#i can only hope that by some other miracle

[kqutie]

EPIC: THE FAIR MAIDEN

CHAPTER ONE : THE SECOND MIRACLE

relations. : platonic various epic characters/reader -- platonic odysseus/reader ; platonic polities/reader ; platonic eurylochus/reader ; platonic odysseus' crew/reader

chpt. sum. : you settle down for a game of animal crossing but faint and wake up in the EPIC: The Musical universe.

tags. : EPIC x ACNH ; reader is a comfort gamer ; female reader ; pure comfort ; reader helps ody get home ; happy ending for everyone! ; isekai and transmigration ; fix it fic ; animal crossing new horizons game mechanics ; characters know their future

length. : 5.5k

a/n : this is very unserious but is meant to be pure comfort. This is also pretty self-indulgent and is the result of my current obsession with EPIC: The Musical. I'm sad it's over but am happy to add to the fandom and make a place for myself in it (❀' ˘ '❀) I hope you darlings have a fun time reading!

navi. | series m.list

Pulling away from your phone, you sigh in content and stretch. EPIC: The Musical had become an obsession of yours and now that it was complete, you were delving into fanmade content; a mix of animatics, fanart and fanfiction. You had just finished reading a fanfic of the characters reacting to their future via the musical before it ever happens. The final chapter ends with all the characters returning to their original places in the universe, eager to avoid the mistakes they have just witnessed leading to their demise and Odysseus' change from man to monster.

Before they could be sent back, Odysseus took a moment to lovingly bid his beloved Penelope and only son, Telemachus goodbye while the gods pledge not to interfere with his journey home as long as he doesn't make the same mistakes. If they should encounter each other again, they will not be courteous and everything will unfold as it had been told to them in the musical.

The ending left you with a feeling of hope. In the universe of that fanfic, Odysseus will know what to do for a brighter future and you have full confidence in him fulfilling that – he is the warrior of the mind, after all.

It was still rather cold outside and leading into the evening, you were eager to bundle up in your giant beanbag chair with a blanket to play your favourite comfort game: Animal Crossing: New Horizons. First things first, however, you float into the kitchen to brew some tea and prepare a small plate of snacks. You have a lot of plans for your gaming session tonight. Your island was going under a huge revamp. For your new aesthetic, you're leaning into a cottage-core theme, something rustic with flourishing wildlife, trees, flowers and beaten paths. You were going to miss your fun, rural town island but you're very excited about the cosy vibes a countryside theme would bring. You're sure the change will only elevate the cosiness of the game.

It was going to be a huge undertaking but you've paid all your loans, gathered all the recipes, furniture and miscellaneous items, played the DLC, unlocked everything there is to unlock, collected all the fish, bugs and art to display in the museum, and you have an island full of villagers you adore. Revamping the island is the most exciting thing you can do now that you've played the game to the fullest. Hence why you were preparing your favourite snacks to have with your best blend of tea. Even though you've technically 'completed' the game, you're still eager to play it over and over again.

When you were finally curled up in your huge beanbag, wrapped in your fluffiest blanket with your tea and snacks on the side table, all you had left to do was put something on in the background; naturally, you chose the 'EPIC' soundtrack. You were obsessed.

Hopping into your island, you begin by erasing all your previous terraforming and rearranging your rivers and lakes. Everything you wanted to include had been planned out beforehand, all your new island decorative pieces were ready in your storage and you had your iPad with your mood board and notes showcasing your detailed plans at your side as well. Everything was going as planned. Your character was also wearing the perfect custom-designed dress for the occasion. It's a long, flowing white sundress with blue accents that you've paired with the cutest white platform heels. It always makes you giggle to see your character wearing the construction hat with such a cute dress — it adds so much charm.

As 'Polyphemus' begins to play, you shudder and press your lips into a thin line. This is the point where everything begins to change for Odysseus and your heart drops every time. However, you're reminded of the recent fanfic you read and hope the author takes the time to write a follow-up where the characters change their fates for the better. You adore them all so much; you want everyone to have their happy endings, especially Odysseus.

Focusing back on your island, you're finally happy with the layout and bring out your wooden shed to begin decorating, pulling things directly from your storage. However, where the storage menu should be showing, there's only a black screen.

"What's happening?" you ask yourself and press the buttons of your Nintendo switch randomly, confused at the suddenly unresponsive screen, "I thought this was fully charged...?" just as you begin to manoeuvre out of your curled-up seating, a sudden lightheadedness washes over you, making your eyes squint in confusion before you're finally pulled into the same darkness as your screen.

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

Odysseus etches the image of his wife and son's faces into the forefront of his mind. They've been his anchor throughout the ten-year war with Troy and now that they've won and are on their way back home, he needs them more than anything —especially now that he knows the potential future ahead. Determined to avoid such anguish, Odysseus, commands his entire fleet to avoid following the birds despite their dwindling food stores. Having also witnessed their potential future, his men readily oblige.

It was comforting to see that his bond with the crew had not suffered in the aftermath of the blessing they were witnesses to. Rather, they were moved by his struggles and his vengeance against Posideon, honouring every member with six hundred strikes. Their captain had made a god bleed for them, they dare not betray such a man. The musical was a moving epic that gave them the exact map to avoid if they wanted to reach home safely.

"I'll make it home soon, I promise," Odysseus promised his loving wife, remembering the love and worry in her beautiful eyes. They were the same eyes he had fallen for, soaked in a familiar affection that only seemed to grow after witnessing their potential future. Nothing had changed. She still loved him and that was a huge comfort.

"I know... I love you," he replies with a searing kiss, desperate and messy after ten years apart. Pulling away, he looks fondly at his son who looks at him with admiration and love thinly veiled by worry. Looking at Telemachus felt like looking into a mirror, all except for the eyes he shared with his mother. His son had the same head of wild hair as his own, the same strong nose and straight brows as his own.

"I don't want you to go yet..." there were unshed tears in his son's quiet plea and Odysseus had to pull his ten-year-old son into a bone-crushing hug.

"I won't be long. I know what to do now. I'll get home soon," Odysseus promises into his son's crown and presses a firm kiss through his brown curls. Pulling away, he stares fondly into Telemachus' eyes, his beautiful son. Had he ever seen a boy so perfect before? Only his wife could create such beauty and perfection, "Take care of your mother while I'm away,"

Telemachus launches himself into his father's arms once again, burying his face into his strong shoulder, "Always, father,"

That final interaction has been replaying in Odysseus' mind ever since he returned to the boat he and his crew had suddenly been swept away from. It felt like so much time had passed but they were returned to the exact location and time they were first taken from. What an experience that had been. A blessing and a curse all at once. To bear witness to such a horrific future was harrowing but Odysseus would take it as a lesson learned. He won't risk the life of his best friends nor his crew ever again. They had survived the war against Troy, all 600 of them; they should be able to return home unharmed.

"Odysseus, my friend," Polites' familiar voice calls to him, bright and merry but with a heavy weight upon it. He understands the reason without needing to ask.

"Polities," they greet each other with a smile, "I know you're worried about our stores but we can survive without them until we find another island," Polities doesn't protest but nods in understanding. There's a pause that stretches on but not in discomfort. The two merely absorb the moment, comforted by the knowledge that they have avoided a massive turning point in their journey.

"We are here for you, my friend. All I wanted was to make that clear," Polites looks at the crew rowing at the paddles, keeping a leisurely pace. "We are loyal to you, our captain, who has led us to victory after ten years," Odysseus smiles and nods demurely at his best friend in silent appreciation, "that future has not happened yet, nor will it ever happen. I know that you will make sure of that."

"If the crew should ever act up, we will be there," Eurylachous steps up to the two of them with a somewhat hesitant air, his posture stiff. Events of the mutiny he led against his brother-in-law and friend had not been able to leave his mind ever since his first viewing. The tall second commander shudders to think of himself ever becoming the shrivelled-up, hungry, desperate and vengeful man who dared go against the captain he had first betrayed by opening the windbag. He was determined to avoid such a fate. What a sorry fool he had turned out to be. It was unbecoming and he had since been congested with guilt.

Odysseus and Eurylochus silently take in the other. Eurylachous with a boulder of guilt in the pit of his stomach as Odysseus wears an unreadable expression. They were supposed to be brothers, friends, comrades. The people they had become in that future were not them now, and it will never be them. Ctimene's face appears in his mind. They share a similar goal; to return home, to the wives they adore and had fought the grueling war for.

The tension is broken by Odysseus who brings his arms up to wrap around their shoulders and pull them close, "Thank you, my friends," All three share a smile and savour the bond they share. It was one they valued all the more now that they knew of their potential fates, and it was a bond they were unwilling to sever. If they could make it out of Troy victorious after ten years of conflict, they could easily protect each other and the friendship they share. "We will make it home. I swear it."

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

It had been several days and yet, there was no island on the horizon, meaning no food to hunt and feed his men. Odysseus' mind was reeling. This cannot be. Surely there would be some kind of island they could set anchor nearby. After taking the proper steps to avoid the worst future they could possibly think of, had Odysseus inadvertently condemned his men to a much more painful and agonising fate? Slowly, his men across all 12 ships had stopped rowing; they no longer had the energy. And the winds were close to nonexistent, providing no aide to his fleet's sails. Should they have docked at the Cyclops' island anyway but made a proper plan to steal the sheep instead? But that was too high of a risk, and everyone agreed that it was not worth it. What tragic luck was this? Was his crew doomed to never return home alive with him as their captain? Was the miracle they were blessed with a waste, now that he had given the wrong command?

A headache begins to hammer at his temples and Odysseus groans, the rumbling in his stomach and the painful ache rippling from it was unquenchable. The image of his hauntingly starved self and crew flashes in his mind. The world seemed determined to make him suffer, though there was no god to blame; he had given the command to avoid the Cyclops' island altogether — this was his fault.

"Captain!" Elpenor's— their youngest crew member —shout brings him out of his spiralling thoughts and directs his, as well as everyone's attention to a wooden structure that had suddenly appeared on their boat.

"What is that?"

"This wasn't in that musical,"

"How did it get on our ship?"

Looking around, it appears as though this was unique to their ship only as none of the other 11 ships were causing the same chaotic murmuring as the one Odysseus was aboard. Of course. It had to be the captain's ship this strange phenomenon occurs on.

"It has a door, should we look inside?" Polites comments, reaching for the handle only to be stopped by Odysseus.

"Let me open it," he turns to everyone else and loudly commands that they step back and prepare for what may come from opening the door. After taking a slow breath in and slowly releasing, Odysseus finally flings the door back and jumps to the side as a body falls in a heap at his feet.

The crowd circle the figure and are shocked to find a woman. She looks foreign with clothes they have never seen before. Where had she come from? Odysseus looks back at the slim wooden structure to find it already closed. Polites was the first to kneel beside her, cradling her head and gently urging the strange woman awake.

"Polites, step away from her!" Odysseus commands as Eurylochus unsheaths his large sword and prepares for a potential threat.

"She looks harmless, Captain,"

"That's no excuse to let your guard down," Odysseus snaps, flashes of another dark future playing in his mind. Had avoiding one grizzly fate led to another, darker one?

Polities gives him a judging look, "Open arms, Captain," his best friend wasn't getting the point. Although Odysseus was appreciative of his friend's boundless optimism, he wasn't going to take any chances.

"Just keep your distance, we don't know how much of a threat she is until she's awake. And if she is a threat, you'll be the first in her way of attack!" Odysseus' words don't even allow a single drop of doubt to taint Polites' determined stare.

"Wait look! She's waking up!" Eurylochus points his sword and gets into a familiar, battle stance, ready to pounce.

