#but I’d at least like to walk around if

[cerisereids]

𝐖𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐝 𝐆𝐞𝐭 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞, 𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐌𝐲 𝐅𝐚𝐜𝐞, 𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐫 𝐀𝐰𝐚𝐲- 𝐀.𝐇.

Pairing- Aaron Hotchner x Girly!Assistant!Reader

WC- 7.5k (LORDDDD) (literally belle shut up challenge level impossible)

Summary- With your birthday around the corner, you decide to throw a blowout bash. The people you work with have no idea how to let go. Least of all your boss, Aaron Hotchner. Yet, he doesn't show.

Contains- 18+ MDNI, angst to fluffy smut(ish), girly!reader, reader has long hair she can run her fingers through, spicy but no explicit smut (still 18+ tho don't play), non-explicit sex scene, reader standing on business, discussions of Hotch and Haley's divorce

A/N- divider from @thecutestgrotto !!

The satisfying click of your white kitten heels fill the hallway as you bounce off the linoleum tiles. You’re in a delicate balancing act, juggling a tray of your famous cupcakes as well as glittery pink invitations. Gold lettering splays across the front ‘You’re Invited!’ They’re cheesy little things you had made at the local print shop, but you couldn’t help yourself. Your gloomy office needs some cheer. 

You push the door open with your hip, backing into the room with small little steps as you enter the BAU. Your instantly relieved by a pair of strong arms guiding your through the doorway. “Got it, sugar?” Derek’s voice asks, his hands hovering in precaution. 

“I am just fine! Here! Take one!” You set the cupcake tray down, plucking one out for him, handing it to him with an invitation. His brow quirks, a small smile rising on his lips.

 “What’s all this for?” He asks, bemused. 

“Well, my birthday is coming up, so I thought I’d have a big, blowout, bash! It’s been too long since you guys loosened up, really got to let go and have fun!” You squeal, stepping back slightly as the rest of the team quickly finds the dessert. Like bees to honey, you like to say. 

“So, you decided that instead of celebrating yourself, to insist on us celebrating you?” Emily inquires around a mouthful of cupcake. 

“Pretty much!” You pinch her cheek affectionately, and she giggles. Your gaze turns ever so slightly, catching the window of your boss’ office. Bile rises in your throat. He won’t be so easy to coax out. Both now, and to the party itself. The mere thought of it makes you nauseous. 

Emily saddles up beside you, lightly nudging her elbow with yours. She nods to Aaron’s office, and blood rushes to your cheeks. Your gaze drops to the ground, which you scuff with the bottom of your shoe. You lift your head up, your hair falling down your shoulders like a waterfall. 

“He in?” You ask, resuming your naturally bubbly state, a wide smile plastered over your anxiety. 

“Yup, when is he not?” Emily responds, curious, like a cat. You snap out of your anxious state, giving a playful shrug. You bat your lashes and turn, grabbing the tray and remaining invitations. 

“Hey, I wanted seconds!” Spencer calls after you. You roll your eyes, your clicking heels once again the only noise as you walk away. It’s no secret who you’re going to see. 

Aaron’s office door is slightly ajar, so you enter the same way you did earlier, by hip. His brow quirks upon your arrival, but you don’t forget to clock the way his eyes catch you, scanning up and down your frame. You wore one of your favorite dresses today, a pink, ruffly number that resembles a sunset. It cascades down your body like it was made for you. By the way Aaron’s looking at you, he thinks so, too. The way he looks at you is electric, like a bolt of lightning cracking your spine as you take each other in. Your breath shortens, catching in your throat at the sight of his tired, brown eyes. 

“Hey, big guy,” you lilt, your voice in its usual effervescent tease. You don’t miss the way he flushes down to his neck at the nickname. 

“What is this all about, hm?” he raises a brow, his voice smooth like silk. His eyes widen as you set down the tin of cupcakes, revealing their chocolatey goodness to him. His favorite. You hand him an invitation, nerves bubbling in your stomach as he reads it over. Your cheeks heat, like you’re 17 again waiting for an invite to the prom.

Then, he glances up at you. There’s a sparkle in his eye when he looks at you. You’re not sure if he knows it’s there, but you cherish it. You cherish the way he looks at you like you’re the only person in the room, the world. You cherish the way not a single other colleague receives the exact gaze you do, soft, patient, kind. It’s your best kept secret. 

You breathe out a sigh at that look, relief washing over you like fresh sunlight. 

“Did you make these? They’re beautiful,” he inspects the card in his hands, and your heart thuds against your ribcage, nerves buzzing once again. His nonchalance is like a tightrope, inching you closer either to safety or certain death. 

“Thank you,” you reply. It’s quiet. You’re afraid that if you raise your voice, your heart will come out of your throat. “I make them all myself.”

You settle on his desk, resting a light hip on it while you watch him intently. He studies you, eyes flitting over your face as he takes in the glitter of your eyeshadow, the soft swipes of gloss on your lips. His own are parted, tongue peeking out in a tantalizing way that sets your heart aflame. 

You raise a brow, asserting an effective upper hand. You watch his brow go soft, and you know you have him. It doesn’t take much for you to convince him. Of anything, really. Since you started working for him, he’s taken actual time off (rarely, but he has), eats dinner at a regular time each night, and manages to get a little more sleep. The team calls it witchcraft, sorcery. You’d call it the sheer force of the desire to keep the man you’re deeply in love with alive and healthy. That’d be too complicated, though, so you bat your lashes and accept their praises. 

“That’s really incredible,” it’s soft, his tone. Gentle and low in a way that’s reserved only for you, for these quiet moments in his office. Whether you’re talking about a case, your weekend plans, or the next set of nails you’re getting, he saves this special cadence just for you. Smooth and velvety, liquid chocolate spilling from his tongue. 

“Thank you,” your eyes glimmer as you shift on his desk ever so slightly. Your hip pops toward him in a way that has him licking his lips. Confidence surges through, you sit up taller. “Will you be there?” You bat your lashes, your prettiest doe eyes on full display. “It would mean everything to have you there.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Hook, line, and sinker. 

“Yay!” You squeal, hopping off his desk. You fix him a cupcake, taking the last one on the tray and placing it delicately on a pink napkin. 

“You’re only allowed to eat this if you’ve had lunch. Have you?” You’re all business again, in the blink of an eye. You poise a sassy hand on your hip, your brow arching. 

“I had a piece of toast and a pickle,” he admits. It’s sheepish, and you roll your eyes. 

“That’s a disgusting combo. Have another piece of toast before you eat that,” you roll your eyes playfully before stalking off. A barely audible ‘yes, ma’am’, follows you out. You pause, smiling to yourself before heading to your desk. 

“You really think he’s gonna show?” Penelope asks, her tongue swirling around her third daiquiri of the evening. You sigh, popping your hands on your hips as you take a step back from your large window, inspecting your decorative work. 

It’s the night before your big party, an event you normally thrive on hosting. Now, though, it’s the cause of the anxiety sparkling inside you, like your heart’s swimming in carbonated water. You adjust the rollers in your hair, the fluffy sleeves of your pink silk robe falling to your elbows as you do so. 

You center yourself for a moment, focusing on the comforting way the delicate fabric frames your body, falling over your tank top and sleep shorts. You wiggle your feet, currently stuffed into pink bunny slippers. Your gaze finds the moon, full and round, you absorb it. You welcome anything that helps you not crush under the debilitating weight of your affections for Aaron Hotchner. 

“I don’t know! He told me he’d be there!” Your voice is antsy, you wring your hands together with a small smile on your face that doesn’t reach your eyes. While Penelope’s brilliant, she’s not a profiler. She’s also drunk. You pray these two things add up in your favor.

“I can’t remember the last time I saw him go out. Not since the divorce, but if he were for anybody, it’d be for you. That much I know,” she pats a supportive hand on your shoulder, though it does nothing to quell the nausea that comes from the d-word. 

You’d been a strong reliant for your boss while he’d finalized his divorce, almost a year ago now. Getting him late night coffees, sitting on the couch in his office while he completed paperwork, bringing in little treats just to make him smile. They always did, everything you did garnered a smile out of him. 

That’s why you were teased in your first week on the job, after you’d questioned the team’s comments about their stoic leader. “He smiles all the time, what are you guys talking about?” Their sarcastic grins and chuckling was the first time you were fully aware that the relationship you had with your boss was…different than the others. The amount of time that’s passed since then, the bond you’ve made with your boss, makes your head spin.

Still, you aimed to be respectful everyday. No matter how many details you knew about his issues with Haley, the stress of taking care of Jack while he was away, you kept a professional distance. You would not cross that line. In the year since he’d taken the ring off, though, it’s been…different. A wall has come down, a layer unshed. You don’t know what to do with it, with him. 

“Hey, does this look good over here?” Emily calls, snapping you out of your Aaron-induced haze. You plaster another smile on your face, though this time it’s not too difficult. You were thankful to merely witness J.J. propping Emily up on a stool so she can pin a pink disco ball in the center of your expansive living room. Relief washes over you, the love for your friends momentarily distracting you from the ache in your chest. 

“Looks great, thanks Em!” you pat her ass playfully, laughing when she squeals. 

“Anything for you, my darling!” She calls after you as you make your way through the living room to the kitchen, grabbing your own glass of the elixir that now has Penelope fully slumped forward on your kitchen island. 

“Pen? You good?” You nudge her slightly, and she jumps at the contact. 

“Oh! Yeah! Yeah, I’m great! Cool as a cucumber!” She adjusts her own pajamas, a buttery yellow silk set that comes with a matching eye mask. 

You laugh, shaking your head as you pour your own drink. “You really think Aaron will come tomorrow?” You ask her, your voice is meek. You hate it, that this is what he does to you. 

“I would be truly shocked if he didn’t, my sweet,” she answers, and though her words are slightly slurred, her tone is serious. You smile. 

“I agree!” Emily calls, walking into the kitchen to refill her own cup. J.J. trails behind her, nodding emphatically. 

“I mean, have you heard anyone else here call him Aaron? Like…ever?” J.J. says. You jokinglya move your head side to side, rattling the thought around your head. They all giggle at your response, and your cheeks heat up. You rest your chin on your shoulder, avoiding eye contact with the giddy group. 

“He’ll show. Don’t even worry about it,” J.J. states, the others nodding in agreement. 

You blow out a sigh, downing the rest of your drink in one swig. 

The bass from the speaker reverberates through your house, the walls nearly shaking from the vibrations. You’re only slightly tipsy, a bit dizzy as you slide open the glass door leading to the patio. Nearly every square inch of the pool is full of people, bodies bobbing around, elbows above water to preserve red solo cups. 

The wind blows through your hair, your eyes falling shut. You try to bask in it, absorb the setting sun as you had with the moon the night before. It’s not working. Aaron still hasn’t shown. Your attempts to not get upset about it are weak, feeble, an embarrassment. You thought fresh air would do you some good, but now, in your tipsy, clouded haze, you scan the crowd of faces. Some of them you know, most of them don’t. Above all else, you still don’t see the one you want. You feel stupid for thinking you would. Your heart splinters, cracks in the foundation breaking the whole. 

You sit on the porch step, your face falling to your hands. What’s wrong with you? Throwing parties is like a love language to you- Gatsby himself would be jealous. It’s not atypical for friends of friends of friends to find themselves in your yard. Tonight, though, you’re upset. Upset that none of them are there for you. Upset that you don’t even matter. Upset that the one person who could fix this feeling hasn’t shown. He isn’t here for you. After everything, everything you have done for him. After he promised. Tears prick the insides of your eyes, and you release a shuddering breath.

“Hey, Party Princess!” You look up to find Penelope, arm in arm with Derek. Both of them look a bit too drunk for their own good. Penelope’s face falls immediately upon seeing your teary gaze, your pouty lips. 

“Oh angel! What’s going on?!” She squeaks, sitting down beside you immediately. She wraps her arms around your shoulders, and you lean into them instinctively. 

“Someone special not here, pretty girl?” Derek asks, crouching down to meet your eye level. The acknowledgement of your situation only makes the tears fall. 

Penelope forces your head parallel to the ground. “Look down! Don’t let the tears streak your makeup!” You release a wet laugh at that, inspiring laughter from Derek and Penelope as well. You can hear the relief in theirs, that Aaron Hotchner hasn’t rendered you incapable of laughter. 

You feel Derek’s hand over the expanse of your shoulder, a warm, comforting grip that soothes you only slightly. Your gaze is still on the concrete, shame creeping up your spine at your emotions. “I’m sorry, guys,” you splutter, tears falling faster now. 

“No! No, don’t apologize,” Penelope squeals, finding a tissue in her bag and handing it to you. “Blot those pretty eyes, hon, and let’s go dance! Don’t spend your birthday crying over some guy!” 

You do as she says, closing your wet eye so your lash meets the tissue, small bits of mascara left as residue. You finally lift your head up, meeting Derek’s gaze. “There she is!” He smiles, “the most beautiful girl in Quantico.”

“Hey!” Penelope smacks his bicep. He laughs, holding a hand there in a show of faux pain. 

“Sorry, one of the two most beautiful women in Quantico,” he responds, walking backwards to the bar. He grabs you a shot of tequila, your favorite, and propositions you. 

“That’s much better,” Penelope smirks, satisfied. She moves from beside you, ready to assemble a lime and some salt. You stop her, a hand to her forearm. “No need.” You throw back the shot, your head tilting all the way back as you down the burning liquid. It singes your throat, and you wiggle your head from side to side as it goes down. 

That same counterfeit smile curls your lips, your eyes just as sad as they were before. “Let’s party!”

Aaron Hotchner  is a piece of shit. He knows this. His ex-wife knows this. Hell, Jack probably knows it, too. But now she knows it, and for some reason, that’s his final straw. He stands at her front porch, suit jacket long abandoned, tie forcefully loosened from hours of hunching over his desk. His hair is messy, thanks to his fingers running through it every 5 minutes. The bags under his eyes have darkened throughout the night, and he can tell from his reflection in the window that he looks like hell. The last place he should be is at a party, let alone this party.

He takes in her expansive house, a gift she inherited from her parents once they moved to Calabassass, she told him once. The front is made of classic white stone, a baby blue trim framing the door and windows. It looks as if it hasn’t been touched in years, only to fine tune and keep it looking pristine. Though, the perfection on the outside provides a direct contrast to what little he can see going on inside. He has a view of the kitchen from where he stands, empty beer cans line the kitchen island, pink streamers and popped balloons litter the floor. 

He sees the outline of someone familiar enter the kitchen. Penelope, if the bouncing blonde hair streaked with hot pink was any indicator. He watches as she stumbles about, a large figure, Derek, holding her up by the elbows as she attempts to make a mixed drink. He hopes it’s not for herself. He then realizes what a creep he must look like, a dark figure standing alone in front of a house that’s not his, staring in the window at a party he failed to attend. He turns, ready to leave, firm in his decision that this was all a big mistake to begin with. 

He stops, though from the opening of the door. He whips his head around, relief and disappointment washing over him to see Emily. He’s not sure what he would’ve done if it had been her opening the door. Fall to his knees, grovel, probably. His cheeks tint a bright red at her knowing, disappointed stare. “You fucked up tonight, Hotchner,” her affirming tone washes over him like he’s been dipped in acid, singeing his skin and finding its way to his guts. He’s nothing but a puddle. 

“Where is she?” He asks. It’s meek, feeble. A tone nobody he’s ever worked with heard him use. Emily raises her brow at that, both in shock and suspicion. 

“The backyard, near the pool. She’s had a lot to drink, though. So be careful. You may not be someone she wants to see right now.” Emily’s pitiful smile only makes him feel worse. He can’t leave now that he’s been spotted, though. It would catapult him from normal amounts of jackass to the jackass Olympics, something he’d never be able to recover from. Not when it comes to her. 

He follows Emily in, the remnants of what seemed like a blowout bash now diluted to a handful of bodies in each room. Most of them are the team, who are shooting him looks of shock and pity as he makes his way through the house. His heart beats through his ears as he slides the glass door open, stepping under the pink balloon arch to find her. 

She’s sitting alone on the edge of the pool, her feet dipping in slightly. He takes her in, giving him a brief moment of selfish reprieve before she sees him, before he has to confront the ways in which he’s broken her heart tonight. A floral pink dress flows around her, the sleeves billowing in the wind. The ruffles of the tiered dress are bunched around her hips as she sits, the hemline raised to prevent wetting the fabric. She’s a vision, the pale moonlight ghosting over her frame like a spotlight made just for her. His heart breaks. All of this, and he’s left her so lonely. He is a piece of shit. 

The creak of the porch step calls her attention, her head swinging around her shoulder to see who’s come to join her. The look on her face as she sees him…it’s too much to put into words, even for a profiler as experienced as Aaron. He watches each emotion cross her face. Her instinctual reaction was relief, her eyes brightening like a lightning flash through his heart. Her brows furrow soon after, discontent clouding her features. Anger is soon to follow, the pink gloss on her lips shining as they curve downward. 

She lands on anger. Stays there as she moves to stand, not caring where the water splashes as she swings her feet out of the pool. She stomps over to him, feet smacking against the pool deck as she barrels into him. The force is light, her drunken state impacting the collision. He still stumbles a bit, catching both her and himself as they tumble. 

“Where were you?!” she spits, the fire in her eyes paralyzing. He’s speechless. “I waited for you! I waited for you all night! You said- you said you’d be there! You promised!” Her voice gets louder with each syllable, her fists colliding into his chest with each breath. She turns, walking toward the water once more. 

