time while you were trying to break a window to escape. Poor you, you’re terrified. You don’t know what's going on, your friends are all outside, you just want to leave— Are those fangs you’re seeing?

Yandere! Vampire who kisses your forehead gently before trapping you in his bedroom, locking the door. Leaving your trembling form all alone, with an expression of bewilderment still present in your face. As he makes his way to your friends, eager to hear their cries of pain and satiate his hunger.

Yandere! Vampire who decides to keep you as his eternal lover. Bathing you in his love and devotion while you try to get away from his suffocating presence, but to no avail. You fight against his grip, you scream until your throat aches, and you break all the gifts that he offers you. You’re relentless, but he doesn’t mind. He has all eternity to make you love him. Or to tire you out at least.

Yandere! Vampire who rarely sleeps, but when he does, he does it right next to you. Oh, he just loves cuddling your warm body. Although he prefers his coffin, you seem to be less grumpy when he cuddles you in bed, so he accommodates himself to your likings sometimes. It isn’t much of a change, you still try to break free from his hold, writhing and tossing all the time. But careful there, he might end up chaining you to the bed if you keep that up! So be good and stay still for him, will you?

Yandere! Vampire who you simply can’t stand! He killed your friends, he trapped you here, he doesn’t stop hovering you. Can’t he see that you don’t want this?! A little trip. That’s all it was supposed to be. But now you’re here, with an over affectionate vampire, trying to escape every single day and failing every single time. Is God mad at you? What the hell did you do? Was it that lollipop that you stole when you were 7?

Yandere! Vampire who has a thing for dressing you in Victorian clothing. There’s just something about seeing you in such high status clothing that entrances him. Don't get him wrong, he doesn't dislike your modern clothes. Especially those shorts that you wear sometimes. Heavens, are you trying to seduce him with those? Because it’s working.

Yandere! Vampire who rewards your good behavior by letting you walk around the castle, giving you the illusion of privacy and peace that you constantly pray for. But he’s always watching you. He’s a creature of the shadows after all, his figure remains hidden in the darkness. You may not see him, but he certainly sees you…

Yandere! Vampire who ponders about turning you into a vampire like him. He wants you. He’s been alone for so many years. Twisting your entire existence just so he can remain with you forever isn’t something that he minds. You’re everything he needs, and he can give you everything you need. Living for eternity shouldn’t be a punishment, not if you have someone to share that eternity with. Perhaps he could let you live some more years, he doesn’t want to lose your lovely warmth yet. Maybe he should have a child with you first? A child would create an unbreakable bond between you two, and it’d be nice to see a little kid with his eyes and your bad temper running around the castle.

Yandere! Vampire who will never let you go...

Here's another little thing for everyone who wants to read it! I felt really inspired today. The last post did well, so I just felt like I NEEDED to write more. It's as if I had gotten posseded, I'm not sure how I wrote all this! I'll make a part two for this or the Yandere Alien if you want me to. Kisses <3

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

Unfinished Business

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Serial Killer!Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.5k

Warnings: talk of beating/raping women and children (implicit, just mention), near drowning/death, car crash

Summary: You’re the most wanted woman in the country, and the BAU finally has you in its grasp. You hunt and kill truly evil people but it doesn’t seem to matter to the authorities if the victims are rapists, killers, and abusers. You’re doing this country a favor and you’re not finished. It doesn’t matter if you’re caught or not. You’re going to find a way to continue your work.

Square Filled: criminal au (2022) for @spencerreidbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

x

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

If the damn clock wasn’t bolted to the wall, you would have ripped it from the plaster and shattered it to pieces. You’re not supposed to be here. You’re supposed to be at home snuggling with your dog who you presume is missing you. Your sister knows to take him in if she doesn’t hear from you within twenty-four hours so you have no doubt he will be taken care of.

Instead, you’re sitting handcuffed to a table in the BAU.

You’ve been on the FBI’s Top 10 Most Wanted for three years now for your notorious work in slicing up men and women who deserve it. Every single one of your victims was far from innocent, but the FBI doesn’t care if you’ve been cleaning house. All they care about is the fact you have hundreds of victims under your belt.