"Polities! Get. Back!"

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

Groaning, you turn away from the harsh lighting shining down on you and nuzzle into a comforting warmth.

"It's alright, Captain," a distant voice assures, the shouting that follows only pushing you into the comfortable warmth further, unknowing of the effect your innocent action has on the individual currently holding your head in his lap. "She means no harm," you then feel gentle pats over your head as the same kind voice urges you awake, "Hey there... can you wake up for us?"

Propelled to respect the kind and gentle stranger's request, you brave against the harsh sun and will your eyes open. Blinking rapidly, you adjust to the world around you as you're helped to a sitting position. You part your lips to ask what's going on but no sound comes out and your confusion is evident on your face.

"Hi there," a warm face greets you, pushing away the confusion and worry at your sudden muteness. Gazing at the man before you, you can't help but lean in with interest. His face feels familiar and you're drawn to the curiosity of it. He wears square glasses and adorns rich, chestnut curls that fall over a headband. His skin is sunkissed and a little sunken into his angular bone structure, which makes you worry slightly, he doesn't look healthy at all. He looks starved. "Uhh.." Polites smiles shyly as you reach up to cup his cheek with furrowed brows, "My name is Polites, can you tell us who you are, fair maiden?"

You finally register the murmurs surrounding you and mutely gasp when you realise you're surrounded by a circle of men, dressed in clothes typical of ancient Greek times. Everyone had the same sunken, unhealthy appearance as Polites. What was happening?

"My friend asked you a question. Answer him at once!" a cold metal touches the underside of your chin and you're forced to look up the body of a large sword and into the eyes of another recognisable figure. Eurylochus.

This can't be...

Shaking your head in disbelief and denial of the situation, you fall back into Polites' arms, who sternly waves away his dark-skinned friend. "Sheath your sword, friend, she means no harm..." Polites' arms circle you but he doesn't pull you further into him, leaving space for breath between your body and his own. It was more comforting than you anticipated as you press your face into his shoulder, trying to deny the reality you were in right now. "Captain, Odysseus, please,"

A sigh draws your attention away from Polites' shoulder and towards a broad-shouldered man with bronze skin, dark, wavy hair and an imposing air of confidence and charm about him. Distinguishing him from the rest, he wears a purple cloak that's secured with a gold pin on his shoulder; he's the captain. Odysseus. Are you in the EPIC: The Musical Universe? Is this a dream?

"...if she meant to do harm, she would have done so already. Sheath your sword, friend," Odysseus nods towards Eurylochus' sword.

"Yes Captain," the second in command readily complies.

Finally breathing in relief, you turn back to Polites and take his hand into both of yours to shake happily in greeting. The solid feeling on his hand makes this feel less and less like a dream, which makes you all the happier that they don't see you as a threat anymore. Otherwise, you would have become fish food. However, dream or reality, you were going to live this to the fullest as an EPIC fan. Your actions make the crowd release the tension in their shoulders. A handshake is a sign of peace and shows the absence of a weapon in one's hands; Polites was right to believe in your innocence.

"Haha! See, Captain?" Polites smiles at Odysseus, who shakes his head in disbelief but smiles regardless. Trust Polites, to make such quick friends, "May we know your name?" Polites asks after returning his attention to you. Frowning sadly, you shake your head and tap against your throat. You go as far as to part your lips and attempt to speak but nothing comes out. "Can you... can you not talk?"

You shake your head in confirmation and miss the sadness shared between the men surrounding you both. "How should we address you then?" Odysseus asks aloud and you shrug your shoulders. You don't really mind how they refer to you, so long as it wasn't hurtful.

"As long as it's of no offence to you, can we call you by any name?" Polites asks, to which you readily nod and he smiles before thinking deeply, "How about we refer to you as fair maiden? It's simple and you're the only maiden here so, everyone will easily know it's you," without complaints, you nod and hear a murmur of the nickname amongst the group make its rounds; the crew testing the name for themselves. It makes you smile shyly. Although you love the main characters, you always adored the background vocals of the crew and to hear their murmurings was a little flustering.

"How did you get here? Do you know?" Odysseus takes a knee beside you and you try not to look visibly awestruck by the closeness, "You fell out of that thing," the captain points towards a familiar, slim wooden shed. It looks exactly like the shed you failed to access the contents of before you blacked out on Animal Crossing. Curiously, you stand and make your way over to the shed, the crowd parting and staring with interest as you do so.

Opening the door, a familiar storage menu screen finally reveals itself to you. And it's full to the brim with all of your collected items from Animal Crossing. From the curious but unruffled looks in the crowd surrounding you, it doesn't seem as though they can see the storage screen and you immediately close the shed door to shake your head 'no' at Odysseus, who looks disappointed but has no choice but the accept the unsatisfactory news. However, his expression lightens when his eyes drift upwards.

The Captain turns to his men and sends them to their stations at the oars, "Follow those birds, no matter how far they may lead us, it will be towards land. We have another mouth to feed so full speed ahead!" his words make your eyes widen and rush forward with your arms outstretched, waving your hands side to side and shaking your head — a clear expression against his command. In the distance, you can tell that Odysseus' fleet is still composed of its full 12 ships so he will be leading them to Polyphemus' island, where everything will take a turn for the worst and you don't think you're capable of going through such horrors first hand.

Odysseus narrows his eyes at you, "What do you mean 'no'?" he pauses for thought, "...do you know about the Cyclops too?" you're shocked at his words. How could he know about the Cyclops if he has yet to set foot on the island? And if he's already done so, why was Polites still alive?

You nod slowly. You do know about the Cyclops...

"We're long past the Cyclops' island, days past it, in fact," he looks at you with caution, "...how do you know about the Cyclops?" Naturally, being unable to speak, you can't explain your circumstances articulately but that was no longer satisfactory for the captain. Odysseus looks you up and down, taking in the unusual attire clothing you. It doesn't look like any garments he has ever seen before. It's a beautiful garment he would love to see on his wife but its unfamiliar style raises his suspicions, "What are you doing here? Are you another test from the gods? They promised not to interfere with my journey home unless I make the same mistakes as in that musical's future!" your eyes widen at his words and you make the slow realisation that you're not only in the universe of EPIC but specifically in the aftermath of the reaction fanfic you had just finished reading. You remember hoping the author would continue with a series that has the characters taking active steps to avoid their tragic fates.

The hostility being raised against you, from the Captain, no less, didn't bode well, however, so you rush back to your shed. You don't know why you have your animal crossing storage shed but you were going to use it. It may be your only way of expressing your peacefulness without a voice.

Opening the storage once more, you search through the categorised panels and select a basket of bread with your finger. The instant it's selected, the basket of freshly baked bread appears in your arms and you turn to Odysseus with a smile, outstretching the offering as a token of your peaceful intentions.

Odysseus stares at your offering of bread with a dropped jaw, similar to the one Eurylochus was displaying. How could you have been able to store freshly baked bread in such an innocuous structure? It was Polites who jumped forward with a shout of glee, "Fresh bread! My friends, look!" His words draw the attention of the crew from where they're actively rowing the oars. The sight of food makes them stop and slowly approach with grumbling stomachs, eyes wide and mouths watering. The closer they get, the more potent the smell of fresh bread becomes and there's a chorus of grumbling stomachs surrounding you. "Is this for us?" Polites looks at you with a smile that widens when you nod in affirmation.

"Wait! You take the first bite," Eurylochus insists, cautious after witnessing their encounter with Circe. The rest of the crew heed his words and reel back as if subjected to an electric shock. They had almost forgotten the cautionary tale of the musical. Everyone now watches you with judging eyes. Taking no offence, you select a small bun and bite into it with a grin. Everyone around you watches with bated breath but cheers when you swallow and there are no negative side effects. Food! Finally!

"Thank you," Polites nods at you with a grateful smile before distributing the basket to the crew members. Behind him, Odysseus is left speechless but soon meets your eyes with a similarly grateful expression. He and Eurylochous nod in thanks, which you bow in return to. The tension between you had fully evaporated. The crew do their best to evenly ration out the bread but a singular basket won't be enough so you return to your storage shed and bring out more baskets of bread that you have saved up, grateful that cooking recipes was one of your favourite things to do on the game.

"You have more food?" Odysseus voices beside you, suddenly very close and you nod with a bright smile, handing him another basket of fresh, warm bread. It appears as though, no matter how long it's been since you've cooked the recipe, it comes out fresh and warm. You have five baskets of fresh bread circulating amongst the crew now and see if other recipes also come out freshly cooked. With a silent hum, you select the minestrone soup and out comes a deep ceramic bowl with hot, appetising soup filling it to the brim. Like in the game, the portion looks enormous in your hands and looks capable of feeding more than one person. This will go perfectly with the bread and you leave your shed to hand the bowl of soup to a small circle of men sharing a bread basket. They're in awe of your offering and thank you endlessly, eagerly dipping their bread into the soup and savouring the delicious taste of food after days without. With a wide smile, you turn around and reach for Polites, who happily follows you back to your shed to help distribute more bowls of soup.

"How does that thing work?" Eurylochus reaches out to the shed once all the food has been distributed but you quickly block his way and shake your head. Suddenly tense, Eurylochus nods and firmly turns away, his hand safely back at his side, "Understood..." This wasn't a windbag but he wasn't going to make the same, silly mistake as he did in that musical. Never. He's just happy the crew and himself finally have some food to eat, the birds and a distant island without a Cyclops long forgotten.

"Thank you for your help," Odysseus walks up to you with a charming grin that you happily return, a warmth blooming in your chest at being able to help one of your favourite characters get home. Your easygoing, happy nature is very reminiscent of Polites and the Captain finds himself an easy victim to your warm and comforting presence, willing to follow your optimistic nature. Looking back at his smiling, feasting crew, he breathes a sigh of relief and bites into a round loaf he managed to take for himself as the bread baskets made their rounds. "Do you happen to have more food?" he suddenly asks, nervous of your response. "I have 550 more men to feed across eleven other boats," he tilts his head towards the rest of his fleet, closely following his ship. Odysseus was ashamed to ask so much from one person but felt an immense feeling of relief when he turned to see your kind smile and warm gaze. It's as if you were saying 'Of course, I do', eager to offer your help.

"You have more food, fair maiden?" Polites cheers, eagerly volunteering to help escort you onto the other ships for a delivery of food.

You shake your head but hold up a finger, wordlessly asking them to wait patiently. The 50 men of this boat had eaten all of the bread and soup you had stored so you had to make more from the crops and ingredients you had stored. All you needed to do was bring out your small kitchenette. Hopefully, game mechanics still apply when cooking and you'll have enough food to feed the 550 hungry men left of Odysseus' fleet. Returning to your storage, you easily bring out your kitchenette and follow the recipe for making more bread baskets and minestrone soup. It was easy enough, especially after realising that all you needed to access your personal storage without the shed was to think of it and it would readily appear for your eyes only.

While you were hard at work making more bread baskets and soup, you urged Polites, Eurylochus and Odysseus to sit down and eat calmly. They had been watching you the entire time, jaws dropped in awe and eyes gleaming with admiration, their hearts beating with hope and almost brought to tears at being given yet another miracle. They were going to make it home after all!

It took some time to make the first few baskets and soups for about five ships but, by that time the crew had already devoured their share and all eyes were back on you. Feeling shy, you convince them to focus their attention elsewhere by offering dessert via oranges. From living in the modern world, you know all about scurvy so oranges are the perfect fruit to offer; you make a mental note of bringing some oranges with you to the other ships too. The crew were delighted and eagerly devoured the abnormally large oranges you handed them. They were the perfect sweetness and were so juicy, that many who finished their share were left licking the juice from their fingers. They feel thoroughly fed, and, although it was a mere helping of bread, soup and orange, it felt like a feast fit for a king. Odysseus attested to that sentiment.