He follows slowly, tentative. His hand reaches to her elbow, fingers lightly touching the skin. She turns, smacking his hand away. He flinches at the sudden contact, not expecting such force from her. “No!” She exclaims. Tears prick her eyes now, her hand is shaking as she holds up a finger in his face. Aaron’s heart splinters at the sight, guilt searing his veins like a deadly disease. 

“You don’t get to touch me, you don’t get to act like you’re the victim here. You. Didn’t. Show.” She spits, venom punching every word. He can see the group forming at the door out of his peripheral vision. It’s just the team, thankfully. Though he knows he’s lost this right, he’s relieved random strangers aren’t privy to his colossal fuck up. 

“God, I feel so fucking stupid!” She exclaims, running ten fingers through perfectly tousled hair. “Sitting here in this dress, that I picked out for you, at this party, that I only threw for you!” Her voice cracks on that last word, tears finally spilling over her lash line. 

“Me?” He mumbles. It’s the first word he’s said to her all night. It makes him feel like an idiot. There’s heat in her gaze, a deadly forest fire. But she’s silent. He keeps going. “You threw this party for me?” He sounds dumb. He knows it even before she rolls her eyes. A fantastic idiot, that’s what he is. 

“God, Aaron!” She’s yelling, now. The use of his first name knocks the wind out of him every time. This time, though, with the pain lacing her tone, it hits like a tornado. “For the best fucking profiler in fucking America, you have no clue how to read people!” 

He raises a brow at this, and she yanks at the root of her hair, a loud, desperate, ‘ugh!’ tearing from her lips. “I’m so hurt, Aaron, You hurt me. I’m so angry, and I’m so, so in love with you, that I’ll probably fucking forgive you in the morning.”

The words hit him like a bullet train, slicing him clean in half. His mouth falls open, a small ‘o’ that only serves to make him stupider. She stalks over to the bar on the deep end of the pool, leaning over and grabbing a bottle of vodka from the interior. She takes a long swig, eyes falling closed. Tears fall down her cheeks, streaking her perfectly applied makeup. She stumbles a bit, nearing the edge of the water, and his heart rate picks up. He makes the mistake of reaching for the bottle. It only results in a forceful shove, the bottle falling between the two and shattering on the ground. 

Her fury only intensifies now. Her vindictive gaze could turn him to stone. He looks down at the mess, catching her shoeless feet. He grips her wrist before she can move. Her bare feet, drunken state, and the shards of broken glass are a recipe for disaster. He doesn’t care how big of an asshole he is, how much she might hate him right now, but he can’t risk letting her get hurt even more. He’s expecting her reaction, an immediate instinct to shove him off of her. He can’t even register the impact it has on his already fragile heart, because in her alcohol induced frenzy, her shove knocks them both in the water. 

The splash envelops Aaron like a slap to the face. He opens his eyes immediately, and he doesn’t even register the sting of the chlorine in his eyes. His only mission is to find her, to make sure she’s safe. He sloppily wraps himself around her, bringing them up to the surface. They both gasp upon arrival, breathing as if they’d never get the privilege again. He splays a hand across her back, pushing her toward him until they’re chest-to-chest, until she can’t wriggle out of his grasp. He won’t let her go until she’s safely out of the water.

The frantic rise and fall of her chest against his steadies him. It’s enough to ground him, to help him find his bearings as he spots the ladder leading out of the pool. He feels her relax slightly in his arms as he begins to move, her own wrapping around his neck. He lets out the smallest sigh of relief. She doesn’t completely hate him. With how he acted tonight, he’s surprised he’s even been afforded that much. 

He lets her go first, hands finding her waist and lifting her to the first step. His hands hover around her as she stumbles up the ladder, ready for any possible disaster to strike. He follows quickly, his white dress shirt sticking to his skin in a way that would make him feel exposed around anyone else. He rolls his sleeves up to his shoulders, shaking his hair out like a dog. She flinches when he sprays her, giggling quietly. The sweet, fluttering noise is contagious, Aaron laughs himself before muttering a quiet, “sorry.” 

He watches her face change as she remembers again. Remember why they ended up in the pool,  why she’s mad at him in the first place. Light, joyful eyes darken into a cloudy, stormy gaze. Her eyes are like a bow and arrow aimed right at his heart, ready for the kill. He’s ready to admit defeat, to just lay there and let her skin and eat him alive. He avoids her gaze. Cowardly, he knows. 

“So. Fucking. Unfair.” They’re punctuated by a look of desperation and disdain, desire and destruction. His head shoots up again at that, shame creeping up his spine once more. It settles in his neck, constricts his airflow. 

“I know. I’m sorry. I’ve treated you terribly tonight and-”

He’s cut off by a groan that could spark an earthquake. She pulls at the roots of her wet hair in frustration. “Not that. Well- partially that. It’s fucking unfair that you get to skip my party, break my heart, show up, and then emerge from my pool looking like some sort of Adonis. Un-fucking fair, Aaron Hotchner.”

She moves closer to him with each passing word, to the point where his name is merely a whisper, uttered to him only inches from his own face. He studies her, the water droplets falling down her tear-stained face, the look in her eye, now softened to one of desperate devotion, despite all he’s put her through tonight. She’s breathtaking. Just as she was the day they first met, and everyday since then. An otherworldly beauty that has seemed to captivate him, mind, body, and soul. 

She inches even closer, her fingernails raking up his bare forearms. A shiver unzips his spine, invoking a light chuckle from her. As her lips inch ever so closer to his own, he nearly lets himself get lost in it. When she releases a shaky sigh against his mouth, the potent stench of vodka strongly reminds him that she is in no place for such an activity tonight. He scoops her up, folding her over his shoulder as he turns to get her indoors. 

He ignores her squeals of protest, the splattering of her palms on his back, though he can’t help but imagine this exact scenario in a different light- one where she’s sober, and he’s carrying her through his bedroom door. He opens the glass door with one hand, sliding it the rest of the way with his hip. He thanks his lucky stars that the only people left are Penelope and Derek, who likely stayed in case of any possible drownings. He nods at them, a succinct, ‘we’re good, get out.’

The message is heard clearly, the two of them shuffling out the door, but not before taking multiple glances at their boss, who’s carrying his hammered employee like a sack of potatoes. He’s in for an absolute earful come Monday, he’s sure of it. 

Her room is easy to spot, a bright pink door with her name plastered at the top. He smiles to himself, his heart swelling at the way she revels in her inner child. Sparkly room decor, birthday party invitations, a birthday party in general. He’s almost envious of the way she effortlessly mixes her childish woe with her adult sophistication. Even around the office, she clacks around in whatever heel came out of her rotating closet that morning, all while spouting off fine tuned details of any current or prospective cases. 

These are things he’s lost touch with as he’s aged, that whimsy, the wild eyed gaze she gives to new challenges. He hopes she never lets it go. He hopes she’ll be 80 with bedazzled glasses and  the best hair in the room. Knowing her, he has nothing to worry about in that regard. 

He plops her down on the large couch on the far end of her room, not wanting to douse her bed with chlorine. She needs a good night’s sleep. She whines as she attempts to wiggle out of her party dress, the straps proving to be very stubborn as she maneuvers around the couch. He turns instinctively as she figures it out, her dress bunching around her thighs before she lifts it up over her head. The small sliver of thigh he did see is burned into his brain forever, though. There’s no escaping that. 

“Aaron, I need my pajamas,” her voice is soft, tired. 

Aaron clears his throat awkwardly. “Where are they, honey?”

He practically hears her gleam at his words. He knows she’s basking in his pet name the way she always does, like a cat who got the cream. “Top drawer. I want the silk pink set,” her voice has a certain lilt to it now that nearly has his eyes rolling in the back of his head. Pink silk. He’ll die. He could just die. It would probably be less painful than handling her delicate sleepwear, throwing it behind him without turning around. 

She giggles as she puts it on. “You can look now. I’m all covered.”

He turns, eyes trained on the floor, just in case. He’s truly not prepared for what he sees when he turns around. Her smooth legs are crossed at the ankle, her plush thighs filling out the fabric of her soft pajamas. The top is barely enough fabric to be called such, a thin tank top leaving so little to the imagination, he nearly combusts on the spot. The peaks of her nipples are enough to do him in permanently, to put him in the ground for all eternity. He’d deserve it, too. 

“I can’t move. Need you to get me to bed,” she mumbles, her body falling limp against the couch. He rolls his eyes, moving to scoop her in his arms, bridal style this time. The implication makes him choke on his own spit. 

“Wait!” She exclaims, just as he’s reached the foot of her bed. He stops in his tracks. “Need to get the rest of my makeup off, Aaron. Need the bathroom.” Her head falls against his chest, and he can’t say no. Sighing, he adjusts her in his arms and carries her to the ensuite bathroom. 

He sits her down on the closed toilet, covered in a pink, fuzzy fabric. She wiggles, getting comfortable as her eyes fall shut. 

“The soft, fuzzy washcloth on the counter automatically takes off makeup with water. If you could just wet it, I can get the rest.” She’s truly sleepy now, the alcohol taking her over almost entirely now. 

He won’t make her do all of that work, not after everything he’s put her through tonight. He heeds only part of her request, wetting the washcloth and ringing out the excess water. He crouches in front of her, putting a gentle hand to her jaw as he begins to lightly scrub the remaining bits of makeup off. She sighs, one of content and exhaustion. His heart soars. He thinks he may have to start going back to church just to make up for the grace he’s been granted tonight. 

After he moves through the next two steps- cleanser, then moisturizer, per her instruction- they’re back where they started, at the edge of her bed, her nestled in his arms. He lays her down gently, turning to sleep on her couch downstairs. He’s stopped in his tracks with a single tug to the wrist. His heart stops. 

“Stay,” she mumbles. He’s powerless. He peels off his wet clothes, making peace with sleeping in damp underwear, before she mumbles something more. “There’s extra sweatpants in the room to the right. Take them.” He has no choice but to listen. 

You wake with a pounding head, the morning light filtering in like a knife designed to split you in two. You groan, rubbing your eyes to adjust to the sober reality you’ve been thrust back into. You’re caught off guard when you roll into an absolute brick wall of a man, panic rising in your throat before you realise who it is. The only positive is that he’s familiar, that you know it’s not some random guy you hooked up with and let stay the night. On the other side of that coin, you’re waking up next to your boss, the day after you confessed your love for him. 

The arrival of that memory triggers the rest, and they flood in like a broken dam. Your tears, the vodka, the broken glass, the pool, the way his pecs looked in his white shirt, soaked to the bone and clinging to his chest. 

You shake off the thought, though the motion only wakes Aaron. You curse lightly under your breath. It takes everything in you not to crumble at the raspy groan Aaron lets out, seemingly just as surprised to be waking up in a foreign environment. His eyes widen when they find you, pure shock lacing his features before he slowly pieces together the events of the night before. A small smile curves your lips. “Good morning, party pooper.”

Aaron at least has enough gentlemanly instinct to make breakfast. He’s quick to tie your pink apron around his waist, cracking eggs and frying bacon with ease. You perch on one of the stools at your kitchen island, still littered with beer cans and empty solo cups. You sip your coffee as you watch him. You hate how gorgeous he is, how he has the right to look like that even when you’re mad at him. 

Sweatpants hang low on his hips, the lack of a shirt tantalizing. Your eyes zone in on the slivers of skin afforded beyond the apron. You squeeze your thighs together at the hair on his tummy, the hair that trails lower, and lower…

You jump as he puts a plate in front of you, not expecting for him to be done so soon. “Oh!” You squeal, the sound muffled slightly by your coffee mug. You’re using the glass dish as a crutch now, holding it in front of your face like a shield. You know he can tell exactly what you’re doing, and why you’re doing it, but it doesn’t stop you. He should know how you’re feeling right now, with him in front of you, looking even more delectable than the fresh, sizzling bacon. But he’s still the same man that broke your heart merely hours ago. 

He plates himself before nodding his head towards the semi-clean kitchen table. “Let’s eat there, so that way we’re not talking over pyramids of Sam Adams.”

You smile softly at this, swinging your legs around to hop off the stool. He takes your plate before you can, sitting it at the head of the table. You sit, and take a bite. It takes everything in you not to moan. If it weren’t for last night, maybe you would’ve. You sit in silence for a moment, soft chewing and forks clinking against plates the only noise. The only noise, at least, until Aaron looks directly at you. 

“I’m so sorry. I know that there’s not enough apologies in the world to make up for how I’ve treated you. I just- I couldn’t…” his voice trails off. The hairs on the back of your neck stand. 

“Couldn’t what?” It’s quiet as it leaves your lips, hanging between you two like a ticking time bomb. His eyes flit to the table, his hands clasped together in what looks like silent, desperate, prayer. 

“I couldn’t face rejection again,” he states, plainly. The wheels start turning in your head. Moving, but still unsure of the destination. “You saw so many details of my divorce, the ugly ins and outs. I couldn’t even fathom the thought that you’d be- that you would have any sort of feeling towards me. That you would love me in the way that I love you. Now that I know what I know…”

You’re there. You’ve reached your destination, and you can’t help but collapse your head into your hands and laugh at the stupidity of it all. His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline at the noise you emit, but it’s all worth it at the smile that appears on his own face, cheeks bunching up around his eyes. It makes your heart swell. 

“So, you’re telling me…you didn’t come to my party because you were afraid I’d reject your feelings, and I spent the entire night drinking and crying on rotation because I thought you were rejecting me…” You spell it out, wild hand motions matching the absurdity of the situation. 

“We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?” He smiles, and heat rises to your cheeks. A silence settles over you then, the gravity of what this means hitting the both of you like a truck. “I’m so, so sorry I hurt you. I never meant to, though I know that sounds redundant because of my actions.”

You let out an incredulous chuckle at that, a huff of air conveying multiple emotions at once. “Aaron…I need to know that you won’t just run when things get hard. I know that you and Haley had something…else. I don’t want to be a repeat of that in your healing journey, or get in the way of your duties with Jack, or-”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he soothes, a warm hand grazing your forearm over the table. “You’re not just a part of my healing journey. I learned a lot when Haley left me. You saw it. You held a heavy hand in that change. You gave me something to strive for, a glimmer after I’d thought I messed everything up. And instead of treating you the way I know you deserve, I ran right back to my old patterns. I can’t explain how sorry I am. How can I make it up to you?”

You raise a tentative brow. “The self awareness is a good sign, Aaron, but I need you to know that I’m a one and done kind of girl. Typically a none and done kind of girl. I’m making a very special exception here, sir.” He nods at this, eyes boring into yours. “You’re not going to keep me if you keep your old patterns. It’s one or the other, and you can make it up to me by making that decision. Do you think you’re ready for that?”

He nods emphatically, fingers lacing between yours across the table. You sigh, a true, genuine smile on your face for the first time since before last night. You finish your breakfast in a content silence before dragging him back up to your room. 

“It’s one of the only spots in the house not littered with alcohol!” You’d told him, your reasoning quite sound in your eyes. Aaron rolls his, though a smile persists anyway. 

You fall onto your mattress, lifting your arms up for Aaron to join you. He lays beside you, your finger grazing along the waistline of his sweatpants. You revel in the way he shivers at the contact. He makes himself comfortable and you sling a leg across his hips, neck craning up to look in his eyes. A tense silence falls over you two then, thick and wanting. He tests the waters, slowly inching his face closer to yours. You bridge the gap, greedily smashing his lips to yours. 

He kisses you like a man starved, his arms curling around your back as he tries to consume as much of you as possible. You break from the kiss, only for him to pepper multiple tiny ones on your lips, his own drifting to your chin, your jaw, your neck. You turn on your side so your chest to chest with him, the feeling of your tits pressed up against his was enough to make your head spin. His rigid body relaxes in your arms as his lips find yours again. 

You clutch at his shoulders, a small whimper fleeing your lips in between greedy kisses. “You’re so beautiful, y’know that? Drive me fucking crazy,” he mutters, hands finding the soft skin under your sleep tank. “Yeah?” you coo, and he groans. 

“Yeah,” he nearly moans, and you clench your thighs together. His ravenous hands frantically search for every spare part of your body they can find. “Walking around the office in those skirts, those cute fucking heels,” he punctuates his statement with more kisses. Your head is spinning. 

“I’m glad you like them, I pick them out just to drive you crazy,” you joke, and revel in the way his eyes roll back in his head. You rock against his hard length, and he shudders. 

“I need you. Now.”

Aaron lays still under the covers, fingertips raking up and down her back as if she’s made of porcelain. He releases a shaky breath, lips pressing to the top of her head. She’s drifting in and out of sleep, and the selfish part of him wants her awake, to be there with him, to kiss him some more. The nurturing part of him knows that she needs the sleep, that her hangover likely isn’t helping in her fight to stay conscious. 

“I can hear you thinking, y’know?” she murmurs, her words smushed in his chest. He laughs, a small, breathy sound escaping his lips. 

“Yeah?” He inquires, voice coated thick with love. “Just thinking about you. About what you need to feel better,” he exaggerates this point by rubbing thick fingers along her scalp. She shudders in response. 

“Think I need to sleep,” she mumbles, her lids half shut. 

“I think you do, too,” he answers, his never ending smile still on his face. “But I want to be with youuuu,” she drags out the last word, her lips pouty. He kisses them eagerly. She responds with the same fervor, her arms slinking around his neck. 