You’ve been killing since you were a child because your father got you into it. It started with random strangers on the highway (he was a truck driver and would pick them up). He’d get them talking and if he so much got an inkling that they were less than innocent, he’d kill them. He taught you to wear gloves, clothes that don’t fit you, shoes that were slightly too big for you, to always have a wig on, talk with an accent, and never trust anyone.

He was never caught and died almost a decade ago. Now you’re left to continue his work.

Men who rape. Men who kill for fun. Men who abuse. Women who abuse. Women who kidnap. They’re all fair game. You’re ridding the world of evil one person at a time.

The reason you’re sitting here and not at home drinking wine is that you decided it was best to work with someone to take down a small group of abusers. The group was small, maybe five or six men, but they went out and assaulted women at night and left them for dead. This other person who you shall not name knew your father and reached out to you. He wanted to work with you in bringing the group down and you trusted him enough to agree.

Your first mistake.

Your second is when you gave him the task of finding an easy way out in case something went wrong. Something did. There was another man in the house who called 911. Your “friend” got away. You got caught. When the FBI realized who they caught, you knew you wouldn’t be getting out of this alive. There have been two dozen confirmed victims of yours but you know that number is well into the three hundreds by now.

You’ve saved a bunch of men, women, and children from getting abused and hurt, and there isn’t a thing you’d change if you could do it all over again.

You’ve been sitting in this godforsaken room for nearly twenty minutes. Maybe that’s their tactic. Maybe they want you to slowly go insane so you’ll confess to more crimes. You were born at night, not last night. At best, you’ll get three consecutive life sentences. There is no way you’re going to ever see freedom… that is if you were completely alone in this. There is a reason why your father was never caught. He has friends on the inside that you can turn to, so you know you’ll be okay if you get sent to jail.

You tap the metal table with a perfectly manicured nail when the door opens and a black man walks in with a thick file in his hands. Damn, he’s not the one you were hoping would come in. The one who apprehended you was white, and he had the most beautiful brown eyes. Lean but not too skinny. Curly hair. Such beautiful features.

The man sits across from you and lays out pictures of men you’ve killed over the years. They are unsolved cases but the FBI doesn’t know that you’re responsible for them. You keep your eyes on the man as he lays out six photos of men.

“Where are they?”

“What, no introduction? No, ‘How’s it going?’ I don’t get any of that?”

“My name is Agent Morgan, and you’re going to tell me where you buried their bodies.”

“Bold of you to assume I killed them.”

Agent Morgan takes out six more photos and lays them underneath the men’s portraits. Each of the new photos is of their crime scenes. You left a lot of blood behind but none of it is yours.

“Do you know what a signature is?” You don’t answer. “You like to leave behind a name written in your victim’s blood.” In each of the photos, you can see the name you wrote on their walls or mirrors. “Femme Fatale. No one else does that but you. So, I’ll ask again, where did you bury their bodies?”

“Mmm. Ask me again. This time, add ‘please’,” you smirk.

“This is not a game, Y/N. Tell me where they are and maybe we can work out a deal.”

“I’m already seeing three consecutive life sentences for the murders you’ve already pinned on me. Unless your deal is me walking out of this building without so much as a scratch on my record, I’m not telling you shit.”

Agent Morgan nods and gathers the photos. He’s done. He knows he’s not going to get anything out of you right now. He opens the door to leave but you stop him before he can.

“When you’re ready to come back, bring in the cute one. I have a thing for brown eyes and curly hair.”

Agent Morgan all but slams the door on his way out. It’s an hour before someone comes back to you, and this time, it’s who you want.

“Ah, there he is,” you grin and sit up straighter.

“So, I’m the cute one?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Dr. Spencer Reid.”

“Ooh, a doctor. I’m impressed. You look so young.”