"Is she a descendant of the Goddess of Harvest? The Goddess Demeter?"

"She must be,"

"No, she was sent to us as a divine intervention. She must have been sent by Hermes."

"But look at the orange she gave us, it's the biggest, most delicious and perfect orange I have ever seen. She must be a descendant of the God of orchards and fruit, Dionysus."

"We are lucky to have her, she must have been sent by the Goddess Tyche of luck."

Many of the crew members begin to speculate your origins, with some raising their voices above the others, their words coming out more clearly. But you were none of those things. You can't even begin to explain how you got here and it isn't as though you could even attempt to voice any kind of explanation. It's quite flattering that they think so highly of you— enough to relate you to the gods and goddesses —but if any good person was capable of offering help then they would do so without regard for what it may cost them. And that was what you were doing. You were only doing what any good person would do. It's just your luck that you happen to have the same skills and itinerary as your ACNH character. The only unfortunate thing is that you were made mute because of it too –at least most seem to understand what you want to say by paying attention to your actions and movements, much like your villagers.

To distract from their high-praising musings, however, you get busy cooking enough food for the 550 other men left to feed, quickly filling up your personal storage after you had emptied it of the decorative pieces you originally wanted to dot around your revamped island. Once finally done, you turn to Odysseus and nod. The captain smiles widely, brushes away the orange juice from his chin and calls for a flag to be raised, signalling for the rest of his fleet to fall in line with his so that you could be escorted safely to deliver food.

"Polites and Eurylochus will escort you. They will also explain your presence to the rest of my men." Odysseus explains as you nod along and gently express that your shed doesn't need to be brought with you. Again, Eurylochus nods and backs away, calling for two men to guard the shed while they make the food delivery. In the distance, you watch the boats easily line up and a wooden plank is provided to bridge the distance between two ships. Just as you are being led away by Polites. Odysseus calls out to you, "Fair maiden," he bows at the waist, the rest of the crew following close after, bowing deeply and sincerely, "Thank you,"

When the crew and Odysseus finally look up, they are greeted by your bright, close-eyed smile and the faint outline of pink and yellow flowers in the air surrounding your face. You're a beauty, a kind embodiment of mercy bestowed upon them in their hour of need and they dare not take you for granted.

navi. | series m.list

a/n : I hope you darlings enjoyed the read! I'm leaving this small passion project open to continuation as I do have more plans for it (Perimedes and Elpenor will make an appearance in the next chapter, for sure!) but nothing is set for how many chapters that would entail. This series will probably be pretty short but will definitely end happily ٩(^ᗜ^ )و '-

Please feel free to tell me your thoughts and what you may want to see happen. Who knows, I might be inspired to include your own daydreams ヾ(｡✪ω✪｡)ｼ

[benispunk]

Who's That Girl?

Chapter 16: It's A Miracle

Logan receives a call from Charles, saying the center needs to close. Little does he know his guardian angel lives under the same roof as him.

logan howlett x reader

TW: language, D&W, it's sad and then it's not sad.

A/N: hello!!!!!!! see??? I promised you light at the end of the tunnel and there, you have it!!! though it's only the light, you're not out of the tunnel....yet.... In case you're asking yourself wait...this is super unrealistic, let me tell you I did some research and like 60% of whatever business is going on is real. don't come at me. it's a fan fiction. hope you like it!! enjoy!!!!! (p.s: yes there's nick fury, there, y/n's high school is just an entire mcu reference)

→ this fic is inspired by the TV Show New Girl, Wade and Logan aren't Deadpool and Wolverine (no powers/mutant gene etc) but I did take most of their character traits and storyline!!

Masterlist /Previous Part

The dinner table was a lively mix of clinking utensils and Wade’s animated storytelling. Y/N sat across from Logan, catching his occasional glances but noting the stiffness in his posture. He had barely touched his plate, his fork tracing patterns in the mashed potatoes while Wade relayed his latest gig mishap.

“So then I said—wait, wait, hold on—” Wade waved his fork for emphasis, nearly flinging a piece of chicken across the table. “So this guy yells, ‘You suck!’ and I’m like, ‘Yeah, but only on special occasions, and definitely not for you.’” Wade smirked, pausing for dramatic effect. “Gotta keep the standards high, you know?” He chuckled at his own joke, but Logan didn’t react.

Logan’s brow furrowed as he glanced at the caller ID. His jaw tightened as he stood and picked up the phone. “Excuse me,” he said, stepping onto the balcony and sliding the door shut behind him.

Y/N and Wade exchanged puzzled looks. Through the glass, they watched Logan pace back and forth, one hand holding the phone to his ear while the other raked through his hair. The muffled sound of his voice filtered into the room, sharp and uneven.

“Already?” Logan’s tone was incredulous, tinged with frustration. “No, that’s not—dammit, this isn’t right. Not for them.”

Y/N’s heart clenched. She couldn’t make out the specifics, but Logan’s fragmented words and tense body language painted a grim picture. Wade’s smile faded, concern clouding his features as he tapped his fork against his plate.

“Should we…?” Y/N whispered, her voice trailing off.

Wade shook his head slightly. “Give him a minute. He’ll tell us if he wants to.”

But as the minutes stretched on and Logan remained on the balcony, his pacing slowing to a halt, their worry deepened. Y/N couldn’t stand it any longer. She stood and carefully slid the door open. “Logan?”

He turned at the sound of her voice, his face shadowed by the dim balcony light. The usual strength in his eyes was replaced by an unsettling mix of anger and despair. He swallowed hard, looking away as if to shield them from his emotions.

“The center… it’s closing,” he said finally, his voice raw and barely audible.

Y/N felt her stomach drop. “What? They’re shutting it down?”

“Yeah,” Logan muttered, gripping the railing so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Charles just called to tell me. They’ve hit their limit. Too many students, not enough funding. They… they can’t even guarantee making it to the end of the school year.”

Wade stepped onto the balcony, his usual levity replaced with quiet concern. “Logan, that’s… that’s horrible, man. What are they gonna do about the kids?”

Logan let out a bitter laugh. “Find replacements, supposedly. Like that’s an easy thing to do. They need specialized care. They need consistency. This… this isn’t fair to them.”

Y/N stepped closer, her hand hovering near his arm. “Logan, I… I’m so sorry. Is there anything we can do?”

“No,” Logan said sharply, then softened. “No. Charles said it’s out of our hands. They’ve been barely holding on as it is. Apart from a miracle, nothing can save it now.”

His voice cracked on the last word, and he quickly looked away, blinking hard. Wade started to speak, but Logan cut him off with a raised hand.

“I need to…” Logan began, his voice faltering. “I need… I don’t fucking know.” He stepped back, brushing past them into the apartment.

Y/N followed, her heart breaking at the sight of his trembling hands as he grabbed his jacket. “Logan, please, let us help—”

“I can’t handle this right now,” he said, his tone distant. “I just… I can’t.”

Without another word, he pushed past them and went inside, grabbing his jacket from the back of the couch.

“Where are you going?” Wade called after him, concern lacing his voice.

“To see Charles,” Logan muttered without looking back. “Maybe we can… I don’t know. Try to figure something out. Just—don’t wait up.”

The door slammed shut behind him, leaving Y/N and Wade in stunned silence.

Y/N stared at the closed door, her chest tight with an ache she couldn’t quite place. “Wade, what do we do?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Wade scratched the back of his head, uncharacteristically serious. “I don’t know, but… he’ll come around. He just needs time.”

But Y/N wasn’t so sure.

———

The apartment was eerily quiet that night. Y/N lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the scene over and over in her mind. Every time she thought of the despair in Logan’s eyes, her heart ached all over again. She rolled over, checked her phone—it was nearly 2 a.m. Still no sign of him.

Just as she was about to give up and try to force herself to sleep, she heard the faint creak of the front door. She sat up instantly, slipping out of bed and opening her door just enough to peek out. Logan was back, his shoulders hunched as he trudged toward his room. He looked utterly drained.

“Logan,” she called softly.

He stopped in his tracks but didn’t turn around. “You should be asleep,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Y/N stepped out into the dimly lit hallway. “So should you.”

Logan sighed, his hand pausing on the doorknob to his room. He didn’t look at her as he spoke. “I… I shouldn’t have snapped at you. Or Wade. You didn’t deserve that.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” she said, stepping closer. “You’re going through something really hard, Logan. We understand.”

Finally, he turned to face her, his expression weary but sincere. “It’s not an excuse. You’re here for me—both of you—and I treated you like shit. I’m sorry.”

Y/N offered him a small, understanding smile. “It’s okay. Really.”

For a moment, they just stood there, the silence between them heavy but not uncomfortable. Logan looked like he wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words. Instead, he nodded and turned back toward his door.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he murmured.

“Goodnight, Logan.”

As he disappeared into his room, Y/N lingered in the hallway for a moment, the weight of the exchange settling over her. The conversation had been brief, but it carried a depth that left her heart aching and her mind racing. She returned to her room, the moment lingering in her thoughts as sleep continued to evade her.

———

The next morning, Y/N sat at the kitchen table, absently stirring her coffee while Wade stared at the fridge, eating cereal straight from the box. The silence in the apartment was noticeable—there was no sound of Logan's heavy footsteps, no gruff "good morning," no sarcastic remark about Wade’s breakfast habits.

“He’s gone already,” Wade said, breaking the silence as he gestured toward the empty hallway with his spoon.

“Yeah,” Y/N replied softly. “He left before I even woke up.”

“That’s not like him.” Wade dropped the cereal box on the counter and turned to face her, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “He’s avoiding us.”

Y/N sighed, setting her mug down. “Last night really got to him.”

Wade scratched the back of his head, his face creasing with concern. “Man, I don’t know what to do. He’s always been the guy holding everything together, you know? Now it’s like… we’re watching him fall apart, and I don’t…fucking know how to stop it.”

“Neither do I,” Y/N admitted, her voice heavy with worry. “But we have to do something. He can’t handle this alone.”

Wade raised an eyebrow. “Like what? You got some magic plan to save the center?”

“I don’t know,” she said quickly, feeling the weight of the situation. “I have no idea.”

Wade sighed, feeling helpless. “That’s not fair. He doesn’t deserve this.”

Y/N shook her head, overwhelmed by everything. Logan didn’t deserve this. His students and colleagues even less so.

———

By midmorning, Y/N was seated in her classroom, going through the motions of preparing for the day. But her mind wasn’t on her students or her lesson plan—it was on Logan, the center, and what she could do to help. The idea had been floating in her mind all morning, and finally, she decided she couldn’t let it go.

When the bell rang, signaling the start of her free period, she made her way to the administrative wing. Taking a steadying breath, she knocked on the door of the school’s headmaster, Mr. Fury.

“Come in,” his voice called from inside.

Y/N pushed the door open and stepped in. Fury looked up from his desk, his piercing gaze locking onto her immediately. “Y/N. What can I do for you?”

She hesitated briefly, gathering her thoughts. “I wanted to talk to you about something important. It’s about a local center for special education—one of my roommates works there, and they’re shutting down because they’ve run out of funding.”

Fury raised an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt. She continued, choosing her words carefully. “They’re trying to keep things running, but it’s impossible without help. I was wondering if there’s anything the school could do to support them. Maybe a partnership, a fundraiser—anything to keep them afloat.”