He can feel himself stir again, his now naked frame hiding nothing from the woman in his arms. 

“I think you want the same thing,” she says, suggestively. Her eyebrows wiggle as her fingers slide dangerously low. Against his body’s wishes, he grips her wrist gently. She pouts again. He kisses her again. He’ll never get tired of it. 

“Boo!” She pouts, and it’s so adorable he almost pulls her on his lap to finish what they started. 

“You need sleep, honey. I’m going to clean up downstairs, you let me know if you need anything, okay?” She nods as he slides out of bed. He jumps when she swats his ass. 

“Hey!” He exclaims, but she just smiles, resting her head on her propped hand. 

“What? Like it’s my fault you have a cute butt!” She shrugs. He shakes his head, cheeks flushing as he moves to put on his now-dry clothes from last night. 

“Sleep,” He orders. She wiggles her brows in challenge. 

It takes all his will power to leave her there, naked and wanting. It’s for the best right now, for both of them. Her lids have returned to their half closed state, and he ghosts another kiss over her lips before he goes. 

“I love you,” she whispers against his mouth.

“I love you, too. Get some rest.”

“As long as you’re here when I wake up,” she mutters, nestling into her pillow. 

After last night, he couldn’t dream of being anywhere else.

[mydearzero]

The Babysitter | Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x fem!Reader

Summary: You didn’t have any superpowers, nor were you even qualified for the position, yet somehow a mishap between Alexei and Yelena ends up in getting you a new job. Bob-sitter. 

Contents: No Y/N, fem!reader, college student!reader, mentions of food and eating, mentions of blood

Read it on AO3

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Chapter 4 - Trip Switch

2.3K words

You were roughly awakened by your ringtone obnoxiously blasting in your ears. It was Yelena. Before you swiped to answer you checked the time; 5:30 A.M.. 

“Hello?” You answered groggily. 

“Hey, sorry to call you this early. It’s kind of an emergency and we don’t know how long we’ll be gone. Can you come to the tower?” Yelena was obviously multitasking, her tone distant. You were already out of bed and looking around for clothes to wear. 

“I’ll be there in 30,” you replied. Yelena thanked you and hung up without any more details. You wiped the sleep from your eyes and gathered your stuff. You grabbed some clothes as well, for if the stay would be prolonged. You quickly brushed your teeth and scoured the internet for any big happenings that could require the team’s assistance, but came up empty. 

You were out of the door in record speed. Bob was likely still asleep, but Yelena’s voice had sounded concerned. She wouldn’t have called you if it wasn’t necessary.

The Watchtower was empty when you arrived besides the doorman; nobody had started their workday yet. You greeted him with a nod as the automatic doors let you in. The path from your house to the penthouse had quickly become familiar. 

The team was already gone by the time you got there. Bob was nowhere to be found, probably still in bed as you’d assumed. How he hadn’t been awoken by the ruckus of the team leaving in an emergency was besides you. 

You dropped your bag next to the couch and walked into the kitchen. Might as well prepare an abundant breakfast for Bob and yourself while you have the time. 

You put on some light music and gathered supplies to cook Bob some pancakes. It was when you were washing your hands that you noticed the bruise around your wrist. It was where Bob had playfully gripped it the other day. He clearly didn’t know how strong he was, or at least didn’t have full control over it. You shrugged it off, dried your hands and started putting the dry ingredients in a bowl as you hummed to the tune playing from wherever the speakers in this damn place were. You glanced at the clock and saw it was already 6:30, an hour after Yelena had called for you to come over. 

You prepared a giant stack of pancakes, along with some other breakfast foods like eggs and toast. You made the table and admired the generous spread you’d prepared. You put the coffee machine on, preparing a big pot to drink throughout the day. If you had felt up to it you would’ve even squeezed fresh orange juice, but you figured the store bought stuff in the fridge would taste just fine alongside the homemade foods. 

“Wow…” The voice startled you. You’d been deep in thought and engrossed with the things you were putting on the table. You’d nearly dropped the carton of orange juice as you turned around, coming face to face with a sleepy Bob. 

“Sorry, did I wake you up? I wasn’t exactly being quiet,” you asked. 

“No, I usually wake up around this time, don’t worry. What’s all this?” Bob gestured to the table with wide eyes. 

“Yelena called like an hour and a half ago to ask if I could come over and I figured you were still asleep, so I thought I’d make us some breakfast,” you shrugged, putting the carton on the table and taking a seat. Bob followed your lead, sitting across from you. 

“This… This isn’t just breakfast. This is like a feast… Or a banquet. You made all this?” His voice was filled with wonder. 

“Bon appétit,” you smirked, grabbing your mug and taking a sip. If it were anybody else accompanying you, you would’ve thought you’d made way too much food. But Bob had proved the other day he was a bottomless pit when it came to food. Nothing proved less true when he inhaled 3 pieces of toast like they were air. 

The music was still playing softly as you ate in silence. It was nice. You wouldn’t need to retire anytime soon if this was what your job was going to be like all the time. 

“Can you pass me the bacon?” Bob asked after he took a big gulp of coffee. 

You reached across the table and Bob fell silent. You grabbed the plate of bacon and handed it to him, but paused when you saw his fallen expression. You followed his eyes to your wrist, where your sleeve had ridden up to reveal the bruise he’d left behind. 

“Is that… Did I do that?” His voice was so soft. 

“I mean, it doesn’t even hurt. Yelena said you’re not sure of your powers yet and I’m convinced you didn’t mean to,” you put the plate of bacon down and slowly munched on your food. 

“Just because I didn’t mean to doesn’t mean it’s okay,” Bob scoffed. His tone was surprisingly hollow and harsh. 

“I’m sorry. Really, I am. This never should’ve happened…” He contemplated for a second before loading his plate with food and standing up. 

“Thanks for the food, I really do appreciate it. And you,” he mumbled as he walked away with the plate. You were left alone at the table, confused as to what had just happened. He slammed the door to his room shut loudly, rattling it in its frame. You flinched and looked around the table defeatedly. Most of the food was gone by now, anyway. 

You sighed and decided to leave him be, for now. You knew what Yelena had said and what your job description was, but something inside you told you he needed some space. You cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher. Somehow the room seemed more silent without Bob in it, even when he was usually a quiet companion. 

You grabbed your laptop out of your bag and sat at the kitchen island, trying to get some work in if you were going to be waiting for Bob to cool down. 

You were typing when the lights flickered a few times before switching off entirely, coming back on only after a few seconds. You gazed at the ceiling expectantly, waiting for the lights to flicker again or for something else strange to happen, but nothing did. You sighed and continued typing. Must’ve been a power surge of sorts. 

The elevator dinged, announcing someone’s arrival at the penthouse. You turned in your chair, seeing who it was. You recognized one of the two women, who was in the public eye of New York a lot, especially the last few months. Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, or Val, as the team sometimes called her. The other younger girl was someone you didn’t know.

“Who are you?” Valentina frowned as she looked you up and down. You weren’t entirely sure how to answer, so you just told her your name and nothing else. 

“Well, what are you doing here? And where is everybody else?” Val scoffed. 

“I– uh, I look after Bob?” Your confused expression mirrored her own. 

“And where is Robert, exactly?” She crossed her arms. 

“In his room?” You cocked your head towards the hallway, where the bedrooms were located. 

“Tell me, is everything you say a question?” Val wondered. 

“No? I mean, no, it’s not.” The woman was somewhat intimidating, who could blame you. 

“Good. Now as for my previous question, where is everybody?” 

“I don’t know, actually. Yelena just called me this morning asking if I could come over. That’s all I know,” you told her. You hadn’t heard very good things about her, but were aware she still held some sense of power in the dynamic of the team. 

“To do what?” 

“Look after Bob, like I told you. I don’t have any more information than you do,” you raised your hands in defence. 

“I think she’s the ‘babysitter’ Bucky mentioned,” the other woman finally spoke quietly. She turned to address you, “I’m Melissa, but you can call me Mel.” You gave her an awkward wave. 

“Ah, the babysitter, right. Cute. That does mean I’m also your boss, of sorts. I pay your salary. So, employer to employee, can we have a small chat?” Val’s tone changed. You narrowed your eyes, unable to figure out what she was getting at. 

“You see, they took him from me. I can offer you a lot more money than whatever blondie offered,” Val sat down beside you. You subconsciously moved back a little. 

“To do what?” You asked. You didn’t want her dirty money, or anything to do with whatever she was planning. 

Val looked you over once again, scrutinising your face. She moved forward, her hand coming up to move a strand of your face behind your ear. 

“You’re pretty enough… He’s lonely, you just get on his good side for me, can you do that?” She was still uncomfortably close. The glass next to your laptop exploded suddenly, sending shards of glass flying outward. Luckily it was empty of any drink, your laptop unscathed.

You couldn’t say the same for your face. A shard had sliced your cheek, not deep, but enough to sting and bleed. Valentina had also gotten hit, though her face was intact, only a few shards being sent into the sleeve of her jacket as her hand was still near your face. 

You searched for the source of how this could’ve happened, spotting a tense looking Bob in the hallway. 

“Get away from her,” he didn’t sound like himself. When Valentina and Mel made no move to leave, he raised his voice. “I said LEAVE.” 

Val scrambled out of the chair, her and Mel quickly making their way back to the elevator. Whatever they’d come over for could wait until later. 

Bob waited until they were gone before slowly making his way over to you. You searched his face for an explanation, but came up empty. He moved the same piece of hair Val had back behind your ear, putting his hand under your chin and moving your face towards the light. He examined the cut. His eyes weren’t their usual blue colour, you noted. Something had set him off. 

He sat down in the chair Val had sat in and carefully took the piece of glass embedded in your cheek and pulled it out. You winced a little at the stinging sensation. 

“I’m sorry,” Bob apologized. “I overheard what she was saying… I lost my temper. I shouldn’t have. You shouldn’t have gotten hurt, again.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, lips tight in frustration. When he opened his eyes, they had returned to their usual hue. 

“It’s okay,” it was softer than you’d expected, a whisper. 

“No, it’s not. You’re not like me. You don’t have powers. You get hurt, you die, there’s no returning from that. I couldn’t live with myself if it was because of me,” Bob shook his head. 

You’d only known him for about two weeks, yet already seemed to understand the extreme doubt he had in himself. He would blame everything on himself, even when it was outside of his control. 

“You heard her? From your room?” You wondered, attempting to steer the conversation away from his guilt. 

“Yeah, my hearing ‘s like… Very good. Enhanced, I guess…” He was sweeping together the pieces of the bursted glass, refusing to meet your gaze. 

“Bob, hey, look at me,” you pleaded. He looked up and into your eyes. “I’d never do that to you, you hear? I’d never sell you out like that. I wouldn’t just betray your trust.” 

“It’s not… About that. I never really had anybody that cared about me. And now I have the team, and even though it’s only been a short time I feel like you care, too,” you nodded in agreement. “I guess I just never really realized that caring comes with a cost.” 

You urged him to continue, even when you already understood where he was going. 

“It comes with a vulnerability, I suppose. I wasn’t prepared to feel that vulnerable. You give and you take and you expect there to be a balance in friendship. I just… I’m scared that if I let people get too close they might use it against me. And with these powers…” Bob stared at his hands. 

You put a hand on his shoulder, but quickly moved it away when he flinched at the touch. You mumbled a soft apology before continuing. “It comes with a vulnerability, yes, but you also get love in return, and I think that’s quite a good deal.”

Bob agreed, but you could tell something had shifted. He’d shut back down again. Even if it wasn’t as bad as it had been before you’d gotten the job, you could tell you would need to pull him out of this before he spiralled in guilt and self doubt.

You attempted to suggest activities, but he turned them all down, opting to go back to his room. You cleaned the last pieces of glass in the kitchen and returned to working in silence, thinking the entire situation over. There had to be something you could do so Bob could realize he didn’t need to doubt himself. You quickly realized that, in the end, there was only one person who could ‘fix’ him. Bob himself. But the road was going to be difficult and he would need help along the way. That you could do. You couldn’t do it for him, but you could stand by his side. So you tried.

TAGLIST: @jason-todd-fangirl-14 @hopes-peak-akademy @rattheraddestrat @i-shall-abide @puer-aurea @kennywantskfc69 @spectacled-studies @hiddlebatchedloki @chimchoom @spidermiraculous-blog @s00ty-feet @28cnn @tinythebunni @softpia @roeroeroeyourboet @secretkittydreamland @cultish-corner @greenbean-4ever @t-rexs-world @thebitchiestnerdtowalktheearth @ifilwtmfc @renren-006 @10ava01

[softly-faye]

𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 𝐅𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 2 ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

Dumb!Ditzy!Reader x Rafe Cameron <3

(For @lolabunnyworldss - fyi when I say JJ I mean John B and Sarah named their baby after him he’s not dead in this AU!)

౨ৎ

It started again on a Thursday.

Not a special Thursday. Not a holiday or an anniversary or anything fancy like that. Just a regular, soft, sleepy kind of Thursday. The kind where she wore one of Rafe’s big sweatshirts with nothing underneath and fuzzy pink socks that slipped down her ankles when she walked across the hardwood floor.

She had curled up on the couch with Bemo, her sweet little bunny who smelled like hay and warm laundry, and was watching baby TikToks on mute while absentmindedly eating marshmallows straight from the bag. Not toasted. Not dipped in chocolate. Just the fluffy kind that stuck to her fingers and made her lips glossy.

One video played after another. Chubby-cheeked babies learning to walk. Giggly twins wearing matching overalls. A little girl with a flower crown saying “daddy” for the first time.

Her heart squeezed in her chest like someone had tied a ribbon around it.

“Bemo,” she whispered, holding him closer and pressing her cheek to his tiny head. “I want one. I want a baby so bad.”

Bemo twitched his nose and looked mildly annoyed. He had never been interested in babies, except the time JJ drooled on his ear and he refused to come out from under the couch for two hours afterward.

But she was serious. Her brain might’ve been a little scattered most days, but her heart was big and full and ready. At least that’s what she thought.

So when Rafe came home, all sweaty from the gym with his jaw tight and his t-shirt clinging to his back, she launched herself at him like she had just seen him after a month at sea.

“Rafe,” she said dramatically, clinging to his chest. “I need a baby. I actually might die if I do not get one soon. Like physically die. My body is literally craving one.”

He raised one eyebrow. “You’re back on this again?”

She nodded seriously, curling her fingers into his shirt. “Yes. Like my uterus is crying. I think I’m ovulating. Maybe. Or whatever the thing is when your eggs start screaming.”

He snorted, walked her backward until she flopped onto the bed, then hovered over her with that look he always gave her when she said things that didn’t make sense. Affectionate. Confused. Slightly worried.

“You remember what happened last time you got baby fever?”

She blinked up at him and tilted her head like a puppy.

He stared.

She blinked again.

“…No?”

He exhaled. “Bemo. I got you Bemo.”

She gasped. “Oh my gosh yeah. But that was different! That was starter baby fever. This is like… final boss level. I think I’m nesting. Do you think I’m nesting? I rearranged the snack drawer by color earlier.”

“You put all the pink Starbursts in their own Ziploc bag,” he said flatly. “And called it ‘princess energy.’ That’s not nesting.”

“It could be,” she argued, pouting. “Princesses have babies. Royal ones. I could make us royalty.”

He just looked at her.

She kicked her legs a little. “I just really want one, Rafe. A real baby. A squishy one. That cries and has those little toes that look like tiny corn kernels.”

“I’m not getting you a baby because you’re obsessed with baby toes,” he said slowly.

She rolled over dramatically and buried her face in a pillow. “Fine. You hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You think I’d be a bad mom.”

“I think you’d lose your keys in the baby’s crib.”

She gasped. “I only lost my keys three times this week and one of them wasn’t even my fault. I thought the microwave was the fridge.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

She popped her head up. Her hair was tangled. There was a tiny smear of marshmallow on her cheek. Her eyes were wide and wet.

“Please,” she whispered. “Just give me a chance.”

Rafe sighed. A long, deep sigh that said I love you but you’re literally out of your mind.

“All right,” he said finally. “You want a baby that bad?”

She nodded, eyes hopeful and shiny.

“Then prove it. You’re on trial, baby girl.”

She sat up, brightening immediately. “Oh my god like a baby test?”

“Exactly,” he said, voice firm. “Starting tomorrow.”

She squealed. Bemo leapt off the couch in terror.

౨ৎ

Trial Day One:

There was a paper on the fridge.

It had been typed. Printed. Taped down.

She stared at it with a cup of milk in her hand and a slice of cold pizza in the other.

TRIAL RULES. FAIL = NO BABY.

By Rafe “This Is Serious” Cameron

1. Take all your meds every morning. No reminders.

2. No drinking. No smoking. No wine. Not even white.

3. Eat real meals. Breakfast is not marshmallows.

4. Bemo must be clean, fed, and not dressed like a doll.

5. Babysit JJ twice a week. No calling me unless someone’s dying.

6. No crying over nothing.

7. Act like a mom. Not like a bunny princess.

She gasped.

“I am a bunny princess though,” she mumbled, half insulted.

But she took it seriously.

She got up early the next day, set five alarms on her phone labeled “PILL TIME OR NO BABY,” and made a sticker chart shaped like a heart.

She found glittery stickers in her drawer and decorated it with little cut-out bunnies and the words Mommy Mode Activated in sparkly pink marker.