Spencer opens a file and takes out pictures, different than the ones Agent Morgan showed you. They’re of your apartment, more specifically, the room you have hidden underneath your stairs. You have a basement in the house but the stairs to it are located underneath your staircase going to the second floor. The door is only accessed when you pull up the last step of the staircase. You had that installed when you bought the house so that your extracurricular activities can remain a secret.

Inside the basement are records of the men and women you’ve killed, where you’ve put their bodies, future victims on your list, and people you are suspicious of. You hate that they found that, but it doesn’t matter. You have many houses across the country and even one in Europe that all have the exact same information. If your father taught you anything, it’s to keep backups and backups of your backups.

The only difference is that every safehouse has a different list of different men and women. There are a lot of evil people on this Earth, and you’ve only worked in one country. Imagine what you’d find in Europe.

“We know you’ve killed more than two dozen. It looks like hundreds.”

“What else do you know?”

“I know that you’re smart--smarter than you’d have us believe. I know that you like to work alone. With a rap sheet like yours, you can’t trust anyone. It’s the reason you got caught. The one time you trusted another person, they let you down.”

“So, you’re not just pretty, you’re smart, too.”

“You can deny it all you want, but the facts are right here.”

“I’m not denying any of it. I killed them. All of them. You know where their bodies are. You don’t need a confession out of me which makes me think you wanted to see me.” You grin and lean forward as much as you can. “Isn’t that right, Spencer? You just wanted to talk to me.”

“I’m going to make sure you don’t see the outside of a prison for the rest of your life,” he whispers.

“I like it when you talk dirty to me,” you smirk and lean back.

“We will be transporting you to a high-facility prison before sunrise.”

“As long as you’re in the car with me.” Spencer doesn’t say anything and cleans up the photos from the table. Like with Agent Morgan, you don’t let him leave just yet. “I’m not a bad person, Dr. Reid.”

“According to your basement, you’ve killed over three hundred people.”

“Richard Sigler was raping his six-year-old daughter. Her own mother didn’t believe her when she told her about it. Benjamin Cross has beaten and raped ten women over the course of a month. He was about to add an eleventh victim when I caught up to him. Alexis Greene aided her husband in kidnapping three children. I was with my sister’s kids when she tried it with me. She never got to a fourth.” You rest your elbows on the table. “I never hurt innocent people.”

Spencer doesn’t say anything and leaves the room. It’s another two hours before you’re placed in the back of a car with Spencer behind the wheel. Luck must be on your side because you two are alone.

“What, no one else is going to join us?”

“They didn’t need to. It’s a short drive.”

“Lucky me,” you grin. “So, since I’ll probably never have a genuine conversation with anyone else, tell me about yourself.” Spencer doesn’t answer. “Let me guess, you’re a reserved know-it-all. Secret romancer? Kinky in bed?”

“Shut up,” Spencer sighs.

“Ah, so you’re kinky, huh? What are you into? Personally, I love being tied up. Choking is a big one.”

“Like I’m going to tell you what I’m into.”

“You don’t have to. I can read people pretty easily. You’re an open book.”

Spencer tries to focus on the road but it’s snowing pretty hard. He didn’t know there would be a snowstorm soon. He thought he’d be able to drop you off and return to the BAU before it hit. He turns the windshield wipers on but it doesn’t do much for the snow pouring down.

“Maybe we should pull over. Get nice and cozy in here,” you chuckle.

“And give you a chance to escape? No way.”

“I have cuffs on, Spencer. You’re the one in control. That’s one of your kinks, right? Being in control.”

“Okay, right now, I need you to shut up.”

You do only because the car is shaking. There must be black ice on the road, and Spencer is trying his best not to skid too much. Spencer doesn’t look nervous but you can tell by his labored breathing and the slight perspiration on his forehead that he’s nervous as hell. The only reason you are, too, is because there is a giant lake to the right of you, and you’ve seen too many movies where cars skid on black ice and end up in lakes.

“Spencer, maybe you should pull over,” you say seriously.

“Don’t tell me how to drive.”