Fury leaned back in his chair, his hands steepled. “And why is this something the school should get involved in?”

Y/N felt her cheeks flush. “Because it’s more than just another organization struggling to stay afloat. This center provides critical support for kids who can’t thrive in a traditional school setting. If it closes, those kids won’t just lose a school—they’ll lose their sense of stability, of safety. Isn’t that worth trying to protect?”

Fury’s sharp gaze softened slightly, but he didn’t relent. “Look, I get where you’re coming from, but you know how these things work. The school board isn’t going to greenlight funding or support for a non-affiliated institution without a solid proposal and a damn good reason. It’s not as simple as putting a jar out for donations in the teacher’s lounge.”

“I understand that,” Y/N said quickly, trying to suppress her frustration. “But this isn’t just about money. It’s about showing support, using our connections to help them find resources they wouldn’t otherwise have. If we could just open a dialogue with the center, maybe we could come up with a solution together.”

Fury studied her for a long moment before sighing. “Alright. I’ll bring it up with the board and see if they’re even willing to entertain the idea. But you’re going to have to give me something to work with—a name, a contact, details about their situation. I’m not walking into that meeting empty-handed.”

Relief flooded Y/N, and she nodded eagerly. “I’ll find out everything you need and get it to you as soon as possible.”

“Good,” Fury said, leaning forward. “But don’t get your hopes up. These things take time, and time isn’t something you said they have a lot of.”

“I know,” Y/N said softly. “Thank you for considering it.”

———

As soon as she was back in her classroom, Y/N opened her laptop and began searching for contact information for Charles. Her fingers flew across the keyboard as she pieced together snippets of information—articles about the center, mentions of his name in local education networks, and finally, an outdated press release with a phone number attached.

She hesitated only a moment before dialing.

The phone rang twice before a deep, familiar voice answered. “Charles Xavier speaking.”

“Hi, Charles. This is Y/N Y/L/N. I… I don’t know if you remember me, but we met at the center’s party a while back. I’m Logan’s roommate.”

There was a pause, and then Charles said warmly, “Of course I remember you. How can I help you, Y/N?”

“I hope I’m not bothering you, but I wanted to talk to you about the center. Logan told us about the situation last night, and I’ve been trying to think of ways to help.”

Charles sighed heavily. “I appreciate the thought, but I’m not sure there’s much anyone can do at this point. We’ve exhausted every avenue. The center’s closure feels inevitable.”

“Maybe,” Y/N said, her voice steady despite her racing heart. “But I’ve spoken to my school’s headmaster, and he’s willing to discuss the situation with the school board. They might be able to help, but he needs details—how many students are at the center, what kind of resources are needed, anything that could help him make a case.”

Charles seemed surprised. “You went to your school about this?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “I know it’s a long shot, but I couldn’t just sit back and do nothing.”

There was a pause, and then Charles said, “I can send you the information you need. I’ll email it over today.”

“Thank you,” Y/N said, relief flooding her voice. “This could make all the difference.”

“I hope so,” Charles said gravely. “But don’t get your hopes up too high. I’ve learned the hard way not to expect miracles.”

“Charles…” she hesitated, chewing her lip. “Please don’t tell Logan about this— not yet.”

He paused. “Why not? He’d want to know someone is trying to help, especially if this someone is—”

“I know,” Y/N said softly, “but this is important to him, and if it works out, I want it to be about the center, not me. He doesn’t need to know where the help came from. At least not right now.”

Charles seemed to consider her words before replying, “You care about him a great deal, don’t you?”

Y/N felt heat rise to her cheeks but didn’t answer directly. “I just want to do what’s right.”

“Well,” Charles said after a moment, “I’ll keep this between us. Thank you for trying, Y/N. It means more than you know.”

As the call ended, Y/N leaned back in her chair, a mixture of relief and nervousness washing over her. She wasn’t sure how things would turn out, but for Logan—and for the kids at the center—she was willing to take the risk.

———

Nearly two weeks later, Y/N found herself standing outside the school board’s conference room. She smoothed her palms over her pants, trying to still the nervous energy thrumming in her chest. Through the windowed doors, she could see Charles Xavier seated at the far end of the room in his wheelchair. He noticed her and gave a reassuring nod. Y/N exhaled deeply, gathering her courage before stepping inside.

The meeting stretched on, filled with debates and discussions. The board members, led by Fury, analyzed every angle of the proposal, their questions relentless.

“How do we ensure these students get the same quality of education?” one member asked sharply. “A public school environment is worlds apart from a specialized center.”

Charles leaned forward slightly, his calm demeanor unshaken. “We’ve done this work for decades,” he said, his voice measured but firm. “I created the center with a dear friend of mine, Erik Lehnsherr, our goal was to provide a space where every child, regardless of their challenges, could thrive. We’ve guided thousands of young people through their education, often giving them opportunities they never thought possible. That mission doesn’t end just because the building’s doors close.”

Y/N glanced at Charles, momentarily caught by the sincerity in his tone.

Nick Fury folded his arms. “That’s an admirable sentiment, Professor, but sentiment alone won’t make this work. How do you expect us to handle the logistics of integrating students and teachers into an entirely different environment?”

“The key is collaboration,” Charles replied. “My staff will be willing to continue working with these children under your roof. Transition is never easy, but with the right programs and guidance, it’s absolutely possible. These children deserve the same chance as anyone else to find their place in the world.”

Another board member, a woman with sharp features and a skeptical gaze, spoke up. “Funding. That’s the other hurdle. We can’t take this on without significant financial support.”

Y/N cleared her throat, stepping into the conversation. “We’re already working on securing outside funding. Families, local organizations, and even planned fundraisers are ready to contribute. The school won’t bear this burden alone.”

The discussions continued, with tension rising and falling like a tide. Questions about infrastructure, sustainability, and the emotional impact on the students were debated in exhaustive detail.

At one point, Charles addressed the room with a calm yet impassioned resolve. “When Erik and I started this journey, we knew it wouldn’t be easy. But we also knew it was necessary. These children—and so many others like them—deserve a future where they can flourish. If this partnership can give them that, then I believe it’s worth every effort.”

Finally, after hours of back-and-forth, Nick Fury leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple. “All right. Here’s the deal. The school will manage the transition, integrating the students and staff into our facilities. Students can choose between new programs or continuing their current curriculum, with full support provided throughout the process. We’ll secure funding through your community partnerships and additional resources.”

Charles exhaled a deep breath, nodding in appreciation. Y/N felt a wave of relief wash over her, though the reality of what lay ahead was sobering.

Weeks later, when the agreement was finalized, Charles requested a private meeting with Y/N. They met in his office at the center after everyone had left, the shelves lined with photographs of smiling children and proud teachers.

“Y/N,” Charles began, his tone warm and genuine, “I owe you a debt I can never repay. Without you, this partnership wouldn’t exist. The center would have been lost.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Y/N said softly. “I just… I couldn’t stand by and do nothing. Not for the kids. And not for Logan.”

Charles studied her for a moment, a knowing look in his eyes. “You and Logan remind me of Erik in some ways,” he said with a faint smile. “He was never one to stand idly by, either.”

Y/N tilted her head. “What was he like?”

Charles’s expression grew wistful. “Brilliant. Stubborn. Infuriating at times, but his heart was always in the right place. We built this center together because we believed in giving these children a chance to grow, to find their place in a world that so often pushes them aside. We didn’t always see eye to eye, but we shared that vision. And for decades, we’ve seen the impact it’s had. Thousands of young lives changed for the better.”

“But he’s not here anymore?” Y/N ventured carefully.

Charles’s smile faded. “No. Erik left the center many years ago. His convictions… they took him down a different path. We haven’t spoken since.”

There was a brief silence before Charles continued, his tone softening. “I often think about what we could have accomplished if we’d stayed united. But life doesn’t always follow the paths we envision.”

Y/N nodded, touched by the weight of his words. “It sounds like you’ve already made a difference. This place—it’s changed so many lives.”

Charles smiled faintly. “And thanks to you, it will continue to do so.”

He leaned forward slightly. “When Logan finds out—”

“He won’t,” Y/N interrupted quickly. “Please, Charles. Promise me you won’t tell him, or anyone. This isn’t about recognition. It’s about saving something that matters to him. That’s all I care about.”

Charles hesitated, his brows furrowing. “You deserve to be acknowledged for what you’ve done.”

“It’s better this way,” Y/N insisted. “Logan’s been through enough. Let him believe it’s a stroke of luck or the community coming together. Just… not me.”

After a long pause, Charles finally nodded. “If that’s what you want, I’ll respect your wishes.”

“Thank you,” Y/N said softly, a weight lifting from her shoulders.

As she left his office that evening, the satisfaction of saving the center mingled with a bittersweet ache. Logan’s world would remain intact—but he could never know the lengths she had gone to for him.

———

A few days later, the apartment was quiet when Logan returned from work, his bag slung over one shoulder. Y/N was on the couch grading papers, while Wade sprawled next to her, absentmindedly scrolling through his phone.

“Hey,” Logan said casually as he walked in, dropping his bag near the door.

Y/N and Wade both looked up, exchanging a quick glance. He sounded… normal. Too normal.

“Hey?” Wade repeated, sitting up slightly. “What’s this? No broody silence? No existential sighs?”

Logan gave him a faint smirk and crossed the room, flopping down on the couch next to them. “What? Can’t a guy just sit?”

Y/N frowned, her pen pausing mid-note. She couldn’t remember the last time Logan had come home and joined them like this without carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. 

And she knew exactly why.

“How you doing?” Wade asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

Logan leaned back, stretching an arm along the back of the couch. “Good,” he said simply.

Wade blinked. “Good? Like, good good? Or good as in ‘don’t ask me any more questions’?”

Logan didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stared at the ceiling for a few seconds, his expression unreadable. Then, suddenly, he bolted upright, startling both of them.

“The center’s been saved!” he blurted, his face breaking into the most uncharacteristically wide grin they’d ever seen.

“What?” Y/N gasped, standing up in ‘shock’.

“No way!” Wade exclaimed, springing to his feet. “Are you serious?!”

Logan laughed, a genuine, unrestrained sound that seemed to light up the room. “Yeah! It’s official. They’ve worked out a deal—everything’s going to be fine!”

Before Y/N could react, Wade launched himself at Logan, wrapping him in a bear hug and yelling like they’d just scored the winning goal in a championship.

“Hell yes! I knew it, peanut! I told you it would work out!” Wade shouted, shaking Logan back and forth.

“Get off me, you idiot,” Logan said, laughing as he pushed Wade off.

As Wade released him, Y/N stepped forward, her heart pounding. She hesitated for a fraction of a second—partly overwhelmed by his joy, partly to keep her composure—then wrapped her arms around him. “Logan, that’s amazing. How? How did this happen?”

Logan returned the hug briefly before pulling back, his eyes shining. “It’s incredible. They worked out a plan to keep everything running. The students will transition to a new location, and they’ve found ways to secure funding long-term.”

“That’s incredible,” Y/N said, her voice warm, though her mind raced to maintain her act.

“You’re telling me,” Logan said, his grin widening. “But guess what?”

“What?” Wade and Y/N said in unison.

Logan’s smile grew even wider. “It’s all thanks to your school, Y/N. They came up with the plan, and they’re making it happen.”

Y/N blinked, leaning back slightly to sell her surprise. “What? My school?”

Logan nodded. “Yeah. They’re integrating the program into the high school. And get this…” He paused for dramatic effect, his gaze bouncing between them. “I’ll be working there too!”

“What?!” Y/N exclaimed, her voice a little higher than intended.