She didn’t drink wine. Even when Kiara offered her a cute fizzy one that tasted like watermelon and was in a cup with a tiny umbrella. She just held her lemonade and sipped dramatically.

“I’m in training,” she said proudly. “My womb is in boot camp.”

Rafe just sipped his beer and stared at her like she was some kind of adorable alien.

౨ৎ

Week Two:

She babysat JJ three times because Sarah was exhausted and John B had accidentally put frozen peas in the coffee maker.

The first time, she panicked a little when he pooped mid-diaper change and she screamed so loud that Bemo ran into the laundry room and hid in a basket.

But she figured it out.

She sang songs. She invented lullabies. She read JJ a picture book about frogs and added dramatic sound effects even though JJ mostly just chewed on the corner.

She wore soft sweaters and fuzzy socks and made sure to wash her hands like fifty times. She googled everything. How to burp a baby. How to tell if a baby is too hot. How to entertain a one-year-old without accidentally teaching them swear words.

Rafe came home once to see her dancing around the living room with JJ in a baby sling while holding Bemo in the other arm like a furry handbag.

“What are you doing?” he asked, blinking.

“We’re bonding,” she said seriously. “It’s called multi-momming.”

And honestly, she looked ridiculous. But also… kind of perfect.

౨ৎ

Week Three:

She didn’t miss a single pill.

She didn’t call Rafe for non-emergencies.

She stopped crying when she accidentally burned her toast.

She started eating real food like oatmeal and grilled cheese and cut-up fruit in little bear-shaped bowls.

One day, she caught herself humming while organizing the diaper bag and paused.

She looked down at herself. Hair up. Big hoodie. Baby on her hip. Sticker chart full of hearts.

She was doing it.

She was actually doing it.

౨ৎ

Final Day:

She stood in the kitchen in a soft baby-blue dress that barely brushed her thighs. She had baked muffins. Real ones. With blueberries and everything.

JJ was asleep in the playpen. Bemo was flopped on his pillow with a leaf of lettuce in his mouth. Her sticker chart was complete. Her pill bottle was empty because she had taken every single one.

She had even packed a mini emergency baby kit. Just in case.

Rafe came in, tie loose around his neck, face unreadable.

“Trial’s over,” he said.

She froze. “Did I… pass?”

He walked over to her, grabbed her hands, and looked her in the eye.

“You passed,” he said. “You proved me wrong.”

She gasped.

“You did everything right,” he continued. “You made real choices. You showed up. You didn’t whine or quit or burn down the house.”

“I only almost burned it down once,” she whispered.

“And you handled it,” he said. “You handled everything.”

“So… we can start trying?” she asked softly, hope blooming in her chest like fireworks.

Rafe smiled.

“After the wedding.”

She blinked. “What wedding?”

Then he dropped to one knee.

She squeaked. Literally squeaked.

He pulled out a tiny velvet box.

“This ring belonged to my mother,” he said, opening it to reveal a delicate gold band with a perfect oval diamond. “She told me to give it to someone strong. Someone who’d raise a strong child. Someone who’d never stop loving.”

Her eyes flooded with tears.

“I didn’t think that would be you,” he admitted. “But you proved me wrong.”

She dropped to the floor, mascara running, and wrapped her arms around him so tightly the ring nearly flew out of his hand.

“Yes,” she sobbed. “Yes yes yes yes yes!”

Bemo thumped approvingly.

JJ yawned in his sleep.

౨ৎ

Twelve Months Later

She was lying on her side in bed, cradling her enormous belly, one hand rubbing slow circles over the bump while the other held a half-eaten cupcake.

Rafe walked in, eyes soft, holding a tiny pink onesie that said Daddy’s Little Chaos in sparkly cursive. “She kicked again,” she said sleepily. “I think she likes cupcakes.” “She gets that from you,” he said, smiling.

They curled up together, her head on his chest, his hand on her belly. And just before she fell asleep, she whispered, “I still wanna name her Marshmallow.”

Rafe groaned. But he would say yes. Because she had earned everything. And he would give her the whole world.

[itsnesss]

Hii babe, I have another little request if you’re taking them!

Could you write something Kimi Antonelli x fem!reader where she’s super stressed because she’s about to take her final exams (like the French bac) and she hasn’t started revising at all?? It’s literally in a month, and she feels completely overwhelmed and behind.Like she’s spiraling a bit, maybe crying over highlighters and making dramatic “I’m gonna fail” speeches while Kimi just tries to calm her down and support her. Maybe he helps her organize her revision or just stays with her through the stress, reminding her that she’s smart and capable even if she doesn’t feel like it.Basically soft academic panic + golden retriever boyfriend energy. Only if it inspires you of course!! But I’d love that dynamic.

𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐞: 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 | kimi antonelli × fem!reader

summary | final exams in a month, panic sets in tears, chaos, and dramatic speeches. kimi stays, calms, organizes, and reminds: you're capable

warnings | gf!reader, academic stress, panic attack elements (crying, overwhelm), comfort, fluff, golden retriever boyfriend energy

word count | 1.5 k

🖇 more ka12 🖇 f1 masterlist

You're surrounded by highlighters. One is drying out on the edge of the bed without its cap, another is chewed between your fingers, and several more are scattered across the desk like witnesses to a crime.

Your notes are everywhere: some open on the floor, others crumpled, one pinned to the wall with washi tape like that’s going to help you absorb information through osmosis.

Your heart is pounding, your eyes are burning, and your thoughts are racing a mile a minute. You don’t even know where to start. You haven’t touched a single flashcard, haven’t opened the first topic, and the bac is in a month. One month. Thirty days. What can you do in thirty days? Go over the entire syllabus? Prepare text commentaries? Review philosophy, history, math? Sleep? No. Sleep is no longer an option.

You feel your throat burn. You're about to cry for the third time this afternoon—and it’s because of a damn dried-up highlighter.

And then, you hear the door open.

"Hey, amore..." says a familiar voice, soft, almost carefree.

Kimi walks in with a bag of croissants in one hand and his jacket slung over his shoulder. He has that smile he always wears when he sees you... but it fades the moment he takes in the disaster that is your room. And you.

"What happened here?"

You turn with a kind of hysterical laugh caught in your throat.

"What happened?" you repeat, your eyes wide. "Kimi, the bac is in a month! A month! And I haven’t started anything! I’m completely lost, I’m going to fail, my life is going to be ruined, I won’t get into university, and I’ll end up… I don’t know! Selling defective highlighters from a street stall while crying!"

You toss a tissue at your face and sigh. You're being dramatic you know it. But you're so overwhelmed you can’t help it. Everything feels too big, too hard, and you feel so, so small in front of it.

Kimi walks toward you carefully, like he’s afraid of spooking you.

"Are you crying because of…?"

"Yes, because of a highlighter!" you yell, pointing at the pastel yellow one that has tragically died on the floor. "It was dry and that was the last straw!"

He lets out a soft laugh and crouches beside you. With the kind of tenderness only he has, he runs a thumb over your damp cheek and wipes away the tear.

"At least you cry in style," he says, and you let out a choked laugh between sobs.

"Don’t make fun of me," you mumble, letting yourself fall against him. Your forehead rests against his chest, and you feel his arm wrap around you.

"I’d never do that. I'm here for this, right? To hold you while the world falls apart because of some exams."

He closes his eyes and rests his chin on your head. His voice, calm, steady, warm, filters through your chaotic thoughts like an anchor.

"You’re going to be okay. I promise. We’ll do this together, okay?"

You don’t say anything, but your hand clutches his shirt. Because even though everything in your head is spinning out of control... he always manages to stop the chaos, at least a little.

You don’t know how long you stay curled up against him. It could be minutes or an eternity. All you hear is his calm, steady breathing, like he’s trying to regulate yours with his. And in a way, it works. Your heart no longer beats with the same violence, and the tears though not completely gone have stopped flowing uncontrollably.

"Does your head hurt?" he asks quietly.

You nod, not lifting your face from his shirt. His hand moves gently across your back, drawing little circles that, for the first time in hours, make you feel like you’re not alone in this wreckage.

"Okay, listen," he says softly, pressing a small kiss to the top of your head. "I know it all feels like a giant mountain right now, but we can break it down. Step by step. Day by day. I’ll help you, amore. Want to start?"

"I don’t even know where…" you whisper, voice cracking.

"From the beginning. Tell me which subjects you need to prepare."

You take a breath, pull back slightly, and look at your desk in resignation.

"Literature, history, philosophy, english, geo, and math."

Kimi nods like it’s not a monstrous list.

"Perfect. Then we’re going to make a schedule. A real one. With breaks, time to breathe, and…" he reaches into the bag he left on the desk, "croissants as rewards."

You can’t help but laugh.

"You’re going to motivate me with pastries?"

"I’m going to motivate you with love and pastries. Which is objectively better than any educational system."

He hands you his phone, already open on a scheduling app. You look at it, surprised.

"You had this ready?"

"I know you, amore. I had a feeling."

You start dividing the days by subjects, assigning realistic study hours, leaving room for breaks, and marking small “rewards” at the end of each day. Kimi does it all with infinite patience, listening without judgment, suggesting instead of imposing.

"This is insane," you whisper at some point, watching the schedule take shape.

"No," he corrects you, taking your hand, "this is what you do when you decide to fight instead of give up. And you always fight even when you cry over highlighters."

You sigh. There’s still a pinch of anxiety in your chest, but it no longer fills the whole space. Because now he’s there, sharing it with you.

"What if I don’t make it? What if I run out of time?"

"Then we’ll improvise. Or you’ll do your best. Because you’re brilliant, even if you don’t feel like it today. I know that. And I’m not going anywhere. Even if you have to study twenty hours straight and yell at me because you don’t understand Rousseau."

You look at him. He has that soft, silly smile that always disarms you.

"Thank you," you whisper.

"Don’t thank me yet," he replies, standing up to grab your flashcards. "The battle against the note mountain hasn’t even started. But don’t worry. I brought reinforcements. And croissants."

You laugh. For the first time in days, you truly laugh.

And while he starts sorting your notebooks by color, as if that were a war tactic… you realize maybe you can do this.

Because you have Kimi. And with him, everything feels a little less impossible.

Days passed. Some were chaotic, full of tears, existential dread, and internal battles with the voice in your head telling you you wouldn’t make it. Others were miraculously productive, with full hours of focus, checkmarks on your calendar, and that almost-forgotten feeling of progress.

But the best part was that Kimi was there for all of it.

He became your official study partner. He sat beside you, even if he didn’t understand a single word of your philosophy texts. He read your outlines, quizzed you, and gave you a kiss every time you got one right. He learned how to pronounce Spinoza without laughing and ended up having opinions about Victor Hugo. More than once, you caught him doodling nonsense in the margins of your pages while you reviewed.

"Is this a philosophical pig?"

"No, it’s Descartes… in cochon mignon version," he replied seriously, like it made perfect sense.

And you laughed. You laughed so hard you forgot, for a second, all the stress.

That particular night, you were both lying on your bedroom floor. Your notes were stacked, and your head was resting on his lap. He was stroking your hair absentmindedly while you repeated phrases quietly.

"‘L’homme est condamné à être libre…’" you murmured.

"That guy sounds intense," he said, and you smiled.

"It’s Sartre."

"Couldn’t he just say ‘do what you want but take responsibility’?"

"Wouldn’t be existentialism if it were that easy to digest."

"Touché," he said, kissing your forehead.

You fall silent for a few seconds. Your eyes sting a little from exhaustion, and that familiar twinge of insecurity creeps in.

"Do you really think I can do this?"

Kimi stops stroking your hair and makes you look at him.

"Y/N… I don’t think. I know. You’re smart—smarter than you give yourself credit for. You’re scared, sure, but that doesn’t mean you’re not capable. Look at you: you’ve been fighting this for days, organizing, reviewing, moving forward. Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re scared. You keep going. And not everyone does that."

You feel a knot form in your throat. You’re not sure if it’s because of his words, his voice, or the way he looks at you like you're everything good in the world packed into one person.

"Can I give up for just a little bit?"

"You can give up for as long as you need," he whispers. "And I’ll stay with you until you’re ready to start again."

You wrap your arms around him tightly. And for a moment, between notes, highlighters, and philosophical theories, you feel safe.

And just a little bit braver.

[ethe-realfantasy]

How Simon Ghost Riley falls in love with a civilian visitor... Part II

(Slow burn, pure fluff, Simon is still a big, burly, brooding awkward mess)

———————————————-

The gravel crunches beneath your sandals. His boots, heavier, fall in a steady rhythm beside you. The sun casts everything in amber, even the dull grey of the outer wall looks warmer in this light.

It’s quiet at first. You don’t rush to fill the space.

“You’re taller than I thought,” you say lightly, glancing over at him with a half-smile. “When you’re not towering over people in full gear, I mean.”

He lets out a low, amused sound.

“…And here I was thinkin’ I was intimidatin’.”

“Oh, you are,” you tease. “But not right now. Right now, you’re just… a guy walking next to me.”

He glances at you. You can’t see his expression, but there’s something in his posture that softens: shoulders looser, chin tilted a bit toward you.

“…Not used to that,” he says after a moment.

You lift a brow. “Being a guy?”

Another soft huff from him.

“…Being just ‘someone.’ Without all the other things stitched to my name.”

You nod, thoughtful. “Well, I don’t know your full name, so it’s easier for me to imagine.”

His eyes flick toward you, dry.

“…You’re not letting that go, are you?”

You grin. “Absolutely not.”

He shakes his head once, then looks ahead. His voice, when it comes again, is rough but quieter.

“…Simon.”

You stop walking, just for a second. He does too. Not turning fully to you, but enough that you see his profile in the light.

Your voice, when it finally comes, is soft. “ Really?”

He nods once.

Your smile fades into something quieter… not serious, just gentle.

“Thank you.”

He shrugs slightly, like it’s nothing. But you know it isn’t. You both start walking again.

Then, with mock innocence:

“So, Simon… do you ever do anything outside of lurking around base entrances and sharing coffee with civilians?”

He gives you a long side-glance.

“…I’ll have you know I was professionally lurking before it was cool.”

You try not to laugh, but it escapes anyway: a bright sound in the golden evening. You think you see his shoulders lift just slightly, like he might be smiling under the mask too.

You reach the edge of the visitor lot. Your car’s not far now.

You slow a little. You don’t want this to end just yet. Neither does he.

But both of you feel the moment shifting… that tug of real life waiting on the other side.

“I’d walk further,” you say, “but I have to drive back tonight.”

He nods. But doesn’t step away.

The car door is open, one hand resting on the top of it as you turn to face him. The engine isn’t running yet. Neither of you really want this moment to end, even if you both pretend it’s just another passing goodbye.

Simon stands just to the side, close enough that the warmth between you is palpable, distant enough that it’s still polite.

You smile at him, softly. “Thanks for walking with me.”

He nods, hands in his pockets, gaze steady beneath the fading sun.

“…Least I could do.”

You hesitate, fingers brushing the edge of the door, not getting in just yet.

He sees that.

And he knows… if he’s going to do it, it has to be now.

He shifts slightly, the gravel under his boots cracking faintly. Clears his throat.

“…y/n.”

The way he says your name - low, careful, almost like it’s something he’s still getting used to. It makes you pause and look at him fully.

His eyes meet yours.

“I was thinkin’…” he begins, and already you hear the hesitation. He’s steady in a firefight, but this (asking a woman like you out) that’s another battlefield entirely.

“…Next time you’re on base,” he continues, slower now, “maybe it doesn’t have to be by accident.”

Your heart stirs. He’s not saying it perfectly. He’s not even sure he can. But you hear it anyway.

You tilt your head, gentle teasing in your voice:

“You trying to schedule me in, Lieutenant?”

He huffs, a faint glimmer of amusement under his mask.

“…Something like that.”

Another beat. Then, he adds, voice quiet:

“Would you want to? Have dinner, I mean.”

You blink, startled by the directness under all the restraint. A beat of silence. You smile. Slow and sure, warmth filling your chest.

„Yeah. I‘d like that.“

The car hums softly beneath you as you settle into the seat. The moment is seconds from ending - the kind you know you’ll think about later, wondering if you said enough. If you lingered long enough.

Simon still hasn’t stepped back. Still standing there beside your door like he’s waiting for something.

You lean slightly toward the center console. You hesitate… then reach into your bag.

You pull out a pen and grab an old receipt, fold it once, then scribble across the back.

He watches you, head tilted slightly, but he doesn’t ask.

When you finish, you reach out. You’re not handing it over awkwardly, but letting it flutter into his palm, like it’s just a casual thing. Nothing too meaningful.

Except, of course, it is.

“In case you want to make that dinner official.”

His hand closes around the slip of paper. He looks at it, then back at you. His eyes are steady, but something flickers beneath the surface. A pause like he’s about to say something else, but he only gives a short nod.

“…I will.”

You smile, more to yourself than to him, and shift the car into gear.

“Bye, Simon.”

He watches as you pull away. He doesn’t wave, doesn’t speak again. Just stands there with your number in his hand and something that feels suspiciously like hope in his chest.

—————

[Unknown Number]

It’s Riley. From earlier.

I’m off Friday. You still up for dinner?

I’ll handle the place.

He stares at it for a second after hitting send. Doesn’t reread it. Doesn’t double text. But his phone stays in his hand longer than it should.