The streetlights barely give Spencer enough light to see the road in front of him, and the snow piles onto the windshield faster than the wipers can remove it. Spencer jerks the wheel to the right to avoid a pothole when the car is caught on a sheet of black ice. The car spins in circles before plunging into the freezing cold waters of the lake. Spencer’s head slams into the steering wheel and is knocked out immediately. Water rapidly fills the car, too fast for your liking. You take off your seatbelt and squat onto the seat so you can slide your cuffed wrists underneath your feet. You’re very flexible for someone your age, and you’re thanking your sister for pushing you to do yoga.

You hop into the front seat and ram your elbow into the passenger window. When all you get is a bruised bone, you know you have to try something else before all of your oxygen is taken from you. After all you’ve done, you’re going to let something like this take you out. The water has reached your chest now, and you open the glove compartment for something hard to break the window.

This is a cop’s car, so they have the tools needed to break open windows. You grab the small tool and slam it into the window. It shatters immediately, and you quickly swim out of the window into the dark lake. You’re about to swim to the surface when you look back at Spencer. You can’t leave him there. He’s going to drown. He’s innocent.

You don’t hurt innocents.

You swim to the other side of the car and use the same tool on his window. You reach in and grab him only to realize that he still has his seatbelt on. The tool you have is also good for cutting seatbelts, so you slice his lap belt and pull him out of the car. It’s hard since you’re handcuffed but you have to get him out of the lake.

Your lungs burn from not having enough oxygen, and black spots start to form in your vision. No matter what, you have to get to the surface before you pass out. Just when you think you’re going to suck in a lungful of water, you break through the surface. You struggle to keep both your head and Spencer’s above water but you manage to swim to the edge of the lake. You push Spencer onto the ground and heave yourself next to him.

Shit, you’re freezing. You reach into his pockets and see if there is a key for your handcuffs. Again, luck must be on your side because there is. You unlock the cuffs and place one of them around Spencer’s wrists and the other to the very thin light pole next to him. You can’t have him following you. You look at Spencer’s face to see him paler than before with blue lips.

“Spencer!”

You lean over him, place your lips over his, and blow into his mouth. You pull back and start doing three chest compressions. You repeat the process five times before Spencer coughs up a bunch of water.

“Oh, thank God,” you sigh. “You’re alive.”

“What happened? How did you…?”

“Sorry, babe. I gotta go before they realize you’re missing.”

Spencer jerks his body only to realize he’s handcuffed to the light pole. You grin and hold up the key to the cuffs. You toss them over to him but they’re just shy of his feet. If he stretches hard enough, he’ll reach them but only after he gets his strength back.

“No, get back here right now or I’ll--”

“You’ll what? Arrest me?” You take a few steps before turning back to him. “Don’t take this personally. I have a list to complete. Oh, soft lips by the way. If things were different… As much as I like you, I really hope I don’t see you again.”

Spencer sits helplessly and watches you parade off into the night. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever see you again but he’ll try like hell to make sure he does.

x

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[cosmique-oddity]

Phew, my last weeks of work are now complete >:)

I loved Dratchet and Ratchlock since the very beginning of my attachment towards Transformers, first TFP Ratchet…..but yeah….two of my favorites character….plus Keferon’s Mech AU…..I had to make my own thing about it.

A story….no…an illustration ! I couldn’t choose. So I did both :}

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That was not the first time Ratchet came back to his private lab angry, but this time, yelling at his superiors, and at the system, and basically at evverything that could be yelled at except the pilotd while leaving the manufacture, was certainly the last. He quit. That was enough,

you don’t win a war with feelings they said

well yes,

exactly,

but you win a war with soldier, and frying their mind before they have their first fight because you want them to be more perfectionned ? That was a little counter productive.

So he gave up. They are on their own now.

The lightly humming of his car was barely enough to keep him awake, it have been a long time since he last returned home, usually, he stayed at his work place, to have more time to sleep, but then, he was sleeping even less. An endless vicious circle, things were often like that.

But all of that was over for him.

He granted these young greenhorn with his experience, and what did they do ? Ignored his advices. Sending pilots to death. So now, he had himself out of the infernal machinery. This mindless waste of human life, even where this is what they tried to save was absurd.