“Dude!” Wade shouted, grabbing Logan and spinning him around in celebration.

Y/N watched them, laughing and clapping along, her chest tight with a mix of relief and happiness. Logan hadn’t stopped smiling since he walked in, and seeing him this happy was worth every second of her scheming.

“We’re going out to celebrate,” Logan announced, brushing himself off as Wade finally let him go. “Drinks are on me.”

“Hell yeah!” Wade said, pumping a fist in the air.

Logan headed to his room to grab his jacket, leaving Y/N and Wade alone.

As Logan disappeared into his room to grab his jacket, Wade turned to Y/N, his eyebrows raised. “Alright, Miss Academy Award. Spill.”

Y/N froze. “Spill what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Wade said, crossing his arms. “You didn’t even flinch when he said your school made it happen. So... what’s your deal in this?”

Y/N’s laugh was light but forced. “My deal? I work there, Wade. That’s my deal.”

Wade narrowed his eyes, his suspicion deepening. “Uh-huh. And you just happened to have no idea this was happening? Come on, Y/N. How much of this was you?”

“None!” she said, her voice higher than intended. She winced and busied herself straightening her papers. “It’s just a coincidence. Schools do this kind of stuff all the time, I’m sure.”

Wade stared at her for a long moment before his eyes widened in realization. “Oh my God, it was you!”

“Shh!” Y/N hissed, darting a panicked glance toward Logan’s room. She grabbed Wade’s arm and pulled him toward the kitchen.

“Are you serious right now?” Wade said, his voice a mix of excitement and disbelief. “You’re the reason this happened?”

“Wade, keep your voice down!” Y/N whispered, her tone urgent. “And no, it wasn’t me. I just… I might’ve… encouraged the right people, okay? That’s all.”

“That’s all?!” Wade exclaimed, though he managed to keep his voice low. “Y/N, you saved the center! That’s huge!”

“No, I didn’t. The center saved itself. I just... helped things along a little. And Logan cannot know, Wade. Promise me.”

Wade’s brow furrowed. “Why not? He’d be over the moon if he knew you were behind this!”

“Because this isn’t about me,” Y/N said firmly. “It’s better this way.”

Wade stared at her in disbelief. “You’re unbelievable. You know that, right? Both of you are. Oblivious, self-sacrificing idiots. I hate slow-burns.”

“Wade,” she said again, her tone pleading.

“Fine,” he said, throwing up his hands. “I won’t say anything. But you’re still an idiot.”

Before Y/N could respond, Logan reappeared, his jacket slung over his shoulder. “You two ready, or what?”

“Absolutely,” Wade said, flashing Y/N a grin as he threw an arm around Logan’s shoulder.

Y/N grabbed her coat, her heart pounding as she followed them out the door. Despite the tension of the moment, a quiet sense of satisfaction bloomed in her chest. This was her secret, her gift to Logan—and seeing him this happy made it all worth it.

XXX

[hexstrom]

Astrid's expression faltered, pierced brow furrowing slightly at the other's blunt words. There was a sharpness to her tone, an edge that immediately set the younger brunette on guard. Her fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the counter as she watched Ren flip open the grimoire, the motion not lost on her, a flicker of discomfort passing over her features. She hadn’t expected Ren to treat her grimoire with such coldness, as though it were just another book. It wasn’t just a book. In fact, it wasn’t even just a resource. It was a bridge to her roots, her heritage, her home. The way Ren spoke—as if the grimoire was nothing more than a tool to be exploited—made something inside the Swede bristle. Astrid opened her mouth to speak; but for a moment, she couldn’t find the words. She bit her lip, attempting to calm the heat rising in her chest. Those assumptions… The assumptions about what the grimoire represented stung. The book was sacred, but not in the way Ren seemed to think. And it certainly wasn’t a magickal crutch to rely on. It was a relic, a connection. It was something more.

A quiet exhale escaped Astrid’s lips; and her gaze dropped briefly to where her grimoire sat on the counter before meeting Ren's again. She felt the words coming out of her mouth before she could stop them. “I-I did not bring this here to get answers from it. I-I came here because… I have already tried this. I thought maybe…” Her voice wavered from a second before steadying. “…kanske there is something in the library that can help me more.” She paused, eyes hardening slightly. “Och yes. I know this book is a resource, not a magickal wand. I am not a child.”

She leaned on the counter, eyes narrowing with a mixture of frustration and disbelief. “Men you assume because I call it a treasure, it is everything to me? A lifeline?” The thickness of her Dalecarlian accent came out stronger as the words came out more pointed, defensiveness growing in her tone. “You do not know what treasure is to me.” She snatched the grimoire from its place on the counter, holding it tightly against her chest. This book wasn’t for Ren or anyone else to judge. She knew its truth; and that was all that mattered.

“Let me make one thing clear to you: I am here because I have run out of options. Och, I am not ‘clinging’ to this… It is not some only hope. I am here because I thought… I thought maybe you could help me find something new, something not in this book.” After all, this place offered access to a vast number of resources—records, maps, archives… Her words dropped sharply, gazes unwavering. “If you och this place cannot help me with that, then I will leave. Stop assuming I come here looking for a miracle.”

She took a breath, voice softening. “I am not here for answers. I am here for direction.”

Ren's sharp eyes flicked to the grimoire the moment Astrid placed it on the counter. Her fingers itched to pick it up, but she restrained herself, keeping her hands still as she studied the worn leather and the carved sigils with a clinical intensity. It wasn’t reverence or admiration, Ren didn’t have time for that. It was curiosity, focus, the need to decode and dismantle. The way Astrid lingered over the book set off warning bells in Ren’s mind. People like her always hold onto things too tightly, she thought. Like the book has the answers written in invisible ink or something.

Ren had given up that thought a long time ago. She lost her love for books after none of the books helped her find her parents.

When Astrid spoke of someone being taken, Ren’s jaw tightened. She understood that kind of desperation, that gnawing, bottomless need to find someone you’d lost. But she didn’t soften. Vulnerability didn’t get anyone anywhere, and hope was just a distraction.

Ren finally leaned forward, fingers brushing the edge of the book but not picking it up. “If you’ve had that thing for over a decade and it hasn’t given you the answers, it’s not going to start now,” she said bluntly. “Books don’t work that way. They’re tools, not magic wands.” She finally pulled the grimoire closer, flipping it open with the same care one might give to a battered butterfly.

Her eyes scanned the pages quickly, taking in the runes and the craftsmanship. It was good work, intricate. Not something she saw often anymore. “You’re looking for someone, and you think a library is going to help? Maybe it will. Maybe it won’t. Depends on how much you know and how much you’re willing to dig. And I don’t mean surface-level. I mean dig.”

Ren’s gaze snapped back to Astrid, sharp and unrelenting. “What exactly do you know? No vague stuff, no poetic descriptions. Dates. Locations. Names. You want to find them? Then stop clinging to this,” she gestured to the grimoire, “like it’s your lifeline and start treating it like what it is... a resource that needs to give up its secrets or lead you to the next resource.”

She leaned back, arms crossing. “If you’re serious, we’ll start there. If not take your sacred book home, we won't be able to help, and there's no point in wasting time.”

[cobaltfluff]

rip... iceado....

[iniziare]

Tag drop: Seele (Honkai: Star Rail). Listen, I used to write her and I miss her a bit, and also: there's Belobog people around. And also, well, she's much more interesting than people give her credit for. Also, prepare for some 'rewriting', because Belobog's pacing in specific ways kind of blew a little bit much.

[collinnmckinley]

.

[pucksandpower]

Malfunction

Franco Colapinto x physician!Reader

Summary: Franco’s concussion has come and gone, but his desire to see the angel of a physician who likely saved his life has only gotten stronger … it’s just a shame that he tends to lose any semblance of composure when you’re around

Note: this is the much requested second part to Malpractice … but even better than the first part if I do say so myself 🫣

The Las Vegas Grand Prix is a distant blur in Franco’s memory. The crash. The pain. The disorientation.

But there’s something else that lingers, too. Something soft that refuses to leave him alone.

It’s the image of you, kneeling in front of him, your hands steady even as his world spun. Your voice cutting through the haze, your gaze sharp and intense, demanding his attention. The way you pushed him to stay alert, to pay attention, to focus on something other than the chaos in his head.

Franco knows he owes his sanity, maybe even his life, to you.

It’s been a week since the crash, and he’s been cleared by the medical team to race again in Qatar, despite a lingering headache that’s been stubbornly hanging on. But it’s not the headache that’s bothering him. It’s the fact that you’re not here. You’re not at the track. Not in the garage. Not hovering over him like some kind of guardian angel.

He wants to see you again. Needs to.

He’s sitting in the Williams debrief room, surrounded by engineers who are talking a mile a minute about tire wear and lap times. But Franco is barely listening. He keeps checking his phone, hoping for some sort of miracle: a text, a call, anything that might tell him you’re here. That you’ve returned to the paddock.

But the screen stays empty.

“Franco, are you with us?” James Vowles’ voice cuts through his thoughts, snapping him back to the present.

“Yeah, sorry,” Franco mutters, rubbing his eyes. “What were you saying about tire strategy?”

James raises an eyebrow. “It’s fine. Focus on your recovery. We’re just going over the data from today’s practice. You’ve got time. But-” He looks around, making sure no one else is listening, “-don’t be distracted during qualifying tomorrow. We need every bit of performance we can get from you this weekend.”

“Right.” Franco nods, but his mind drifts again, his gaze slipping back to his phone. It’s like the rhythm of the weekend has been broken without you here, without the sharpness of your voice telling him he’s being an idiot, without your soft, steady presence making everything feel a little more manageable.

A soft knock sounds at the door, and Alex steps in, his casual smile immediately making the room feel a little lighter. His eyes flicker over to Franco. “How’s it going, mate?”

Franco immediately perks up. “Alex! You’re a sight for sore eyes.” He straightens up in his chair, suddenly interested in the conversation.

Alex raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Is that because you’ve missed me, or because I bring good news?”

“Both,” Franco grins. “But seriously, I’ve been thinking about something, and I need your help.”

Alex folds his arms, giving Franco a knowing look. “Uh oh. What have you gotten yourself into now?”

“It’s about Y/N,” Franco says, leaning forward with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Alex’s eyebrows shoot up, but he doesn’t seem too surprised. He sighs, already knowing where this is headed. “Ah, I should’ve known.”

“No, listen,” Franco presses, his voice a little more serious. “I need her to come to Abu Dhabi. She has to be there. I-” He pauses, trying to put his feelings into words. “I’ve been thinking about her all week. I just … I need to see her again.”

Alex raises both hands in mock surrender. “Whoa, whoa. Slow down. You want me to convince her to come to a race just so you can see her again?”

Franco shrugs, looking entirely unapologetic. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

Alex shakes his head, a bemused smile tugging at his lips. “You really have it bad, don’t you?”

Franco hesitates, his smile faltering just slightly, then nods. “I do.” His expression softens. “She helped me when I didn’t even know what was happening. I’ve never had someone take care of me like that.”

Alex takes a moment, studying Franco’s face, then lets out a long breath. “Look, I can’t make any promises. Y/N’s a resident physician. Her schedule is insane. She barely has time to breathe, let alone fly out to the Middle East for a race. But-” He hesitates, as if weighing his next words carefully. “But I’ll ask her. I’ll see what I can do. But no promises, okay?”

“Just ask,” Franco says urgently. “I don’t care if it’s a long shot. I need her there.”

Alex chuckles, shaking his head. “Alright, alright. I’ll ask. But you owe me a beer if this works.”