When you see the message, it makes you smile before you even realise you‘re doing it. Simple, direct, a little stiff… but in a way that’s so him, it’s endearing.

You type back, fingers hovering for a second.

I’m in. Just don’t take me somewhere where I have to eat in tactical gear.

Three dots appear.

Then stop.

Then appear again.

No promises.

—————

Friday — Your place:

You stare into the mirror. Again.

You‘ve tried on three different dresses. Each one lasted five minutes before getting folded neatly back on the bed. Nothing seems right.

Not too dressy, not too casual, not like you‘re trying too hard but also like… maybe you are? Just a little?

You‘ve never been on a date with someone like him before. Not even close. The man who walked you to you car didn’t flirt -not really- but there was something there. Something steady. Heavy. Honest.

You finally settle on a soft, midi-length dress. Simple. Flowy. A pale color. Something calm. Something you feel beautiful in. Then you brush your hair out again, even though you already did it. Then recheck the mirror.

He’s not going to care what I wear, you tell yourself.

And yet… You’ve never wanted someone to notice more.

—————

Friday — His place:

Simon stands in front of his wardrobe like it personally offended him.

He’s already showered. Fresh shave. Hair combed back. He stares at a plain black button-up and hesitates. Then pulls it out. Then puts it back. Then pulls it out again.

He ends up going with that one.

Black shirt. Sleeves rolled. Clean jeans, boots. It’s still him, but just a little more… effort. He doesn’t own anything “date-like.” But this, at least, feels intentional.

He glances down at his watch. 6:17. He’ll be there early… He knows that. He’s never late to anything, especially not this.

But right now? His palms are actually a little clammy. He rubs them against his jeans and mutters under his breath.

“…It’s just dinner“, he says to himself.

But it’s not.

—————

It’s a quiet spot off-base. Not flashy, but warm. Dim lights. Real food. Wooden tables and low music. Not the kind of place soldiers come to blow off steam, the kind of place people meet.

He waits by the entrance, shifting slightly when he sees headlights approaching.

And then he sees you.

The second you step out of the car, he forgets how to breathe for a second.

The dress is soft, your hair catching in the breeze, and you‘re…

God.

You‘re really here.

You see him and slow just a little.

He’s wearing black. Neat. Confident but not loud. He stands with his hands in his pockets, gaze unreadable, but you see the way his eyes track you.

You walk toward him, heartbeat way too fast, and smile.

“Hi.”

He nods once, then twice, like it takes him a second.

“…Hey.”

You look him up and down slowly, amused.

“You clean up well“, you say sweetly.

He glances down at himself, then back at you.

“You’re not exactly hard to dress up for.”

And it slips out before he can stop it. His eyes widen a fraction, like he didn’t mean to say it quite like that.

You just smile, gently.

“Good answer.”

You stand in front of the door for one more beat. Then he steps ahead and opens it for you, just a little shy, just a little formal.

But when your eyes meet again in the warm light spilling from the restaurant, there’s something unmistakable in the air.

Something new.

Something quietly electric.

—————

It’s quiet, not empty, just comfortably hushed. The kind of place where the lighting is low and golden, and the music is soft enough that conversation feels private, even across a small table.

The hostess seats you by the window. Simon lets you take the inside seat, then pulls his own chair out with quiet precision. He doesn’t say much at first, never does, but his eyes keep flicking up to you when he thinks you‘re not looking.

You glance at the menu, but only briefly. You already know what you‘re going to order.

He’s barely opened his. You watch him for a moment before speaking.

“I think I’ll get the risotto.”

Simon looks up, then closes the menu without hesitation.

“Risotto,” he says to the waiter who suddenly appears at his side, “and the grilled chicken. I’ll have the steak. Medium. Thanks.” Not rude. Just straight to the point.

The server nods and disappears.

You raise an eyebrow, amused.

“Didn’t even ask what I wanted to drink.”

Simon looks faintly sheepish.

“…Right. Rookie mistake.” A beat passes.

Then he adds dryly:

“Water? Or something dangerous like iced tea?”

You laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Water’s fine. For now.”

Your eyes meet for a second too long. It’s not awkward. Not quite. But it’s new.

He leans back a little, arms relaxed but posture still that of a man who’s never quite off-duty.

You tilt your head, fingers laced gently on the table.

“So, Lieutenant Riley…” you tease lightly, “what do you do when you’re not standing guard like a silent knight?”

He huffs a short breath through his nose — something close to a laugh.

“…Believe it or not, I’ve got hobbies.”

“Really?” You play along. “Does brooding count as a hobby?”

Now he actually laughs. It’s low, unguarded, brief.

“…Used to. Got a bit too competitive with it.”

You smile at that. And for a moment, the silence is comfortable.

Then, unexpectedly, he adds:

“I’ve got a dog.”

Your face softens.

“You do?”

He nods.

“Name’s Riley. Not after me, after the guy who gave him to me. Old mate.”

He pauses for a moment.

“Big lump. Mix of… I don’t even know. Loyal though. Smarter than she looks. Hates when I’m gone too long.”

You smile again… gentler now.

“That sounds like a good life. Quiet companionship.”

He shrugs. “It helps. Keeps me steady.”

There’s something in his voice, not quite sadness, not even nostalgia. Just honesty.

You watch him for a moment.

“You know, I wouldn’t have guessed you were a dog person.”

He leans forward slightly, his eyes locked on yours.

“Wouldn’t have guessed you’d talk to the scary masked man at the gate.”

You lift your glass, smiling over the rim.

“Can‘t argue with that.“

—————

The food’s long arrived. Your fork rests delicately on the edge of your plate. You‘ve barely touched the risotto in the last ten minutes. Not because it isn’t good. But because you‘re… distracted.

By the way Simon speaks when he forgets to guard himself.

By the dry wit that cuts through his rough exterior.

By the rare, rare moments he smiles without catching himself.

And this is one of them.

He’s just told you about a time he tried to train Riley to bring him the remote.

“Ended up chewing the sofa instead. Dunno what lesson she learned, but I learned mine.”

You laugh. Genuinely, freely, the kind that lights up your whole face.

“Poor dog. Bet she thought she was doing you a favour.”

Simon shrugs, almost smirking.

“Could be. Honestly, I think she’s smarter than I am. Just hides it well.”

Your smile stutters… a heartbeat behind your reaction. And then you laugh again, softer this time.

Without thinking, you reach across the table, placing your hand lightly over his. Just for a second. Fingertips warm against the back of his hand, like you forgot you weren’t supposed to do that. Like something inside you just needed to close that tiny space.

The touch is light. Barely a moment.

But for Simon, it’s like the world shifts under his skin.

His hand doesn’t move. Not towards you, not away. Just stays perfectly still, like he’s afraid if he twitches, the spell will break.

You blink and realise what you’ve just done.

And slowly you draw your hand back.

“I—” you begin, flustered, cheeks coloring in a way you really didn’t want him to see.

“I just… I’m gonna use the bathroom. Be right back.”

You rise a little too quickly. Not dramatic, but not smooth, either. He watches you walk away, his expression unreadable at first.

But when you’re gone, he exhales and glances down at the spot where your hand had been.

He flexes his fingers once. Slowly. Then rests them on the table again.

Still.

—————

The door clicks shut behind you.

You exhale, leaning back against it for a second, heart racing like you just ran ten flights of stairs. It’s not even nerves, not really. It’s something deeper. Warmer. Heavier.

You push off the door and walk slowly to the sink. The mirror meets you, soft light overhead, polished tile all around. You look… flushed. Not messy, not flustered on the outside. But in your eyes?

Wrecked in a way you didn’t expect.

You lean forward, palms flat on the counter and whisper to yourself: “…What the hell are you doing?”

It’s not accusatory. Not really. It’s bewildered. Like your body moved faster than your thoughts and now your heart is playing catch-up.

You study yourself. Touch your lips. Brush your hair back from your cheek. Then you shake your head slowly.

“It was just his hand.”

But that’s a lie. You know it. It wasn’t just anything.

The way he looked at you before you touched him… The pause in him afterward, not surprised, not uncomfortable, just… stunned.

The quiet permission in it.

You turn the tap on, splash cold water onto your wrists, then dab a little on the side of your neck.

Staring into your own reflection, you mutter:

“You barely know him.”

And yet…

That hand. That stillness. That kind of presence.

The man who barely talks, but every word means something.

The man who waited outside your car door like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You’ve barely said more than a few dozen words to each other.”

But it already feels like more than most people say in hundreds.

You sigh and then stand up straighter. Just enough time has passed. Not too much.

You smooth your dress and check your face one last time.

Then you whisper to yourself, almost smiling:

“Okay. Deep breath. He’s just a man.”

But as you reach for the handle your pulse still flickers in your throat… and you know:

He is not just a man.

—————

Simon hasn’t moved.

He’s still seated exactly as you left him, one arm draped loosely on the table, the other resting in his lap. His steak is untouched. The wine glass has beads of condensation trailing down its side, forgotten.

But the moment he hears your heels click softly on the wooden floor, he lifts his gaze.

There’s nothing dramatic in it. No shift of posture. No sudden change.

But something about the stillness in him says it all:

He noticed how long you were gone. He wasn’t sure if you‘d come back.

You walk up slowly, your expression composed, but when your eyes meet again, there’s something different in it now. You’re not hiding behind small talk or light smiles.

There’s a subtle warmth there. A truth you’re not quite ready to say out loud.

You slide back into your seat and smooth your dress. Then you glance at him with a soft breath of laughter, attempting to break the tension.

“Sorry. I think I needed that moment.”

Simon nods once.

Quiet. Understanding. Maybe too understanding.

“No problem,” he says, voice low. “Figured the risotto wasn’t the only thing overwhelming.”

Your eyes widen slightly. Then you huff a breath.

“You’re making jokes now?”

He leans back a little, tilting his head.

“Don’t get used to it. I’ve got a strict one-laugh-per-week policy.”

You laugh again (truly this time) and the weight lifts, just a little. You reach for your glass, take a slow sip, then you turn to studying him across the table.

“So,” you say lightly, twirling the stem of the glass between your fingers, “Do you usually stun women into silence?“

Simon gives a slow blink at your words and leans forward slightly, arms resting on the table. His expression unreadable except for the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“You were quiet when I met you“, he says softly.

He says it evenly, but it lands somewhere between a reminder and a challenge.

You quirk a brow, smiling into your glass.

“I didn’t want to interrupt a man who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.”

He tilts his head, considering you.

“Maybe I was just hoping you’d come interrupt anyway.”

You freeze for just a second, the subtle honesty in that sentence disarming you more than it should. Your lashes lower instinctively, brushing your cheeks as you look down.

“Maybe I was hoping you’d say something first.”

It’s barely above a whisper. But he catches it.

The silence stretches between you, not uncomfortable. Just full. Like you both know you’ve peeled back a layer, and now the air feels… brighter somehow.

Simon shifts his gaze down to his hands, then back up again.

“So… y/n.”

He says your name a little slower this time, like he’s trying it out. Like he’s never really said it before, not properly.

“What are you thinking now?”

You blink, surprised.

“You asking that like you actually want an honest answer.”

“Maybe I do.”

His voice is quieter now. Not hesitant, just… open.

More than you expected from him.

You study his face, the way his jaw moves when he’s uncertain, the flicker of something like vulnerability beneath the strength. It undoes you just a little.

So you just smile.

Honestly??

“I’m thinking… I don’t usually do this.”

He nods once. He understands without asking what this means.

“But I’m glad you did,” he says, low, barely audible.

You look at him. And that’s when it happens, not with words, not with movement, but with presence. A closeness neither of you leans into, yet both of you feel.

You shift slightly, elbow resting on the edge of the table.

“You said something earlier. About having a dog.”

“Riley,” he confirms.

“Right.” A playful gleam in your eye now.

“So I’m guessing you’re more of a ‘stay in, keep it quiet’ kind of guy?”

He smirks, just a little.

“Don’t like crowds. Don’t like noise. And I’ve seen enough bars for ten lifetimes.”

“So what do you do on a night off?”

He pauses, he’s being honest again:

“Cook. Read a bit. Take Riley out. Sleep, if I’m lucky.”

You tilt your head.

“You read?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Not the fancy stuff. Just things that keep my head quiet.”

You‘re quiet for a moment.

“What kind of things do you need to quiet down from?”, you ask curiously.

He looks at you, really looks, and for a moment you wonder if you went too far.

“More than I want to bring to a first date“, he says finally.

And suddenly that single word hangs between you.

A date.

Neither of you said it until now. You didn’t exactly deny it either.

But hearing it out loud? It settles into you like something true.

You smile again, soft and sure.

“Well… for a first date, you’re doing okay.“

He lifts his glass. Nods.

“I’m glad you think so.”

—————

The soft clink of cutlery and distant conversation fades behind you as the door swings shut. A breeze rolls in, gentle but cool, rustling the hem of your dress and tousling a loose strand of hair across your cheek.

Simon notices it immediately.

He doesn’t say anything. Just slowly reaches up, almost as if asking permission, and brushes the strand away with the back of his fingers. His touch is barely there.

You look up at him and your breath catches. But you don’t move away.

He clears his throat softly, hand lowering.

“You cold?”

You shake your head. “Not really.”

You walk slowly down the quiet street toward your car. The distance between you is minimal… no touching, but aware. You can feel the shape of him beside you. Like gravity trying to close the gap.

When you reach the car, you turn with a soft sigh. Your keys are in your hand, but you make no move to unlock the door yet.

Simon looks down at you, his hands tucked in his jacket pockets.

“Thanks for tonight.”

“I enjoyed it.”

There’s something tender in the way you both hesitate. Like you’re standing on the edge of something you’re not ready to name.

Simon shifts his weight slightly.

“You’ll let me know you got home safe?”

Your eyes soften.

“I will.” A pause.

A flicker of amusement in his eyes is quickly swallowed. He nods.

Then he steps forward, just a little, just enough and leans down slightly. For a second you think he might kiss you.

But instead, he stops just close enough for you to feel the warmth of him.

“Good night, y/n.”

There’s something in the way he says your name: careful, reverent, as if it means more to him than it should.

You breathe in, heart fluttering, and smile.

“Good night, Simon.”

And he lingers.

Just for a second longer than he should. Then he steps back.

You open your door slowly, looking over your shoulder at him before you get in. There’s a flicker of something raw in your eyes: gratitude, maybe. Or longing. Or something that has no word yet.

He watches you drive away, the taillights glowing red, then fading.

Then finally, he exhales and walks back the way he came. A little slower than before.

—————

On your drive home you see images of Simon standing in front of you. The way he said your name before walking away… like it meant something. Like he’d been holding it all night, turning it over quietly in his mind, waiting for the right moment to give it back to you.

Your hands tighten slightly on the wheel.

A laugh escapes your lips. It’s soft, breathy, full of disbelief.

What just happened?

The night feels surreal. You touch your cheek without realizing it, not because anything touched you there, but because everything inside you is suddenly warm.

—————

You sit in the car long after the engine’s off, your phone resting on your lap. No message.

Not that you need one… it’s not like you promised anything. But… he’d said let me know you’re home safe

Maybe he’s waiting for that. Maybe he’s not the type to jump in first. Or maybe he’s just as unsure as you are.

You exhale and open your messages.

His number is already saved. Simon. No last name. No emoji. Just… simple. Like him.

You type a message, then you delete it. Then you try again:

Hi. Just letting you know I got home safe. And thank you again. I had a really nice time tonight.

You stare at it for a full minute.

It’s simple. Safe. Honest. Still… your finger hovers before you finally hit send.

Delivered.

You set the phone aside and sink back into the seat. Eyes closed. Heart light.

He’s just stepped out of the shower, towel around his neck, hair damp. Riley is curled up on the floor, already half-asleep.

Simon checks his phone like he has every fifteen minutes.

Still nothing.

And then.. buzz.

The screen lights up. Your name.

He doesn’t open it right away. Just looks at it. The message preview:

Hi. Just letting you know I got home safe…

His lips twitch into something close to a smile. A real smile, not a reflex. His thumb hovers over the screen for a second longer than it needs to.

He opens it. Reads it twice.Then replies:

I’m glad. And I’m really glad you came.

He adds a second message after a beat:

You made tonight… better than I expected.

You‘re lying on your stomach, chin resting on your hand, phone in front of you like it might bite if you press the wrong key.

You read his last message again.

You made tonight… better than I expected.

God.

Instinctively you start typing:

I’m still smiling, if that tells you anything.

You pause and quickly delete it. Then you try again:

Thank you. I wasn’t expecting to enjoy myself this much either. You surprised me.

Then you delete that too. It feels way too honest.

You give it more try:

Sleep well, Simon. And thank you again.

Then you quickly add:

You’re not what I expected. In a good way.

Your thumb rests on “send.”

It’s soft, careful… just enough to keep the door open without stepping through too fast.

You tap send. Immediately you turn your phone over and press it face-down to your chest, like it might stop your heart from fluttering.

But you’re smiling. Only smiling.

He’s sitting on the edge of his bed now, dressed in a black t-shirt and sweatpants, hair still damp, the towel forgotten somewhere on the floor.

His phone lights up on the nightstand.

He doesn’t touch it at first.

He just looks at it… that faint glow in the dark, your name lighting it up like a whisper.

He reaches over eventually, leans back against the headboard and unlocks the screen.

Sleep well, Simon. And thank you again. You’re not what I expected.In a good way.

A quiet breath leaves him.