In the middle of his quiet and late ride, he heard a noise. Rumbling, was it the engine ? As he stopped the car backroad to check, the noise wasnt stopping. Came from the sky, military patrol ? He raised his two tired eyes on the sky and saw a shining rail approaching his forest, falling fast. Not quintesson shaped, and with the gaze of an experimented biomechanist, Ratchet identified a mech.

At this moment, its violently crashed on the ground, behind the trees at maybe three or four miles away. No matter how hard he argued with the scientist sooner this day or how bad he wanted to say fuck to all of this death industry who killed young soldiers, he could do something for the one trapped inside the mech....maybe.... the man regained his car as fast as possible and urgently headed for the crash area.

Deafened sound of tires on the damaged road. Ratchet was already projecting, mentally stocktaking the tools he took with him, and lucky enough for the poor pilot, he quit with almost all of his material, and even if it was mainly mechs repairing material, he also bought some instruments which were used for the subtle neuromedicine between human and mech. Could adapt some of it and stabilize the pilot....then he may have the time to go home and grab proper materials. If there was life there was hope.

" bold of him to crash himself just the day i insulted all of his hierachy".

He frowned. Almost there.

The trees nearby were crushed and uprooted. A flickering pink light catched his gaze.

Almost immediately, the Ratchet analyzed the mech. It was different. He didnt know in wich country it was made but that almost looks alien. The curves and shapes, busted and burned on several places were demonstrating an incredible display of genius ingeniery he could just admiring. But time was not for being amazed on plating.

Someone was trapped there.

He stopped and parked his car in front of a fallen tree, rushing to the car's trunk, taking few indispensable objets, including some of them to help a safe disconnection between pilot/mech. In case he wasnt out already. And a crowbar, the cockpit might be stuck, seeing all the damages the mech has taken...

The sound of slightly wet grass under his feet was covered by a frenetic noise of aeration. Ratchet listened to it, while cautiously approaching the unknown mech. It almost sounded like a breath, but was certainly a depressurisation issue. The mech had fallen from so high on the sky....

The damaged plating were hot, probably from atmosphere friction. He raised his crowbar and his eyes followed the curves of the chestplates, searching for a familiar shape, that could lead him to the injured pilot inside. His gaze stopped on a deep wound, that might have cut through the cockpit.

The engineer stepped on the hot metal, his thick boots preventing him from feeling the heat, and he started searching for a hint....anything that could be a mechanism, anything that could open this damn mech !

Ratchet considered the damaged chest plate he noticed earlier. The surroundings of the wound were leaking bright pink, a very unusual color for fuel. Another of these definitively strange things about the mech. Again....not the time for that. Maybe if he could widen the gap, then he would be able to have an idea of what was going on under this armor.

He tapped the plate, -it was starting to cool down- with one of his finger. It was a very little tap, but the whole mech startled. A hiss of pain, recognisible easily by an emerite engineer-but-i-fix-people-too, it had come from the head of the mecha. Was this modele controlled from the head, like Vortex ? But Vortex was insanely huge for a mech, way taller than this one. He moved careful, noticing the shaking of his support.

"You hear me, kid ? Its going to be ok. You crashed in a safe area.".

He spoke in his medic tone, wich mean, of course brusque, serious, but also reassuring and calm.

He mumbled about the mech's features and tiny words of comfort while reaching for the head.

A red light, not regular and rather epileptic was coming from the head, and while he was almost there, on all four of his limb to keep balance, Ratchet saw it.

A spectacularly humanoid face, with sculpted nose and lips was tensed in a painful expression, frowning, but the thing who trapped his gaze was the two optics....

....staring back at him.

Mechs dont stare. Their eyes are glowing, oftenly to mimick human face, after all, human are pretty prideful creature, no point in piloting big ass metal titan if no one could tell these where their creation.

What human couldnt mimick with technologie, on the other hand, was the subtle expression between trying to evualuate a threat, his own injuries, and looking rather on the verge of death but also ready to tear any enemy's limb appart with its teeth.