“You got it,” Franco grins, already feeling the relief of having put his request into motion. “Thanks.”

***

It’s late by the time you’re wrapping up your shift at the hospital. The weight of your scrubs feels heavier than usual tonight, your body aching after hours of rounds and consultations. You’ve barely slept all week, the demands of your residency taking up every last ounce of energy. All you want to do now is crash into bed and forget about the world for a few hours.

But then your phone buzzes in your pocket, and the familiar name on the screen makes you stop in your tracks.

Alex.

You sigh, glancing around the empty hallway before answering. “Hey, Alex. What’s up?”

“Hey,” Alex greets you, his tone casual but there’s a hint of something else in his voice. “How’s it going?”

You roll your eyes, leaning against the wall. “You know, same old. Patients, paperwork, more patients. I swear, I’m starting to see people’s illnesses in my dreams at this point. What’s up?”

“Well, funny you should mention that,” Alex says with a chuckle, “because I’ve got a bit of a favor to ask.”

You brace yourself. “What now?”

“I need you to come to Abu Dhabi.”

There’s a beat of silence. “What? No. I can’t just drop everything and fly to Abu Dhabi. You know how insane my schedule is right now.”

“I know, I know,” Alex says quickly. “But listen, it’s not for me. It’s for Franco.”

You blink, unsure if you heard him right. “Franco? What does he have to do with this?”

“He, uh, well, he’s been asking about you. He really wants you to come. He … he kind of needs you there, Y/N.”

You frown. “Needs me? What, like for a medical emergency?”

“No, no,” Alex quickly reassures you. “It’s not like that. He’s just — he’s been a bit, you know, off since the crash. He keeps talking about how much you helped him, how much he needs to see you again. He’s … kinda, well, taken with you.”

You pause, processing the unexpected request. “Wait. You want me to go to Abu Dhabi just to … see Franco?”

Alex sighs. “I know it’s a lot to ask, and I totally get it if you can’t make it. I just thought I’d put it out there, because he’s really … well, he’s really worried about seeing you again.”

You take a deep breath, staring at the floor. There’s a tug at your chest. Franco’s crash. The way he looked when he stumbled into the garage, his eyes unfocused, his voice thick with concussion. And how you couldn’t help but care, couldn’t help but feel something stir in your chest as you took care of him.

“I don’t know,” you say softly. “I don’t know if I can get time off. I’ve got a million things to do.”

“Please,” Alex pleads, his tone sincere. “Just think about it. I’ll take care of the rest. You don’t have to worry about anything. Just — just come for the weekend. For him.”

You hesitate for a long moment. Your exhaustion is overwhelming, but so is the pull to be there for Franco, to check in on him after everything that happened.

“Okay,” you say finally, your voice quiet but firm. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Alex lets out a relieved breath. “Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to him.”

“I’ll talk to my supervisor tomorrow and see if I can get a couple of days off. I’ll let you know.”

“Great. I’ll keep you posted. Thanks again, really.”

As the call ends, you press the phone to your ear, staring at the blank hospital hallway. Something in your chest stirs, a mix of curiosity and something else you can’t quite name. You promised yourself you wouldn’t get involved with any of these drivers. But Franco … there’s something about him. Something you can’t shake.

You don’t know what’s going to happen in Abu Dhabi. But you know one thing for sure: you’re going to see him again.

***

Franco is buzzing with energy as he walks away from the Williams garage after FP2. The track is alive with its usual Friday hum: team radios squawking, mechanics wheeling equipment, fans pressing against barricades for a glimpse of the action. Normally, this is his favorite part of the weekend — the calm between sessions when he can breathe and think through what’s next.

But today, his thoughts are miles away.

You.

Alex told him you’d agreed to come. He’s spent all week mentally preparing for this moment, imagining what he’ll say when he sees you again. He’d told himself he’d play it cool. That he wouldn’t come off as desperate or weird. That he’d be charming and effortless.

And now, as he walks toward the Williams motorhome, he’s running through those lines in his head like a script. But then, through the glass doors of the motorhome, he spots you.

You’re sitting at a table with Lily, wine glasses between you. You’re mid-laugh, one hand lightly gesturing, the other wrapped around the stem of your glass. The sound of your laugh doesn’t reach him, but your expression — warm and animated — is enough to stop him in his tracks.

Franco stares, frozen. For a second, he’s not a professional driver or a smooth-talking twenty-one-year-old. He’s just a guy, floored by the sight of someone he’s been thinking about far too much.

And then, because the universe has a cruel sense of humor, he walks straight into the glass door.

The sound is embarrassingly loud — a deep, resonant thud that draws the attention of a couple of mechanics nearby. Franco stumbles back, clutching his forehead as the door wobbles slightly on its hinges.

“Oh, come on,” he mutters under his breath, blinking rapidly to clear the stars dancing in his vision.

Inside, Lily gasps, already half out of her chair. But you — you just press a hand to your mouth, visibly trying to suppress a laugh.

Franco pushes the door open this time (successfully, thank God) and steps into the motorhome, trying to salvage whatever remains of his dignity.

“Didn’t know the motorhome was defending itself today,” he says, flashing a crooked grin as he rubs his forehead.

You’re still smiling, but there’s a glint in your eyes as you take a sip of wine. “I see you’re still finding creative ways to injure yourself.”

Lily, standing now, gives him a once-over. “Are you okay? That sounded bad.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Franco says quickly, though he’s still holding his head. “Just testing the structural integrity of the door. Very solid. Great engineering.”

Lily rolls her eyes, muttering something about grabbing an ice pack before disappearing into the kitchen.

You lean back in your chair, tilting your head as you look at him. “You know, you really don’t have to keep hurting yourself just to get my attention. There are easier ways.”

Franco blinks, momentarily thrown off by the teasing edge in your voice. But then he recovers, his grin widening. “Oh, so you noticed me, huh? Mission accomplished.”

You arch an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Hard not to notice when someone face-plants into a door.”

“Ouch,” Franco says, clutching his chest dramatically. “First my head, now my ego. You’re ruthless.”

You laugh, setting your glass down. “I’m a doctor. I call it like I see it.”

“And what do you see?” He asks, leaning casually against the doorframe (or at least trying to — he slightly misjudges the angle and has to correct himself, which makes him look anything but casual).

“I see someone who might need another concussion test if they keep this up,” you say dryly, though there’s a hint of amusement in your tone.

Franco seizes the opening. “Oh, you’ll give me a test? What, right here? Should I sit down? Or maybe lie down? Whatever you need, angel, I’m ready.”

You roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth twitch. “I’m off-duty, thank you very much. And stop calling me angel.”

“Why? It suits you,” Franco says without missing a beat. He steps closer, his grin turning just a bit sheepish. “You did save me, after all.”

“From driving with a concussion,” you reply, crossing your arms.

“Still counts,” he says, shrugging. “So … you’re really here. Thought maybe Alex was messing with me.”

You tilt your head, watching him carefully. “Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know, for fun? He likes to mess with me,” Franco says, his grin turning rueful. “But I’m glad he wasn’t. It’s … it’s good to see you.”

Your expression softens, and you glance down briefly before meeting his eyes again. “It’s good to see you too.”

For a moment, there’s a silence between you. Not awkward, but charged. Franco shifts his weight, scratching the back of his neck. He’s been preparing for this moment all week, but now that you’re standing in front of him, he’s at a loss.

Lily reappears then, an ice pack in hand. She tosses it to Franco, who catches it against his chest. “Here,” she says. “For the door-shaped bruise you’re probably going to have.”

“Thanks,” Franco says, pressing the pack to his forehead. He winces slightly but keeps his gaze on you.

Lily looks between the two of you, her lips twitching as if she’s trying not to laugh. “Well, I’ll leave you two to … whatever this is,” she says, grabbing her glass and retreating toward the other end of the motorhome.

Franco watches her go, then looks back at you, his smile softening. “So … you’re here for the whole weekend?”

You nod. “Lily convinced me to stay. Said I needed a break.”

“You do,” Franco says quickly. “Definitely. Big time.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh? And why’s that?”

“Because …” Franco hesitates, then decides to go for it. “Because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since Vegas.”

You blink, caught off guard by his honesty. “Franco-”

“I’m serious,” he interrupts, stepping closer. “I know I’m probably coming off like a total idiot right now, but I don’t care. You-” He gestures vaguely, as if struggling to find the right words. “You’re different. You’re not like anyone else here.”

“That’s because I’m not supposed to be here,” you say, your tone light but your eyes searching his. “I’m a doctor, Franco. Not meant for … whatever this world is.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, shaking his head. “You could be anything, and I’d still want to know you. You’re …” He trails off, then laughs at himself. “God, I’m bad at this.”

You laugh too, finally relaxing. “A little, yeah.”

“But I’m trying,” he says, his expression earnest now. “And I’ll keep trying, even if it means walking into more doors. Or walls. Or whatever else gets in my way.”

You shake your head, exasperated but undeniably charmed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously into you,” Franco counters, grinning.

You groan, but your smile betrays you. “Stop. That was awful.”

“Was it?” Hr teases, leaning just slightly closer.

“Yes,” you say firmly, though there’s a hint of laughter in your voice. “And I’m not letting you use your injuries as an excuse to flirt with me.”

“Then what excuse should I use?” He asks, tilting his head.

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now. “How about none? Just be normal.”

“Normal,” Franco repeats, as if testing the word. “Okay. I can do that. Probably.”

“Somehow, I doubt it,” you say, but your tone is lighter now, your guard lowering just a fraction.

Franco grins, sensing the shift. He might not be smooth, but he’s persistent. And right now, that feels like enough.

***

The hospital hums with its usual rhythm: the sharp beeps of monitors, the steady shuffle of footsteps, and the occasional murmur of voices echoing down sterile hallways. You’re halfway through your shift, mentally cataloging a growing to-do list, when one of the nurses finds you near the break room.

She looks far too amused for your liking, a sly smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Hey, Doc,” she says, her tone conspiratorial. “You’ve got a patient in Room 43. Interesting case. File’s by the door.”

You glance up from your notes, immediately suspicious. “Interesting how?”

“Let’s just say … not your usual trauma,” she replies, her grin widening. “Go see for yourself.”

With a sigh, you grab your tablet and head down the hallway. You’re too tired to entertain the nurse’s cryptic humor, but curiosity tugs at you anyway. When you reach Room 43, you spot the chart hanging by the door. You pick it up and start skimming, your brain automatically processing the medical shorthand.

And then your eyes land on the complaint: penile fracture.

You freeze. Your brain short-circuits for a good five seconds.

Penile fracture. Seriously? You take a deep breath, fighting the urge to laugh or groan. It’s not unheard of, but it’s rare enough to make your day a little more … colorful.

Squaring your shoulders, you prepare yourself for what’s undoubtedly going to be an awkward encounter. Professionalism, you remind yourself. You’ve handled weirder cases.

But all of that resolve shatters the second you open the door and step into the room.

Because the patient isn’t some anonymous stranger.

It’s Franco.

Franco, lounging on the exam table like he doesn’t have a care in the world, scrolling through his phone with his free hand. Franco, the same man you’ve been dating for months, who absolutely should not be in this hospital room right now.

Your mouth opens, ready to deliver your standard introduction, but no words come out.

Franco looks up at the sound of the door, his face breaking into that familiar, devilish grin. “Hey, angel.”

“What the-” You stop yourself, gripping the edge of the clipboard like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality. “Franco, what are you doing here?”

He sets his phone down, looking at you with wide, innocent eyes. “I’m a patient. Clearly.”