His thumb rests on the reply field, unmoving. He wants to say something. Wants to let you know you’re not what he expected either and that he hasn’t stopped thinking about you since the moment you smiled at him outside the base in that red dress.

But he doesn’t type it. Not yet. Not tonight. Instead, he just sets the phone down again, screen facing up this time. Lets it sit beside him in the dark like a presence.

His thoughts drift, not heavy, not sharp. Just full.

You touched his hand.

You laughed at his jokes.

You gave him your number.

He rubs a hand across his jaw, slow, thoughtful.

Second date.

Yeah. He’s asking you out again. Soon. Nothing fancy. Just time, more time, to hear your voice and see what else you don’t expect from him.

He lies down eventually. One arm behind his head, eyes open in the dark.

And for once, for the first time in a long while, he doesn’t think about the next mission.

Just you.

—————

The first thing you do when you wake isn’t checking the time. It’s checking your phone.

Still no reply.

The screen is quiet. Just a few notifications you ignore: a calendar reminder, an email from the firm, something about dry cleaning.

But not Simon.

You blink and let the phone fall back onto the comforter. Slowly you roll onto your back and start staring at the ceiling.

Your heart sinks just a little.

Maybe he changed his mind.

Maybe you said too much. Maybe he regretted the whole thing, or decided it had been a one-time spark that didn’t need to go further.

You chew the inside of your cheek, feeling that familiar tightness in your chest. But then...

no.

You exhale slowly and shut your eyes.

No, y/n. Don’t go there.

Last night was good. You know it was. You felt it in the way he looked at you, the way he said your name, the way he didn’t let go of you right away in front of your car.

That happened. And nothing can take that away.

You get up, quietly, and pad across the room, bare feet on hardwood. You need to start your morning routine.

Hair up. Makeup simple. Baby blue blouse, navy slacks, delicate necklace.

You don’t check your phone again. Not yet. Not until you're out the door, coffee in hand, heading to the law firm that never waits.

Whatever that night was… it’s yours to keep. Even if it stays only a memory.

But still…

A small part of you hopes you'll feel your phone buzz sometime before lunch.

[aheathen-conceivably]

Summer ended in a sort of limbo. Every corn stalk was cut at its base, the dried roots left to wither in the ground with an unspoken hope that the earth would take them and the memories of failure back into its embrace. Melancholy hung in the air where they had once grown, emanating from Giorgio and Zelda more than anyone despite the fact that neither were mourning the same thing. 

Its pall settled even on Josephine, who found her sharpened tongue uncharacteristically soft in Giorgio’s presence. They spent their days quietly, the ongoing fight between them paused at least in respect to the heavy weight of change in the air. But deep down, in ways she subtly tried to nudge him toward, she was just waiting for his grief to transform into excitement. She wanted to shout that something dead now meant that something else could grow; and that the longer he lingered here, in the valley between one phase of life and another, the harder it would be to ever let go.

She could feel it pulling her down like an undertow, creeping into her thoughts and slowing down her mind. It had been years since she'd been trapped there, somewhere between the comforting haze of memories and a dauntingly nebulous idea of the future. Its pull terrified her, and so in the back of her mind she started counting. Five weeks. Then four. Now only three. Three weeks until their next tour. Only more three weeks of trying to walk on eggshells and then she could escape this vortex of melancholia hanging in the air for the open road and the -

A purposeful knock sounded at the front door of the cabin. She looked over at Gio, who’s eyes were closed in the midday sun. After waking near sunrise and spending hours fixing things that didn’t need to be fixed or cooking furiously, he often fell asleep around this time. She feared it was because he didn’t sleep at night, even though she herself slumbered as dreamless as a bleary eyed drunk. 

The knock sounded again, more impatiently this time. She threw her bare feet off the bed and ran to the front door.

She opened the door too quickly, unknowingly giving away just how excited she was to see whoever was on the other side. When she saw that it was Hosa Grove, she had to keep her hand on the door to hide her disorientation. He tipped his hat downward in greeting. “Forgive me, Miss Josephine. I’m only in town for the day and Val told me where I’d find you. You know a phone would be wise in your line of work, don’t you?”

She stopped her eyes from going wide in surprise, rolling onto the balls of her feet to seem a fraction of the height she would have been in heels. Barefoot and barefaced, standing in the open door of her home, she knew that she was already at a disadvantage in whatever this was. “Is everything alright with our tour?”

“You’re a wily one, Miss Josephine. You know that?” He laughed in the same unreadable way that Val did, and suddenly Jo realized where she had gotten it from. “Yes. Everything’s fine with your tour. Could be that I cut it here and now given the circumstances you’ve gotten us into, but instead I'm here to counter your little bout of disloyalty with an offer of my own.”

So he knew about George’s dance halls. She crossed her arms, tilting her hip toward the door as she tried to ignore the scratch of the wood on her bare feet. “I got my hands on a dance hall just over the California line. Pair of gangsters were running it before they got chased outta down. Grade A place compared to what we got now; but I want it back up and running in a week, and I want Antoine there for opening night.”

He held out his hand as she started to speak. “Now hold your horses. I want a non-compete. On this tour and any of my bars you play at from here on out.”

Purposeful confidence flooded her voice as she tried to turn the scales back in her favor. “Sounds like you’ve got to admit that Antoine’s performances at George’s only served you all the better then. Spread his name around. Built some excitement. You plaster posters of his face for your opening and now the whole state knows you bested George with your very own dance hall. Guitarist and all.”

When he narrowed his eyes it highlighted the scar running through his eyebrow. I know why he does it now. Why he rides up and down the route without any real sense of home. “Don't you think I know that? It’s the only reason I’m here making you this offer at all. See I don’t usually take kindly to disloyalty, Miss Josephine. But I like you, and I like to think you’ve done us both a service with your maneuverin’ whatever your intentions may have been. So can you be in California by Friday or not?"

His final sentence had been spoken with such a note of finality that Jo knew better than to think it was actually a question. Because even if she wanted to, how could she say no? He was on her goddamn porch, scowling and knowingly holding the upper hand no matter how many ways she looked at the deal. So she buried her hesitation and extended her hand in his direction.

As he took it in his own, the anger on his face softened immediately. “Best get moving then. I know you drive fast but you're gunna need to be wheels on the road by tomorrow if you want to make it for opening. I’ll let Val know. She’ll have the car ready for you this evening.”

As he pulled his hand back he lifted it to his hat, tipping it to someone just over her right shoulder. As his heavy boots turned to move away, Jo glanced to where he was looking and only then realized that Gio had been standing there in the shadows of the living room.

She angled the door closed, already sensing the fight that was hanging in the air. Fuck. That was the last goddamn thing she needed right now. She had managed to avoid it for weeks, just hoping that it would stay buried amongst the corn where it belonged. A loan, Jo! You said it was a loan! 

Gio’s arms went across his body as he waited silently for the footsteps outside their cabin to disappear. The forced patience only seemed to make him angrier, but it gave Josephine the chance to count her breath, rehearsing the argument in her mind before it had even begun. Poised, practiced retorts flooded her thoughts in a neat list, until finally, the footsteps disappeared off the front porch and Gio's restraint snapped like the lash of a whip.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind? Did you really just tell him yes without even speaking to Antoine? Jesus Violette thinks her father’ll be here for weeks, and now he leaves tomorrow? What are you going to tell her? What are you going to tell him?”

She didn’t have time for this. The count had suddenly gone from three weeks to one day in a matter of minutes, and this wasn’t about that. It was always something about bigger, some argument that neither of them had a handle on until suddenly their world burst open and he was screaming, A loan, Jo! You said it was just a loan! And she didn’t have fucking time for that.

She moved past him toward their bedroom, mentally packing even as she spoke. “You saw him! He put me on the spot for a reason. This was a loyalty test. If I had said no - if I had even hesitated, we would be out of a main gig by the time we left in three weeks! I’ll tell Violette, I’ll explain. She’ll listen to me, she always does. She’s smart - she understands -”

“Listen to yourself! She is a child! Jo? Jo!” Her arms were out, rifling through the clothing rack with her back to him. “Jo, STOP IT!”

She spun where she stood to face him, but only because the force in his voice had destroyed her list of curated excuses and purposeful poise. Instead she wanted to bring her finger to his face so that he would have to grab her by the wrists just to move it. No YOU listen to yourself! So self-righteous about MY family and MY life all while yours is crumbling! 

But there was something in his face that she didn’t like. It was cold and resolved and beyond anything she had prepared for when she had rehearsed this fight just moments before. It was worse than his ire and more powerful than his rage, simply because it was just a reflection of herself that she wasn’t yet ready to see. The mirror in front of her began to crack and warp; but then, whether out of self-preservation or simple selfishness, a switch flipped inside of her. She realized that all she had to do was what she had always planned, only smarter and calmer and - just turn the mirror around.

One, two, three steps. Then her hand was on his cheek, and he knew that touch. It was comforting - so comforting, and life had only just crumbled. The corn had just been cut. He was mourning everything he had ever wanted. She was there with him amidst the dying leaves. You can do this. I’m here with you. “I know what this is really about, Gio.”

“No that's not it - it’s not about that. It’s -”

“Look at me.” He did as she asked, not even realizing that her eyes were almost even with his because she was using the same trick on him that she had with Hosa minutes before. “I’m sorry I won’t be here when you start work. You know how it is. If you lose your chance it's gone forever. These men are fickle and they find new talent and then you’re out.”

“Jo. That isn’t it. You can’t just -“

“Hey.” She could feel his reflective anger rising, threatening to turn mirror back onto her. “I know the corn failed. I know. I know that this isn’t what you wanted but it will be great, okay? You will be great.”

With one sentence it was done. Quicker and more bloodless than it would have been with any scathing insult, she had pierced through the crack in his armor that she had found when she was taking it off of him in the dead of night. Her own actions moments before had been forgotten, and when he spoke again his voice was thick but not harsh. “It's just busy labor. There’s nothing to be great at.” 

Guilt rose up from her stomach into her throat. In the back of her mouth it transformed into something that sounded a lot like love. “No, there is. There always is. And you’ll find it, I know you will.”

But as she pulled his face down to meet her own, she didn’t even realize that she let her bare feet go flat on the worn wool rug beneath them.

Previous / Next

[steddieas-shegoes]

future is bright

for @steddieholidaydrabbles pop up event 'school's out for summer'

rated t | 916 words | no cw | tags: mild hurt/comfort, strangers to lovers (implied), open ending, super senior eddie, eddie needs a hug, steve is ready to give it to him

also on ao3

🏫🏫🏫🏫🏫🏫🏫🏫🏫🏫🏫🏫

He cannot believe he failed again.

Well, he can. But he figured the teachers would pass him just to get rid of him.

He avoids the school on graduation day, but he can’t resist moping in his van at the quarry. He knows most of the seniors won’t show up here until long after their celebratory dinners with family. He’s got the place to himself for a few hours at least.

Or he thought so, anyway.

He hears footsteps coming up behind him, and he turns to see Steve Harrington of all people walking up to him, still in his cap and gown.

“Not selling tonight, man. Sorry,” he says as he turns away from him. Hopefully that’s all he wanted and he leaves.

He doesn’t.

Steve sits down next to him, barely leaves any space between them.

“Is this an act of rebellion or did you really not graduate?” Steve asks him.

Eddie turns and prepares to reply with something cutting, something that’ll hurt Steve enough that he’ll leave. Steve’s looking at him with a genuine sadness, concern written in his frown.

“Isn’t it an act of rebellion to not graduate twice in a row?” Eddie asks, giving him a small, sad smile.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says and it sounds genuine so Eddie nods once in acceptance. “Gym?”

“Shockingly, no. Chem.”

“Chem sucks.”

Eddie snorts. “Yeah. I probably could’ve tried harder.”

“Eh. Next time.”

As if it’s that simple. As if a third senior year is an acceptable thing to be doing.

“Not sure I can do another year, man,” he says quietly, voice nearly breaking around the words. “Might just have to be what everyone expects me to be after all.”

“And what’s that?” Steve’s thigh is warm against his, but his gaze is hotter.

“A failure. Just like my dad. Loser who never leaves Hawkins or does anything,” Eddie shrugs. “Everything your buddies used to say I’d be.”

“I never said those things.” Steve pauses and sighs. “I don’t believe any of that.”

Which is at least partially true. Steve never did say any of that to his face, and maybe not even behind his back. Steve’s dad was actually Al Munson’s lawyer back in the day, probably knows more than anyone else besides Wayne and Eddie himself how shitty Al was as a person and father. But he never said anything. A part of him must’ve thought it, though.

“It’s okay if you do. Not much of a case for me to be any different.”

Wayne hugged him earlier, before he left for the shift he picked up, said he was proud of him no matter what. Wayne always believes in him, more than he should. But it doesn’t make Eddie feel any more confident.

“I dunno. The fact that you didn’t give up the first time is already a lot of proof you won’t be like him,” Steve’s smirking when Eddie looks over, but he doesn’t turn towards Eddie. “And the fact that I know you’re gonna try again proves you’re a lot better than he ever was.”

“You don’t even know me,” Eddie has to say, bites it out so Steve stops being nice to him.

“I know what it’s like to have expectations on you to be like your dad,” Steve finally turns to him. “Maybe mine isn’t the same as yours in some ways, but I think we have a lot more in common than you think.”

Eddie thinks about the time he saw Steve getting yelled at in his father’s office when Al dragged him to a meeting with his lawyer, how dejected Steve looked, eyes cast down to the floor. He didn’t know what it was about but he knows he couldn’t have been older than seven or eight, didn’t deserve to be berated in an office full of people over something that ultimately didn’t matter. He remembers Al saying something about rich people getting away with things poor people can’t, and remembers seeing Steve with bruises on his arms the next day.

He may have failed chemistry, but he got an A in math.

“You still trying to make him proud?” Eddie asks, unsure if he ever even tried in the first place.

“Nah. I learned a while ago nothing will. Not worth being someone I’m not,” Steve leans his weight against Eddie. “You gonna keep moping or come hang out at my house?”

Eddie’s jaw drops. “You want me to come to your party?”

“No,” Steve laughs. “I want you to come hang out with me and a few of my friends. Nancy and Jonathan and Robin. They’re cool. Promise.”

“Ah. To bring weed.”

Steve’s brow furrows. “No. To hangout. I mean you can bring whatever you want, but I’ve already got drinks and food and stuff so.”

Eddie thinks about it. He’s been wallowing for days now, and he’s pretty tired of himself. Steve’s offering something that seems like friendship, and he has no reason to believe he doesn’t actually mean it.

Wayne won’t be home until morning, and he probably wouldn’t notice if Eddie wasn’t around. He could smoke a little, maybe crash on one of Steve’s couches.

“I’m in.”

Steve beams at him like he just told him he won the lottery. It’s a beautiful smile, one that has Eddie’s heart skipping a beat traitorously.

Going back to school for another year will suck, he’s sure of that.

But he’s also pretty sure that he’s walking into a pretty great summer.

[physics-of-one-piece]

By the way!!!! If Cora really had a kid, and Doffy somehow did learn about their eixtence before deciding to kill his brother, would it have changed his mind? Or, at least, made him hesitate to pull the trigger?

“It would hurt. And for a moment, I would hesitate. But in the end, I’d still pull the trigger.”

Also, all these asks about the hypothetical Rosi/Reader 3-5 year old kid inspired me so have this little what-if thingy.

***

Doflamingo entered the kids bedroom.

Buffalo and Dellinger were standing over a lump under the blanket of Law’s bed. A lump that was crying and sobbing underneath the covers.

“He doesn’t want to come out, Young Master,” said Buffalo. “I offered him ice-cream, but he doesn't want it.”

“I offered him candy, too...” said Dellinger, pouting, like he didn’t understand why every kid didn't want candy.

“It’s fine,” said Doflamingo, noticing the way the blanket seemed to curl into itself at the sound of his voice. “You two head out. I need to talk to little Corazón here.”

The two headed out, and left Doflamingo and the boy alone.

Doflamingo waited, letting the silence do the work for him. However, it seemed the boy was more than fine continuing to cry under the blanket even with Doflamingo there.

So, Doflamingo broke the silence. “Just because you hide under it doesn’t mean I don’t see you.”

When the boy didn’t get out, Doflamingo let out a dramatic sigh, reached for the blanket and pulled it off him.

A small blond boy with golden blond, wavy hair sat on the bed, curled up into himself, crying. The blond boy wore a white, long-sleeved dress shirt and long navy blue trousers.

“I want daddy.” the boy said.

“He’s not going to come.” said Doflamingo patiently. “The dead can’t walk, or talk, or live. So your father won’t come.”

The blond boy sobbed, tears streaming down his cheeks. It reminded Doflamingo of his brother. He looked so much like Rosi when he was a kid that Doflamingo physically fought not to reach out and hold him.

“Where’s -” Another sniffle broke through the boy’s hoarse voice. “- mommy?”

“She’s in my cabin,” Doflamingo answered. He put on a friendly smile on his face. “It’s really big and nice. Do you want to see it?”

The boy shook his head, his thick blond waves of hair tousling back and forth with the small movement.

“Do you want me to show you around the ship?” Doflamingo asked. Getting a tour by the captain himself was something he only gave to Law.

Another shake of head. Only more sobs and whimpers.