With just one....very long....look at the other's eye, Ratchet was suddenly understanding what was going on.

Well....probably not but he knew what he had to save.

The pilot, the pilot he had to save.

The mech was the pilot.

He was the one he had to save.

He stopped trying to -certainly- open his chest. If it wasnt good for human it probably wasnt for living technology.

The giant technological humanoid seemed in a high distress, exhaling a lot of air from his vents, his eye still intensely staring at him and the engineer doubted his usual technique -including trying to make himself as small as possible- would work.

"Its going to be okay Kid. I can help you. There is nothing here that want to harm you".

He did his best to convey all of these emotions with his facial expression and gaze, still firmly watching back at him.

"the world better wait till im home and officially retired before killing me".

The mech's gaze -damn it was so more living than ANY human made machinery- seemed to soften a bit but still radiated with suspicion.

Deadlock had been in several bad situations. It happened quite a lot when a specie of giant aliens with tendrils tried to invade your homeland, and he was ready to it.

Trained to kill, and to do it efficiently.

And he was *good* at it.

This time was just another of these ‘i went too far in my excitation’ moments, and he has crashed on a random planet he hoped was not inhabited. He landed hard, and pieces of his ship must’ve been thrown near his location.

And now, now there was an organic like no one he ever saw, and the organic was on his *lap* and he had the kindest warmest eyes he ever saw.

And these eyes were directly looking at his own eyes, and the well named ‘Deadlock’ was starting to wonder if he finally had reunited with the Allspark. His pained and tenseful grin faded a little and he tried to move his head forward, searching a better point of view to watch the singularity in front of him.

Ow.

Moving hurt.

Some sound came out of the organic’s mouth, probably a language. He didn’t had the proper tools to decode it but the tone of the language was extremely….comforting ? Soft ?

This was scary.

He wasn’t used to be welcomed like that after a fight.

Usually it was either another fight, either the yelling of a superior, either nothing at all. But this actual living being was carefully examinating his chestplates, and he recognized the gestual of someone who was used to heal. A medic perhaps ?

He tried to move something, maybe a hand, to reach for the pale organic, to be sure he was real, but his body was rather uncooperative, from what he could say, one of his legs was missing, and a lot of wound were releasing energon on the ground he couldn’t saw.

The high probabilities of bleeding out and crash was an issue.

He let his head hang, too tired to watch for every moves of the organic, and barely aware of his environment.

There must be a big problem somewhere….

He confusely thought, while watching the stars.

Must be a bigger injury I haven’t saw……..

Ratchet saw the bright light coming from the alien’s eyes slowly fading, and cold swear ran through his back. Yet, he could still say the soldier was alive, the lights of his body were shining, not a lot, but it was enough. He looked at his first aid kit with disappointment. That wouldn’t be very efficient since the form of life he was trying to preserve wasn’t a tiny human. The nearest thing he could compare the Mech to was….well their own mechs, or eventually….Quintesson. An horrible mess of organic and technology. It was partially thanks to their weird constitution that Ratchet had been able to make sense with the ‘he is alive’ thought.

At this moment and with this material, he couldn’t help the kid, and didn’t possess enough knowledge to tell if he was even dying or not.

He had already an idea of what to do….to fix him, at least trying to, but it involved several objects he hadn’t right now. Leaving to search for these so called objects was risking to let an injured alone, he couldn’t take that risk. He was trapped with the mech, and had to hurry and find something. He stood and reached for more adapted material in his car, trying to find something…. Anything.

Surprisingly, the most useful artifact he came across was his electric screwdriver and a bunch of screw along with a long metallic cabke. A parallel between human stitch, with sewing threads and the material he had with him right now. He could manage something between human fixing and mech repairing, that was what the ‘bio’ in bioengineer stood for.

The kid would be ok. He would live and tell Ratchet why he fell from the sky, and maybe if he saw his friend Jazz….out there…….

.

.

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:)) @keferon

(I swear I’m not insane, your AU is just kinda giving me infinite drawing stamina lmao)