You take a deep breath, setting the clipboard aside. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Nope.” He leans back slightly, gesturing toward himself with both hands. “Broken dick. You saw the file.”

Your jaw tightens as you step closer, lowering your voice. “Franco, this is a hospital. You can’t just-”

“I didn’t just anything,” he cuts in, feigning indignation. “I’m here because you abandoned me this morning. And now I’m suffering.”

You blink at him, completely thrown. “Suffering?”

“Yes!” He says, sitting up straighter, though the smirk tugging at his lips betrays any attempt at seriousness. “You left me. Alone. In bed. With …” He lowers his voice dramatically. “An issue.”

Your brain scrambles to keep up. “An issue?”

Franco sighs, as though the weight of the world is on his shoulders. “Blue balls. A raging, unresolved situation. You’re a doctor — you know how dangerous that can be.”

“Dangerous?” Your voice rises slightly before you catch yourself. “Franco, I left because I had to come to work. Like a normal person.”

“Right, but normal people don’t leave their boyfriends high and dry,” he argues, his tone edging into the realm of petulant. “Do you know how much it hurts? It’s practically a medical emergency.”

You close your eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of your nose. “So let me get this straight,” you say slowly. “You’re here because you have blue balls. And instead of — oh, I don’t know — handling it with your hand and some lotion like a grown adult, you decided to come to my workplace and waste everyone’s time?”

“I don’t see it as wasting time,” Franco says, crossing his arms. “I see it as seeking expert care. From a very qualified, very beautiful doctor.”

“Franco,” you say warningly, but he’s already grinning.

“Besides,” he continues, his voice dropping into a teasing lilt, “don’t you think it’s romantic? I’m literally willing to suffer for you.”

“Oh my God.” You press a hand to your forehead, feeling a mix of exasperation and disbelief. “You are not suffering. And this is not romantic — it’s ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously sweet,” Franco counters, clearly enjoying himself.

You stare at him, torn between wanting to strangle him and laugh. “You know I could get in trouble for this, right? What if someone finds out I’m treating my boyfriend? Or worse, that you’re faking a medical emergency?”

“I’m not faking,” he says quickly, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “The pain in my cock is very real.”

“Franco.” Your voice is flat, and you fix him with your best no-nonsense look.

He hesitates for a beat, then leans forward slightly, lowering his voice like he’s about to confess something scandalous. “Okay, maybe it isn’t a fracture. But it is painful!”

You throw your hands up, resisting the urge to laugh despite yourself. “Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable.”

Franco pouts, his lower lip sticking out in an exaggerated fashion. “Come on, angel. Don’t be mad. I just wanted to see you.”

“You couldn’t have waited until my shift was over?”

He shrugs. “What can I say? I’m impatient. And in my defense, you looked very cute leaving this morning.”

You sigh, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you love me,” he says, his grin widening.

“Don’t push your luck,” you warn, though there’s no real bite in your tone.

Franco leans back on the exam table, looking far too pleased with himself for someone who just disrupted your workday. “So … are you gonna examine me or what?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Do you want me to call security? Because that’s where this is headed.”

“You wouldn’t,” he says, his confidence unwavering.

You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow. “Try me.”

Franco holds your gaze for a moment, then sighs dramatically, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “Fine. No exam. But only because I value our relationship.”

“Uh-huh,” you say, not even trying to hide your sarcasm.

He grins again, the kind of grin that’s always been your undoing. “You can’t stay mad at me, angel. Admit it.”

You roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at the corners of your mouth despite your best efforts. “Franco, you’re lucky I like you. Otherwise, you’d be on your way out of here in handcuffs.”

His eyebrows shoot up, and he smirks. “Kinky.”

“Oh, for the love of-” You don’t bother finishing the sentence, turning toward the door instead.

“Wait, wait!” Franco calls after you, sliding off the exam table. “I’m kidding! Don’t go!”

You pause, looking back at him. He’s standing there with his hands in his pockets, his expression softer now. “Seriously,” he says. “I just … I missed you. And I thought maybe this would make you laugh. Or at least roll your eyes. Which it did, so … mission accomplished?”

You sigh, feeling your resolve waver. It’s hard to stay mad at him when he’s looking at you like that — like you’re the only person in the world who matters.

“Franco,” you say, your voice quieter now. “You can’t just show up like this. I have a job to do.”

“I know,” he says, stepping closer. “And I promise I won’t make a habit of it. But … can I take you to dinner after your shift? As an apology?”

You study him for a moment, weighing your options. Finally, you let out a small sigh. “Fine. But only if you promise to behave.”

“I promise,” he says quickly, holding a hand over his heart.

“And no more faking injuries,” you add, pointing a finger at him.

“Scout’s honor,” he says, though the mischievous glint in his eye suggests otherwise.

You shake your head, exasperated but smiling. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet, you keep me around,” he says, grinning.

“For now,” you say, opening the door. “Now get out of here before someone sees you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Franco says, saluting playfully as he follows you into the hallway.

As he walks away, you can’t help but smile to yourself. Ridiculous as he is, there’s no denying that life with Franco is never boring.

[fastandcarlos]

Since Day One : ̗̀➛ Lando Norris

summary: since the very beginning you’ve been by lando’s side supporting his career

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by ynusername, georgerussell63 and 3,850 others

landonorris: goodbye karting, thank you for everything. looking forward to getting into the world of formula racing next year ❤️

382 comments

username1: can’t believe you’re moving on from karting, big things are coming!

ynusername: so proud of you, even if I’m gutted not to be riding around in a go kart every week from now on 💔

landonorris: @/ynusername you haven’t seen nothing yet, just wait for those f1 hot laps 😘

username2: only a matter of time until we see you line up on that f1 grid now ☺️

charles_leclerc: end of a karting era, but hopefully many more races for us to come!

landonorris: @/charles_leclerc we’ll both be on that podium one day…I’m sure of it!!

username3: so deserving of the new things coming your way ❤️

georgerussell63: hopefully be lining up on the grid with you very soon 🤞🏻

olivernorris1: congrats bro, looking forward to the free trips to some more hot destinations 😂☀️

landonorris: @/olivernorris1 and here i was thinking you were flying out to support me…

username4: still gonna be your biggest fan!!

maxverstappen1: about time you gave someone else a go at winning a karting race 😂

username5: can’t wait to see where you go from here 🫶🏻

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by alex_albon, charles_leclerc and 13,968 others

landonorris: buzzing to get my first formula 2 win, thanks to the whole team for all your support so far this season. hopefully the first of many 💪🏻🏆

1,840 comments

ynusername: you’re incredible, my race winner 🥺

landonorris: @/ynusername can’t wait to show this trophy off to you when I get home 💞

username6: first win of many gotta good feeling for this season ❤️

charles_leclerc: turns out you’re just as good at karting as you are formula 2 😂👏🏻

username7: so deserved lando, hope you celebrate hard tonight!

georgerussell63: yes lando!! a jolly good race indeed my friend 🏆

username8: a white race suit and champagne, someone in the team needs speaking to 🤦🏻‍♀️

alex_albon: someone get zak brown on speed dial asap 📞

landonorris: @/alex_albon let’s not get too excited, it’s only one race…so far!

alex_albon: @/landonorris the first of many my friend!

username9: if driver of the day was a thing, you’d get my vote 🤩

username10: that smile is my new favourite thing in the world!!

adam_norris_pure_electric: good job son, so proud of you back over here at home 🤍

username11: can’t wait to see how many more wins you get this year 🥺

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liked by carlossainz55, alex_albon and 58,402 others

landonorris: first couple of weeks with mclaren done, safe to say carlando is off to a good start 😝🧡

9,497 comments

username12: carlando are officially my otp btw 🧡🫶🏻

charles_leclerc: it’s a miracle you two get anything done when you’re in the same room!

username13: i can already tell this pairing is gonna be trouble!!

alex_albon: looks like you don’t need me anymore 😭

landonorris: @/alex_albon team rookies forever 💯

username14: whoever decided that these two should be on the same team deserves a pay rise immediately 😂

mclaren: admin thanks you both for constantly giving her such a headache 🧡

username15: have you ever met two more well paired drivers in your life??

ynusername: *currently googling what to do when you feel like the third wheel in your own relationship…*

carlossainz55: @/ynusername he’s mine now 😘

landonorris: @/ynusername ignore him, I promise you’re still my number one 💞

username16: forever refreshing my feed in search of carlando content 🥺

username17: can we get these two to sign lifetime contracts at all!?

zbrownceo: you’ve been awesome so far and ik you’ll continue to be too!

username18: i love how carlos us taken lando completely under his wing in f1 😭

carlossainz55: couldn’t imagine my life without you sweetie ❤️

landonorris: @/carlossainz55 stop otherwise you’ll make yn jealous again!!

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liked by landonorris, carmenmmundt and 28,048 others

ynusername: finally managed to get to my first f1 race, so proud to see you do your thing in person lan 💞

2,960 comments

landonorris: so glad you were able to come and cheer me on, you’re definitely a good luck charm now 🫶🏻

username19: you looked stunning in the paddock, lando is one lucky guy!!

alex_albon: you’re not allowed to leave it so long next time, I didn’t realise how much i missed you!!

carmenmmundt: so happy to finally meet you, hopefully see you again soon girlie!

ynusername: @/carmenmmundt who cares what the boys say, we’re double dating asap 🫶🏻

username20: you two are just beyond stunning together 🤩

charles_leclerc: i still remember you being one of a handful of people watching us in karts all those years ago 💭

ynusername: @/charles_leclerc so proud of all you guys 💕

username21: silently praying for a yn appearance at every race from here on in 🙏🏻

carlossainz55: still secretly think you were coming to spy on me 👀

ynusername: @/carlossainz55 gotta find a way to stop you stealing my boyfriend somehow…

username22: from karting to f1, she’s really been by his side through it all!

mclaren: thank you for helping us keep lando under control for the weekend - admin 🧡

username23: hope you had the best time yn 💞

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by maxverstappen1, charles_leclerc and 174,494 others

landonorris: first podium baby 🏆🥳

thank you to everyone in austria and back at the mtc for all your hard work. fans, friends, family and yn for always cheering me on and reminding me that i can do this 💕🧡

38,508 comments

username24: I don’t think I’ve ever been this proud in my entire life 🥺

alex_albon: the little go karter on an f1 podium 🤧

username25: idk how you did it but that was incredible, fastest lap too!!

carlossainz55: I feel like a proud father rn 🥺

username26: thank you for reminding us that mclaren can achieve podiums again 🧡

maxverstappen1: gutted I couldn’t be up there with you today

landonorris: @/maxverstappen1 next time we’ll be up there together like the old days!

mclaren: everyone at mclaren is so proud of you lando 🧡🏎️

username27: only got the podium thanks to a time penalty anyway 🙄

username28: @/username27 🖕🏻🖕🏻🖕🏻

ynusername: have I mentioned yet just how proud I am of you?? 💞

username29: love how he gave a special mention to yn too 🥺

zbrownceo: the perfect stepping stone to get you to p1, I know we can do it 💪🏻

username30: hope you get used to being up on that podium, you’re gonna be there often!

georgerussell63: super drive buddy!!