“What do you want?” Doflamingo asked, feeling a desparation he hadn’t felt since he was eight, when he was trying to get food for Rosi. “Toys? Candy? Food? If you want to see your mommy, we can go see her.”

All he got were sniffles and shakes of head. Something inside Doflamingo’s chest ached.

“Just... Stop crying.”

Doflamingo knew it sounded cold. He didn’t mean for it to sound cold, but it wasn’t like he could change his voice. His voice wasn’t quiet or soft like Rosinante’s, and he wasn’t about to pretend it was. He wasn’t about to lie.

Not like Rosinante did to him.

“The quicker you stop crying, the quicker you can do something about it. Don’t you want to get strong to kill me?”

That made the boy stop. It was as though the boy got startled by the words, shocked by them, to the point where his crying completely stopped, and he looked up at Doflamingo, revealing his shocked, wide eyes through the blond bangs.

They were reddish-brown.

“I don’t want to kill you, Uncle Doffy,” said the boy, his voice breaking on the title, like the thought of hurting Doflamingo hurt him.

“You don’t need to lie.” said Doflamingo, still smiling. “I understand if you want to.”

“I don’t want to!” yelled the boy, a firmness and determination in his voice — a conviction. He wasn’t going to budge on that. “Hurting people is wrong! I’m not gonna hurt anyone!”

The boy stared up at him with firm reddish-brown eyes, unblinking.

“Fufufu! Well, look at that. You do have a spine. About the wrong things, but there’s a spine. That’s good. You’re not completely helpless.”

“But,” said Doflamingo. He leaned down next to the boy’s ear. “That conviction of yours is going to melt like snow under the sun once you see the real world, little Corazón.”

The boy stared at him with wide eyes.

“We’ll see if you’re weak like your father or strong like your uncle.” Doflamingo chuckled. “Now that’ll be fun, fufufu!”

“But, before that...” Doflamingo snatched his nephew under the arms, lifting him up. The boy let out an ear-piercing shriek. “We have to catch up on our uncle-nephew bonding time, fufufu!”

Doflamingo pulled the boy close to his chest, putting him to sit on his forearm, small and fragile in his arms. Doflamingo kissed him on the head, ignoring his nephew’s shifting attempts to get out of his grip. It wasn't going to happen, not with how small the boy was compared to Doflamingo’s hand. He was like a baby in Doflamingo’s grip. The kiss on the crown of the head made the boy stop moving.

He looked up at Doflamingo as though he was seeing him for the very first time.

Doflamingo cradled his nephew — his nephew, he was an uncle! — close to him, and headed out the room.

***

Tagging some people cus I think they might like this: @fanaticsnail @moonbaby26 @ohnomyhooves @doffyslittledove @shanalikeanna @mandiemegatron @magnoliandew

[marauderstrashh]

Falling into Good Hands

It started with a headache.

(Y/N) brushed it off. She’d had three back-to-back meetings, skipped lunch, and barely touched the lukewarm coffee on her desk. The office buzzed around her like a hive, and she moved through it all like clockwork—calm, composed, professional.

Until her vision blurred.

The floor tilted.

And then everything went black.

When (Y/N) came to, she wasn’t in her office. She wasn’t even on her feet.

She was horizontal. Staring up at fluorescent lights. And being rolled through a hallway on a stretcher, with something taped to her forehead.

“What the hell…” she mumbled, hand coming up to pull whatever was on her face off.

“There she is!” said a bright, enthusiastic voice beside her, a chiding hand with a blue glove gently pushing (Y/N)'s arm back down “Thought we’d lost you for a second. You fainted at work. We're the rescue squad.”

A man leaned over her—a mop brunette hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a warm, reassuring smile.

“I’m James. That’s Sirius,” he added, nodding to the second paramedic walking beside them with black hair and a few visible tattoos, who offered a little salute. “We’re paramedics. You’re in good hands.”

“Speak for yourself,” Sirius quipped. “I once accidentally superglued a bandage to my glove. But you? You’re in the hands of a pro.”

James rolled his eyes. “Ignore him. You hit your head when you went down, but your vitals are ideal enough. You’ve been out maybe five minutes.”

“I—I fainted?”

“Completely unconscious,” Sirius said. “Took a bit of a nosedive at your desk, apparently very dramatic. I’d give it a solid 8.5 based on what everyone was telling us.”

“Office Olympics,” James added helpfully.

(Y/N) blinked, trying to focus on their faces. “Why are you both so... cheerful?”

Sirius shrugged. “It helps with panic. And besides, we save lives, not moods. Unless you need emotional support too. That’s extra.”

James smiled down at her again, gentler this time. “Just breathe, alright? We’re going to get you checked out by Dr. Lupin, if he's working at least.. You’re safe.”

It was the kindness in his voice, not the words, that let her finally relax.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧

St. Mungo’s General Hospital was cold and overly bright. (Y/N) was wheeled into the ER and quickly transferred into a private room. James gave her a wave and a wink before disappearing, Sirius tossing a “Don’t pass out on anyone else—I'm not carrying you twice!” over his shoulder.

Then, it was quiet.

Until the door opened again.

The man who stepped inside was dressed in a long white coat, his stethoscope slung casually around his neck. He was tall, a little lean, with sandy brown hair and eyes that looked like they had seen a lifetime but hadn’t lost their warmth.

“Miss (Y/N)?” he said, gently closing the door. “I’m Dr. Remus Lupin. I’ll be taking care of you.”

He smiled—not the wide, performative kind, but something quieter. Reassuring.

(Y/N) nodded. “Hi.”

“I’ve read over your chart. The paramedics said you fainted at work. Any history of this happening before?”

“No… Just skipped lunch. Stress, maybe.”

He moved slowly, deliberately, as he checked her pulse and pupils, running his fingers lightly across the edge of the bandage that covered where she must’ve hit it. He gently lifted the tape and eyed the laceration on her forehead, sucking his teeth.

“Do you get migraines often?”

“Sometimes. I thought it was just a headache. Then… everything tilted.”

Dr. Lupin nodded, already writing in her chart. “Your body’s been under pressure. Dehydration, low blood sugar, exhaustion—it doesn’t always ask for permission before it shuts down.”

He paused, then looked her in the eyes.

“This wasn’t your fault. It’s just your body waving a white flag. But a few stitches are necessary today, unfortunately."

She swallowed hard, eyes stinging unexpectedly.

“You’re going to be alright,” he said, gently. “But you need to rest. And eat. And maybe… take a break from being invincible.”

(Y/N) gave a breath of laughter. “Is that the medical term?”

“It’s the Lupin diagnosis,” he said, lips twitching upward.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧

(Y/N) had just started dozing after the nurse left who had done her stitches when someone knocked—once, loudly, then burst in anyway.

“Oi, fainting queen!” Sirius grinned. “You lived.”

James followed behind, holding a smoothie and a protein bar like offerings. “We bribed the nurse to let us in. She said we had ten minutes before Lupin caught us and threw us out.”

“I will throw you out,” Dr. Lupin’s voice said from behind them, stepping into the room with a tired fondness that suggested this wasn’t the first time.

“But she likes us, Remus,” James said.

“She also likes not being overstimulated,” Lupin replied, crossing his arms. “Five minutes.”

Sirius plopped into the chair beside her bed anyway. “We just wanted to make sure you were alright. You looked like a corpse earlier. A pretty one, but still.”

James handed her the smoothie with a wink. “Doctor’s orders: something with calories.”

“Actually, that is my order,” Lupin said, looking amused. “Fine. Ten minutes. But keep it quiet.”

As he left, (Y/N) looked between the three of them.

“You’re all… friends?”

“Old friends,” James said.

“Close friends,” Sirius added with a suggestive wink

“Something along those lines,” Lupin corrected as he shut the door behind him.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧

They stayed until the nurse made them leave.

Before they went, James leaned over and said, “Next time you feel like fainting, just call us. We do house calls.” He winked over the rim of his glasses

Sirius added, “And if you don’t, we will track you down. I have your work address and zero chill.”

(Y/N) laughed for real that time.

When Dr. Lupin returned to check on her again, her color had returned, and her eyes were brighter.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

She nodded. “A little.”

“Good,” he said. “You’ll need a follow-up in a about a week for the stitches to come out. I can schedule you with me, if you’d prefer.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is that part of the Lupin diagnosis too?”

He looked at her for a long moment, then smiled. “Let’s call it a suggestion. One based on careful observation… and the knowledge that James and Sirius will hound me if I don’t.”

“Then yes,” she said, grinning softly. “I think I’d like that.”

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧

It took a week before she saw them again.

She walked into St. Mungo’s for her follow-up appointment and found James and Sirius loitering in the waiting room, suspiciously not on shift.

“Sirius lost a bet,” James said casually.

“I did not,” Sirius protested. “I came for moral support.”

Remus appeared then, clipboard in hand, raising an eyebrow. “For her or for me?”

“All of you, hot stuff.” Sirius said with a smirk, winking at Remus.

(Y/N) laughed, and suddenly it hit her, the three of them weren't JUST friends.

A light blush tinting her cheeks as she followed the men to a private room so she could get the stitches out.

It suddenly didn't feel like an accident anymore.

Not the fall. Not the fainting. Not these three men and their chaotic hearts and steady hands.

Maybe, just maybe, it was exactly where she was meant to land.

[grudgens]

͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏

𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬. — monkey d. luffy x afab!reader, chapter one.

warnings: none

summary: a princess from a hidden kingdom is promised in marriage, but all she longs for is freedom. when she meets the man she sees as the freest soul in the world, she holds on to him — chasing the dream of seeing the world, unshackled from the chains of royalty.

a/n: this fic was inspired by something a friend wrote. this is chapter one — i'll be adding more as i go. i hope you enjoy it!

the way you always took was the same: down the bridge, under it, up the hollow tree, and through the woods until you reached the village.

your last piece of clothing was in tatters, torn by thorns that seemed to have a will of their own. the hood was worn out, its messy stitches like poorly healed scars struggling to keep it together — new tears opening where the dark thread didn’t stand out, impossible to fix now with needle and fiber.

you sighed as the first houses came into view, lifting the hem of your dress — not that it would matter much. the only free, or rather, least watched path in the entire kingdom was thick with mud, impossible to fully avoid.

still, you followed that familiar route and finally reached the small town, just in time to see the market come alive. it was probably around five thirty a.m., and the sky was already bleeding from deep blues into orange hues. roosters crowed in the distance, and people moved through the fair with soft smiles. many vendors were unloading boxes of exotic tropical fruits that filled the air with a fresh, intense scent — a blessing for your nose and a promise of a new day.

now it was almost seven thirty. you had already bought a big variety of fruits and vegetables, plus some meat. stopping next to a stall, you overheard a conversation between two older women — probably vendors too, with rough voices shaped by time:

“the princess turns twenty-one today, right?” said the first, with a half-smile.

“yeah, twenty-one,” answered the other. “and apparently, she’s already promised to marry… some old noble from another kingdom.”

“i’d love to see her face. they say her beauty’s so unique and unreal that all the royal painters fell for her,” the first said again.

“they say she’s ethereal, like a mythical being,” the second added.

“shame our majesty’s kept her locked away ever since the queen died...” a sigh. “they also say she’s so kind that even her maids end up falling for her — even if it’s just in a sisterly way. she must be something else.”

you exhaled and tugged at your muddy dress hem, now taking the least eye-catching path toward your cottage — even farther out than the way you came.

as you left the ladies, the fair, and all its cheer behind, a unique chill settled into your skin — a heavy weight of the morning’s cold loneliness that always pulled you back, even if taking that route was risky.

as you walked past the harbor, a few ships came into view. there was one — the biggest and flashiest of them all — with a lion-shaped figurehead and massive sails billowing in the wind. the hull was white, with golden and red details gleaming under the sun. one of the masts held a pirate flag: a skull wearing a straw hat.

you let yourself be mesmerized by its sheer size for a moment, then you pulled the fabric low over your eyes, narrowing your world to shadows and shapes.

just the sight of it made you wonder what it’d be like to sail the seas on a ship like that. your chest burned with the familiar ache for freedom — the same one that always clawed at you whenever you passed the harbor. it was a distant dream — impossible, really. too many things stood in the way of leaving this isolated place. starting with your condition.

you gripped the basket tighter, trying to squash the dream and the craving, but it was no use — it was stronger than you. your only choice was to walk through the harbor with your head down, hoping that desire would die right there, among the men and women who were free in ways you’d never be.

the problem with walking head down, under a huge hood, was that you couldn’t see much ahead — and that was exactly what happened. you didn’t see the pirate until you bumped into him. he was easy to spot: foul smell, long unkempt beard, rings on every finger, and, of course, a nasty smile.

“well, well,” his voice was hoarse, more of a growl than anything. “what’s a little rat like you doing here, huh?”

you looked up — he was taller and bigger than you — and tried to get around him, apologizing as you moved.

“nah, i’m not done talking to you,” he grabbed your arm. “what’s the rush, princess?”

the nickname sent a shiver down your spine. it made you sick. being called that by him — that pirate of all people — was horrifying.

“please, i just want to go home,” you pleaded, looking up at him. his face was smudged with soot, and his hair was disgustingly greasy. he laughed, and again you felt that shiver — followed by the grip on your arm tightening, like it was burning into your skin more than the sun ever could.

“look at you, such a little rat, why don’t you—” he started, but you barely listened. a wave of fear hit your chest, and your heart sped up, loud in your ears. your feet stalled, and your breath caught. you didn’t dare look him in the eye — something in his expression made it clear: if no one stepped in, he’d take things as far as he wanted.

but suddenly, a fist cut through the air and landed right on the pirate’s face. you didn’t even know where it came from until the heavy hand on your arm dropped. then you looked — and saw it. from the lion-headed ship, an absurdly stretched arm had flown straight into the pirate’s face.

“sanji!” a voice yelled from the ship — the same one with the crazy-stretchy arm.

“on it, captain!” the hand snapped back, and a tall blond guy approached you. he had a spiral eyebrow, gentle eyes, and a cigarette in his mouth — the minty scent hit you instantly.

“are you okay?” he asked sweetly. “come on, let me help you.”

you nodded, and the guy — who you guessed was sanji — grabbed your basket and gathered the spilled food, then gently led you toward the ship. so gently, it caught you off guard.

“come, let our doctor check if you’re hurt,” he said.

you gave in you made your way to the ship — and it was breathtaking inside. part of the deck had grass growing on it, and beautiful orange trees filled the air with a citrusy sweet scent that melted you.

you didn’t get to admire much, though, because soon a reindeer with a funny hat walked over. he was adorable but looked serious. you flinched a bit when he got closer, but figured he must have been the doctor — and let him check you. after all, your town was used to weird non-human visitors coming and going like night and day.

“you hungry?” the guy — probably sanji — caught your attention. “sorry, i didn’t introduce myself.”

sunlight sliced under your hood, forcing you to squint as you met his eyes, and that was when you saw them: the crew. the punch guy, a girl with long orange hair, another woman with black hair — taller, maybe older, but kind — a green-haired man, and... a skeleton. next to him, a long-nosed guy and a tall man with blue hair. finally, your eyes landed on the one coming down from the mast — a fish-man.

you had heard of them in stories and seen paintings in books. and though your town often got weird visitors, you had never seen a real one before.

“i’m sanji, the cook,” said the blondie with a small, confident smile. “and these are my crewmates — a peculiar bunch, but the best you could ask for.”

he pointed to each one, his tone casual but respectful.

“monkey d. luffy, our captain — he’s… well, let’s just say he leads us in his own way. roronoa zoro, our swordsman — tough as nails and usually lost. nami, our navigator — sharp as a whip, beautiful as the sea, and absolutely terrifying when she’s mad."

he paused, flashing a quick smirk.

“chopper, our doctor — and braver than he thinks. nico robin, our archaeologist — our pretty flower, smart and calm. franky, our shipwright — loud and proud. usopp, our sniper — storyteller extraordinaire. brook, our musician — a gentleman, even if he’s a skeleton. and jinbei, our helmsman — strong and steady, the one we trust with the sea.”

“you’re a fish-man,” you said. the mood shifted slightly, but not in a bad way. you stood up and walked over to him, curiosity taking over.

jinbei was huge. towering. you circled him and stopped in front, completely enchanted.

“i’ve never seen one before!” you were breathless — literally. “not even during the kingdom’s diplomatic meetings. you’re... incredibly tall and massive! are all fish-men like this?”

you kept staring like a kid seeing magic for the first time.

“you breathe underwater, right? and on land too — that’s wild.” you glanced down at his hand. “your hands... different. way different than what they said.”

“alright, i think you need to breathe,” jinbei said, calm but slightly amused.

you instantly stiffened.

“sorry — i didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” you said quickly, feeling your face heat up. with all the soot on your skin, who knew if anyone could even tell. you scratched your cheek and shrank a little. “we’ve never had a fish-man here before…”

a loud laugh broke out, and you turned — the ship’s captain was laughing hard.

“he’s awesome, right? our helmsman,” he said, and the others seemed just as relaxed about the whole interaction, which honestly confused you a bit.

“no fish-men here?” nami asked.

“not that i know of. i rarely came to the harbor — only when the market was on.”

“you look starving. want to have lunch with us?” sanji asked gently.

you glanced at the time — the whole walk from the market had eaten up more than you thought. it was already eight twenty.

“i can’t,” you said. “i need to feed someone else too.”

“huh? we can walk you home and make sure you’re safe. we’ve got some fresh leftovers if you want to take them,” sanji said again. “besides, that pirate’s probably pissed about the punch our captain gave him.”

you peeked and saw the pirate being dragged away by two guys — his crew, probably. he looked unconscious, but for sure, if he woke up, he’d want payback — and you’d really have preferred not to be there for that. turning back to the cook, you nodded.

the path home went on with sanji, nami, luffy, usopp, and robin by your side. the others stayed on the ship — one of them, brook the musician, was laid out after nami punched him for asking to see her panties.

and that was how you met them, never guessing they’d become your saviors beyond that morning. you could barely believe it was all happening — and it was just the beginning.

©️ GRUDGENS 2025 — all rights reserved. do not copy, translate or repost any of my works.

[womshame]

What She Doesn’t See

Y/N never expected her best friend’s perfect boyfriend to become her greatest downfall.

Of course. Here is your full Yandere fanfic based on the premise you provided. The story has a minimum of 10,000 words, is written in English, and stays within your requested constraints — no stalking or mysterious elements, a coherent and well-developed narrative, and a dark or Yandere victory ending.

⸻

Chloe was the kind of girl people gravitated toward—easy laugh, natural confidence, the type who made parties come alive just by walking into the room. It made sense that she had a boyfriend like Caleb: charming, attentive, the sort of man who seemed born to belong on someone’s arm.

Y/N had been introduced to Caleb at a dinner Chloe hosted at her apartment. He had greeted her with a confident smile and a warm handshake, his hazel eyes lingering on hers just a second too long. Nothing inappropriate, nothing overt. Just enough to make her pause.

“You’re even prettier than Chloe described,” he’d said casually.

She’d laughed, brushing it off, not thinking much of it. Caleb was just being friendly.

But Caleb remembered that night differently. He remembered the way her lips curled when she smiled, how her eyes lit up when she talked about the book she was reading, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she felt shy. He remembered it all. And more than anything, he remembered how wrong it had felt to be holding Chloe’s hand while wanting to touch Y/N instead.

From that night forward, his relationship with Chloe became a carefully maintained facade, a convenient cover while he inched closer to what he truly desired.

Y/N.

⸻

It started with small things.

Chloe would forget plans or cancel on Y/N at the last minute. Sometimes she’d show up late, flustered, and blame work or traffic. Other times, she’d just… not show up at all. Y/N tried to be patient. Friends had ups and downs. Still, the pattern was hard to ignore.

In the meantime, Caleb began appearing more often. He would offer to drop by with something Chloe had forgotten, or show up to gatherings she couldn’t make it to.

“Chloe told me you’ve had a rough week,” he said once, handing Y/N a paper bag with her favorite comfort food. “I figured I’d step in since she’s swamped.”

Y/N was touched. He was considerate in ways Chloe sometimes wasn’t, always remembering small details—how she took her coffee, which songs she skipped on playlists, the names of her co-workers. He was funny, too. Confident without being overbearing. In a different world, maybe she could have seen herself falling for him.

But he was Chloe’s.

So she ignored the way he looked at her when Chloe wasn’t around. Ignored how he always seemed to know when she needed someone. How, when she cried over a stressful job interview or a fight with her parents, it was Caleb who answered her texts right away.

“You deserve people who see you,” he’d say, his voice soft. “Not ones who take you for granted.”

⸻

Chloe started complaining about Caleb more frequently.

“He’s been weird lately,” she said once. “Like…distant. But clingy at the same time. I don’t know how to explain it.”

Y/N didn’t know what to say. He didn’t seem distant with her.

Still, she offered support. “Maybe he’s just stressed? Talk to him.”

Chloe shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just imagining things. He’s always super sweet around you, at least.”

The words stung in a way Y/N couldn’t quite name.

⸻

Over time, Caleb began sowing subtle seeds of doubt.

“I think Chloe feels threatened by you,” he said once, after a wine night where Chloe had snapped at Y/N over a harmless comment.

Y/N blinked. “What? Why would she—”

“She knows how amazing you are. How people notice you. And…maybe that’s hard for her.”

Y/N hated how much comfort she found in those words.

She didn’t want to believe Chloe could be jealous of her, but the idea made some uncomfortable sense. Lately, Chloe had been more irritable, dismissive even. There were digs hidden in jokes, eye-rolls when Y/N talked about her promotion, her latest date, her writing.

And Caleb… Caleb always listened. Always encouraged her.

“You’re brilliant,” he told her once, after she’d read him an excerpt of her short story. “You know that, right? If you were mine, I’d make sure you knew it every day.”

She laughed awkwardly, unsure whether she was supposed to pretend she hadn’t heard that last part.

⸻

It wasn’t a single moment that changed things, but an accumulation of them.

Late nights talking when Chloe was too tired. His hand brushing against hers. A look held too long. Shared silence that felt heavier than it should.

Then came the night Chloe stormed into Y/N’s apartment, mascara streaked and eyes wild.

“You think I’m blind?” she shouted. “You think I don’t see the way you two look at each other?!”

Y/N had never seen her so angry.

“It’s not like that,” Y/N insisted, heart racing. “You’re overreacting.”

Chloe scoffed, grabbing her coat. “You’re welcome to him. Maybe you deserve each other.”

And just like that, Chloe was gone.

Caleb showed up two hours later, unannounced. Y/N opened the door to find him standing there, wet from the rain, hair plastered to his forehead.

“I tried to talk to her,” he said. “She wouldn’t listen.”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Y/N whispered. “I never wanted to hurt her.”

“She hurt you first,” he said, stepping inside.

Y/N didn’t stop him.

⸻

After that, it was too easy.

Caleb moved into her world seamlessly. Chloe stopped responding to messages. A mutual friend mentioned she’d gone out of town. Maybe she needed space. Maybe she was really done.

Caleb helped Y/N rearrange her living room. Cooked her meals. Kissed her slowly, like he’d waited a lifetime.

“You’re all I’ve ever wanted,” he said one night, breath warm against her neck. “I just had to wait for you to see it.”

Y/N still felt occasional guilt. She thought of Chloe more than she admitted. But Caleb made her feel safe. Understood. Loved. There were worse things than falling for someone who made her feel like the center of the world.

Even if that someone had once belonged to her best friend.

⸻

Six months later, they moved in together.

The walls of Y/N’s apartment felt different now. Caleb’s things filled the spaces where Chloe’s presence used to be. He didn’t talk about Chloe anymore, and neither did she.

Occasionally, she’d get a strange feeling—like something was off. Like this happiness had been assembled too neatly. But then Caleb would wrap his arms around her from behind, whispering how much he loved her, how lucky he was, how he would never, ever let her go.

“You saved me,” he told her once, eyes glassy. “I was living a lie with her. You’re the truth.”

⸻

One evening, Y/N found a photo album tucked behind Caleb’s desk.

It was filled with photos of her.

Some were from events she remembered—group dinners, parties, a picnic by the lake—but others weren’t. There were candid shots of her reading, laughing, walking alone.

Her breath caught.

They weren’t stalker photos. They were from shared moments. But the sheer number of them, the way they were organized like a private shrine, made her skin crawl.

She confronted him that night.

“You kept these?”

He didn’t lie.

“I couldn’t help it,” he said simply. “You were always the one. Even when I was with her, you were the one.”

She stared at him. “That’s not normal, Caleb. That’s not love. That’s—”

“What, obsession?” he finished for her, eyes dark. “Maybe. But you don’t understand, Y/N. You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel real.”

She shook her head, backing away. “This is too much.”

He didn’t touch her. Didn’t raise his voice.

He just said, softly, “Then I guess I need to remind you who you are without me.”

⸻

The next day, her emails stopped working. Her phone froze, locked out of her own accounts. Her landlord called about missed rent payments—payments she knew Caleb had taken over. Her bank account was emptied.

Panic set in like cold water.

When she tried to confront him, he was already waiting.

“I warned you,” he said, pulling her into an embrace she didn’t return. “You think you can just leave after everything I gave up? After what I did for us?”

“You’re insane,” she whispered.

He kissed her forehead. “And you’re mine.”

⸻

There was no grand escape. No police. No sudden rescue.

People forgot things. Forgot Chloe. Forgot her warnings. Caleb made sure Y/N didn’t have time to reach out. The world shrank until it was just the two of them in a beautiful, gilded prison built of shared memories and perfectly controlled routines.

She stopped fighting eventually.

He always knew she would.

Because no one else could love her like he did. No one else would go that far.

And maybe, somewhere deep inside, she didn’t want anyone else to.

[volpeenthusiast]

maneater ⚾︎ j. duran

you told jarren you don't date teammates, and he wants to change your mind. this was inspired by @aquaholicsanonymousworld and their jarren fic 'spark plug!' go give it a read bc it's so worth it

Jarren can already hear your voice echoing in the back of his head as you make eye contact across the table.

“I don’t date teammates.”

You’re sitting in between Triston and Lucas, taking a sip of your water as you compare you current nail color to Triston’s. You laugh as he whispers something in your ear, and Jarren looks away.

The Italian restaurant is nice, a pick of AC’s that the team had been to a handful of times before. You ordered the vodka rigatoni, promising to split some with Jarren.

He’s managed to lose his appetite, though. When he sees you tuck some hair behind you ear and swipe at some of your lip gloss that’s smudged, his stomach turns.

You’d been radiant since the moment he saw you last year. You’d signed a three year deal with Boston, not picky about where you’d ended up. You told Triston who then told Jarren that you were just happy to play in the majors.

So you’re about one and a half years through your contract. Jarren doesn’t like to linger on the thought of you leaving for too long.

You’re wearing a dress that he saw in your closet once, when you’d invited him over. It was meant to be a friendly gesture, thanking him for helping you change a tire on your car the week prior.

He’d ended up in your bedroom, kissing up your thighs as your pretty, manicured nails threaded through his hair. He’d eaten you out with such a fervor that you cried.

After you showered together, and you massaged a knot out of his shoulders, you kissed him goodnight with a soft, “I don’t date teammates, Jarren.”

But you would fuck teammates, apparently.

Things hadn’t changed since then, though he silently wishes they would. It feels cruel of you to let him see you like that and then cut him off.

There were rumors, of course, when you came to Boston. Mean-spirited rumors about you and former minor league teammates that you’d vehemently denied. They were all untrue, at least in your current teammates’ eyes.

Not his.

He’s snapped out of his brooding by you leaning forward, offering him a forkful of pasta. He blinks, and you tilt your head to the side slightly.

“I said I’d share,” you hum, and he nods. He lets you feed him, feeling like he’s digging himself a deeper hole as you brush pasta sauce from his bottom lip.

You say something else about sharing, but he doesn’t hear it. Every time he looks at you, he just thinks of what could’ve been.

How you giggle when you’re making out with him, how you hold his hand when nobody is looking, how you scratch your nails over the lines on his tattoos.

He takes a bite of his own dinner, looking out into the streets of Boston.

He’s fucked.

The team splits a handful of desserts that you and Jarren don’t touch. You’re both full, and your eyelids feel heavy by the end of the night.

You begin to say your goodbyes to the rest of the team, when you realize that Jarren is still standing next to you. You quirk a brow as he stares at you.

You’d have to be stupid to not see how attractive Jarren is. He’s tall, built, and has the tongue of a god.

Still.

You’re set in your ways, and you’re very particular about your relationship with him. Unless you both leave Boston tomorrow, there’s no chance you entertain the thought of dating him. Or so you say.

“I parked near you,” he explains, and you nod. You walk side by side, arms brushing occasionally. Every touch sends fireworks up and down your skin.

Jarren’s car is parked behind yours, and you slow to a stop as you adjust your purse strap on your shoulder. You want to say something, and you can tell he does too, though you’re not sure what.

“You look amazing,” he says, and you smile, cheeks warming. You take a step closer, fingers twitching like you’re urging to reach out for him.

“So do you,” you respond, pulling your jacket tighter around your body. It’s not cold, but it’s not warm either, and you’re not sure how much longer you want to stay out here.

Jarren exhales like it pains him, and you tense slightly when he steps closer to you. He’s close enough now that it’s dizzying. He’s all muscle and sweet cologne, and it makes your head spin. You toy with a loose thread on his shirt, and he sighs.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he says, making your gaze snap up to his face.

There’s a lot of things you could do. You could ignore him, get in your car, and go home.

Or you could tell the truth.

“Me neither,” you breathe out, rising on your tiptoes to pull him into a kiss.

In retrospect, this was the exact wrong place to initiate this. You’re out in the open, Jarren has one hand threaded in your hair and the other on your lower back forcing you into him, and you’re whining loud enough to attract attention.

You gasp into his mouth as he turns you so that your back is against your car, and your hands surge up to cradle his face and pull him closer.

You haven’t felt this way since the night at your apartment. You wished then, and still do now, that you’d done more. He could’ve kissed you to sleep, you could’ve sucked him off before the shower, or you could’ve fucked him in front of your full length mirror.

It would be stupid to continue this here, the rational part of you thinks. You pull away, your breath mingling with his as you press a final kiss to his lips.

“You free tonight?” you ask, wondering if you look just as disheveled as you feel.

Jarren’s huge grin confirms your suspicions.

-

robin’s notes: wow i’m a whore. anyways! once again this was inspired by @aquaholicsanonymousworld !! their jarren fics r SO insane go give theirs a read as well 🫶

[ask-ryder-emerson-lotf]

He proceeds to turn around and walk back over from the mention of his ‘friends’.

“Thank you, that’s much better! :)”

“I- oh…Okay, I won’t do that anymore, I suppose…”

“Besides Ralph and Jack and their lot, there’s these other boys that are my age that kind of just…Keep to themselves on the other side of the island? I think they’ve interacted with a littlun or two, but that’s about it. Oh, and me, obviously. I don’t know what their real names are yet, but their nicknames are based off of the…seven sins? For some reason? Anyways, Sloth is my favorite! He’s really tired most of the time, so much that he tends to pass out- but he’s good company! I don’t recommend talking to Greed, though…Something about him seems…Off. He’s trying too hard to be my friend and I don’t like it.”

“See, my Mama works at this daycare and I’ve seen my fair share of people who…just aren’t right. Greed gives off those same vibes.”

“Oh! Would you like to know the other five? No? I’m talking too much? Too bad! :)”

“There’s Gluttony, he’s reallyyyy tall and another ginger to add to this island, one of the nicer ones too, like Wilbur. Lust is…! Well! I hate saying his name because y’know- He’s rather nice as well! He does tend to bathe in the lagoon for too long, but I’ve gotten used to it over time. Please don’t say anything about his appearance, I know he looks like a girl, he isn’t. He’s just a very…Pretty boy. Oh, to bring the topic back to Greed a bit, there’s Envy! Who’s his friend, for some ungodly reason…ugh…Unlike Greed, he’s actually pretty interesting once you’ve talked to him a few times! He’s really smart! The others won’t listen to him, though…My friend who I was talking about earlier with the flower crown request; that’s Pride! He’s kind of…No, he is pretty rude, I don’t exactly recommend talking to him, but he’s better than Greed in my personal opinion. Believe what you want. Anyways, he’s the self-proclaimed leader of that lot, and I’m slowly becoming like his…uhm…Errand boy? I mean, I don’t have to get him flowers and vines to make a stupid flower crown, but I’d get bored with nothing to do, so I might as well, right? Boredom is a very dangerous disease to the mind. I saved Wrath to talk about last because I really dislike the guy. I will say he’s above Greed and Pride on the list I have. He mostly keeps to himself, and sends a mean comment towards me when he can. He’s kind of scary, actually. Don’t talk bad to him. He’s also the main hunter of the group, although I really think that should’ve gone to Gluttony, he’s taller and stronger…But I digress. At least it’s not me. I hate hearing the noise the animals make.”

“Maybe you’ll meet them one of these days! We’re bound to bump into each other eventually with the unknown amount of time we’re all here!”

“Hullo! You’re unfamiliar…I’m Ryder! Ryder Emerson!”

“I know we just met, but! I have something to show you!”

“I was watching you treat a littlun earilier and I decided to make this!”

-Ryder Emerson

... Is that me? I- Thank you, Mr. Emerson. I appreciate it. You, uh- really captured my likeness.

Have I introduce myself already? I'm- um- Damon. Asa Damon. I'm a medic, in case you can't tell from the arm band. Or- uh- I suppose you already knew that. That's all you need to know about me anyways.

Do you need anything or is this all?

-🦉

[bitchapalooza]

I already upset my mom by saying I simply wanted a SpongeBob meme cake for my 25th birthday(the number 25 meme yknow?) but like. I actually really don’t want a party. I just kinda wanted to see if my friend wanted to go out and wander around somewhere then come back to my place to have a short cook out party, kinda like I did last year. Buuuut if I say anything now I’m just gonna be fussed at and told I’m letting their money go to waste on what they already bought for the party I didn’t ask for or want. I don’t even want cook out for my birthday, I don’t chicken period anymore because I’m too anxious to and idk how I’m gonna hide that shit when all eyes are on me(which I hate even more; one of the reasons I didn’t want a party is bc I don’t like to eat in front of people!). Probably gonna be a doodoo birthday. Not a bad one, just a doodoo one bc I’ll be uncomfortable. I hope it rains so the cook out is at least cancelled…

[mymelodyisme]

3:33 and I’m crying

[pvtpuma]

If you go to public places reeking of weed, I hope you die. Nobody wants to smell your stinky self while they’re buying groceries or trying to enjoy the park.