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by landonorris, lilymhe and 38,497 others

ynusername: turns out monaco is the life after all, a whole new world but absolutely loving it 🥺

4,969 comments

username31: just goes to show just how much lando means to you remember!

landonorris: thank you for making such a huge sacrifice for me, i promise we’ll have the best time living out here together 😘

ynusername: @/landonorris anything to help make your dreams come true ✨

username32: look at them out here living their best lives

carmenmmundt: our next coffee date is when??? ☕️

ynusername: @/carmenmmundt I’m omw to you rn 🏃🏻‍♀️

alexandrasaintmleux: @/ynusername @/carmenmmundt make that three 🫶🏻

username33: the muscles in that first photo, yn you can’t do that to us without warning…

georgerussell63: thank you for finally giving me some proper competition playing padel 🏸

ynusername: @/georgerussell63 I did try to warn you that lando was rubbish

username34: yn always happy to satisfy the boyfriend lando fans ✨

adam_norris_pure_electric: we are so relieved that you’re out there with him 😂

ynusername: @/adam_norris_pure_electric this apartment would not still be standing without me 😂

username35: I cannot stress how obsessed I am with these two!!

maxverstappen1: I love that you’re now on our doorstep so I can constantly annoy you 😂

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by danielricciardo, landonorris and 42,950 others

ynusername: first holiday in a while with you 🛥️🏝️

7,597 comments

carlossainz55: missing my two favourite people right now

ynusername: @/carlossainz55 thank you honorary third wheel 😘

username36: no one deserves this rest more than you two 💞

danielricciardo: it’s not a true holiday cause I’m not there 🤷🏻‍♂️

landonorris: @/danielricciardo that’s what makes it such a good holiday

username37: summer break looks good on you two!!

maxverstappen1: so glad you guys are enjoying that place!

ynusername: @/maxverstappen1 thanks for such a great reccomendation! ☺️

username38: remember when everyone was obsessed with these two as karting teens, now look at them… 😭

oscarpiastri: shame he doesn’t look like he’s missing me at all 💔

iamrebeccad: wishing that I could look as good as you rn 🥺

username39: it’s not fair how good two people can look…

landonorris: the best time away with you 💕

username40: forever refreshing my feed for another gorgeous update of these two

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by oscarpiastri, carlossainz55 and 2,968,573 others

landonorris: the moment I’ve dreamt of for so many years, officially a race winner! thank you to every single person who has contributed to my career over the years, this one’s for you 🏎️🧡🏆

458,360 comments

username41: apologies to my neighbours for screaming so loud the entire street could hear

ynusername: wish I could’ve been there more than anything, can’t wait to celebrate with you when you’re home 💞

landonorris: @/ynusername I still felt you here cheering me on 🫶🏻

oscarpiastri: awesome drive, the only way for us right now is up

↗️

landonorris: @/oscarpiastri we’re chasing them down brother 💪🏻

carlossainz55: I always knew this moment would come one day for you 👏🏻

username42: asking for a friend…is it acceptable to cry when it’s not even you on the podium???

danielricciardo: about damn time 😂 super race today brother!!

username43: words can’t begin to explain how proud I am to be your fan lando norris

alex_albon: who’d have thought those two kids almost a decade ago would end up here 🥺

username44: so proud of how far you’ve come since the beginning lando!

zbrownceo: could barely contain myself on the pit lane, congratulations lando 🧡

charles_leclerc: such an honour to be up there with you 🏎️

username45: it’s been a long time coming, hopefully the platform for many more wins now ☺️

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by landonorris, alexandrasaintmleux and 60,597 others

ynusername: second time’s the charm! so proud of you lando and so proud to be there this time cheering you on with all your family. you’re so deserving of this moment…I couldn’t be any prouder of you ✨💕

14,974 comments

landonorris: I could never have got this far without you, thank you for always loving me angel since day one 🧡

georgerussell63: he’s not stopped telling people all weekend how happy he is to have you here btw 😂

username46: how do you two still manage to melt my heart like this!?

lilyzneimer: so happy for lan 👏🏻 and so happy you got to be there to see him win this time too!!

lilymhe: you looked so cute during those celebrations bby

username47: only yn and cisca would stand out in that crowd to surprise him 😂

oscarpiastri: at least I didn’t have to listen to him mope about how much he wanted you there this time

username48: I love the relationship yn has with all his family 🥺

mclaren: admin would also like to reiterate what oscar had to say too 😂

username49: I can’t begin to imagine how excited lando must’ve been to have his whole family there

danielricciardo: was it ever in doubt??

ynusername: @/danielricciardo that’s cause he learnt from the best 😉

username50: you must be so proud yn seeing his hard work firsthand ☺️

carlossainz55: so good to see you and catch up under such awesome circumstances 🧡

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗

[nereidprinc3ss]

trolley problem

in which fem!reader has been gambling with her life and spencer reid is more than a little concerned

flangst, hurt/comfort warnings/tags: passive suicidal ideation from reader, she keeps risking her life, that really grinds Spencer’s gears, established relationship, existential dread, existential euphoria, lots of stuff about grief and death and self worth, not advocating for this, pretension from the author, blasphemy probably?, reader gets fuzzy from prescribed painkillers, arguing, hospital stuff, mention of sleep paralysis involving spiders, reader gets shot but she’s fineee, I pander to intro to philosophy takers, bau!reader, neurodivergent coded reader, if she’s not exactly like you I’m sorry, bean soup a/n: one day you’re in a writing slump literally the next you are in your notes app for six hours writing whatever the fuck this is but I think I love it even tho it’s weird and I hope u like it too!! btw this was gonna be called cotard's syndrome but then I never once talk abt cotard's but if u care that might be interesting context for the motif of not feeling human/alive, WC 3K

Spencer hasn’t spoken to you since the doctor left the room five minutes ago. 

The air is antiseptic as you take it deep into the hollows of your lungs and trap it there for a moment, trying to optimize oxygen intake without actually having to breathe very often. Hospital smell is as universal as it is suffocating. It reeks of everything but death—flowers, blood, bleach, vomit. A humiliating, desperate scramble to defy the very thing that defines mortality. It’s pathetic. It reminds you of the worst instances of failure and loss and denial in your life. It curdles your blood. Literally rots you from the inside out. 

You’ve had ample time to ponder that smell over the last few months because you keep ending up here, and some time ago you decided the institution of the hospital is inherently absurd. It’s stupid to think you could avoid the one absolute condition on your corporeal form: impermanence. It is the only thing that is promised, and people still waste their lives away running from it. It is the ultimate self-fulfilling prophecy. 

So around the time you acknowledged that hospitals are simply monuments to the self-importance of man, you gave up on trying too hard to preserve yourself. You’ve seen death too much and too often. You’ve tried staving it off with prayer and the miracles of modern medicine, and it never matters in the end because it’s all magical thinking anyway. All the wallowing and the bargaining and pleading never got you anywhere. 

You’ve accepted that from the moment you were born, you were marked for death. 

But you’re not a complete nihilist. You’re not even totally resigned to the abject certainty of death—because you’ve found a loophole.

Everyone has as many chances at escaping death as other people are willing to offer them at the cost of their own lives. Not many people are willing to make that trade—someone else’s life for their own—but you’ve decided you are. Because if not you, then who?

It’s not that you don’t see the value in your own life, as Spencer keeps making it sound. It’s just the opposite. You understand that you’ve got an extremely valuable resource, and you don’t just have to sit on it. There are things you can do. Choices you can make. Ways to defy death. 

Just… not yours. 

Or maybe you’re just in deep denial. 

Either way—this is a philosophy your boyfriend intentionally refuses to understand. He gets mad, or some kind of upset, every time you try to explain it. Usually he ends up leaving the room close to tears. You never feel good about it.

Right now he’s presumably trying to give you the silent treatment and not doing a very good job. 

“Stop holding your breath. Why are you—stop that.”

Spencer’s frowning, skin sallow and milk-blue under fluorescent lighting. Purple seeps from around his eyes like spilled wine on a white table cloth. Your stomach turns. 

“Sorry.”

He doesn’t tell you not to apologize. You don’t expect him to. 

“Why are you doing that? Does something hurt?”

Other than your entire bicep being on fire due to the 9 millimeter Luger it recently came into contact with?

“Not really. I just don’t like the smell of hospitals.”

At that, he gets stony again. Like, Medusa stony. You feel a tightening in your chest that has nothing to do with a lack of air. His arms are crossed. A silk lined blazer drapes over your lap, and you wonder if he’s cold in just that white button up. It’s translucent in this light, like onion skin, or maybe something less organic—the folds and wrinkles look like fabric, but lots of things look like something they aren’t. In the Pietá, Jesus lounges dead on his mother’s lap, his cheek pressed to her arm like either of them have warm flesh, and her skirts drape from her knees and fall to the ground in delicate folds just like Spencer’s jacket and looking at pictures of it you swear you could find comfort there too—but if you wanted to make space for yourself next to Jesus you’d have to do it with a chisel and mallet. You’re starting to think that’s what it’s going to take with Spencer, as well. 

“So stop walking into active gunfire. You’ll spend a lot less time here.”

Every deep sigh (of which there have been several) calcifies you further. Ironically, you never feel less alive than you do in a hospital. 

“I didn’t walk into active g—”

“I’m not debating it with you. It’s not a discussion.”

“So you’re just going to be pissed at me for the rest of forever? I mean, if it’s not a discussion—what are you gonna do? Break up with me?”

You feel yourself dripping poison in the well. Even as you say it. As his head tilts toward you slowly and intently from his spot against the wall, and his warning gaze is cold and unforgiving and weighs 3.35 tons.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Talk?”

“Don’t try and manipulate me by implying that there are no options between permissiveness and dumping you!”

“I’m not manipulating you. And I don’t need your permission to do anything.” 

The first part is an incredulous scoff as well as a blatant lie. You are manipulating him. Chisel and all. At least, you were trying to. It clearly doesn’t work very well. His jaw clenches.  

“Is this worth it to you? Fighting with me like we’re children solely so you don’t have to take accountability?”

“Accountability for what? I made a choice. I don’t regret it. You’re upset because I did my job.”

A beat. 

Silence always makes you feel the gravity of your words. 

“Do you believe that?”

His voice softens so much, so quickly, it splinters down the middle. 

You’ve never been known for your light touch. For someone who sees eviscerated bodies nearly every day, and prides herself on her evolved understanding of mortality, you often forget other people are not, in fact, impenetrable marble—they are flesh and blood and bone, and you’ve splattered yourself in the evidence of that. 

“What?” You murmur. You easily turn timid, when you’re afraid you’ve been too heavy-handed. Spencer’s seen you sob over the birds who hit the windowpane and never reappeared from the shrubbery—their delicate wings, their little beaks—he didn’t mean to, Spencer, and now he’s dead! He’s seen you spend forty minutes catching a spider with a cup and an envelope rather than smush it, even though you have reoccurring episodes of sleep paralysis wherein a giant arachnid is sitting on your chest, hissing and clacking its pincers. He knows you are, at your core, kind and good. 

It’s a little scary for someone to know that about you. It’s a little scary when you see your own vulnerability reflected in their eyes and the way they speak to you, the way you see it in him now. 

“Do you believe that the choices you make regarding your safety don’t concern me at all?”

“They’re… my choices to make,” you whisper, but you’re less sure than you were a minute ago. 

“I’m not talking about that—I’m talking about how it feels like you are trying to kill yourself every time we’re in the field.” His voice shakes. You swallow. “You have been hospitalized for four serious injuries sustained on the job in the past five months. Every time I bring it up, you—you talk about life like it’s optional for you. Like you’re not only willing to give it up but are actively looking to throw yourself in harm’s way every chance you get. You think that doesn’t terrify me?”

There’s a small chip in the paint on the wall next to him roughly the shape of Africa. 

“It’s not like that. I’m… I’m just having an unlucky streak.”

He snaps. 

“Luck isn’t going to get between you and a bullet. Ever.”

“It’s my job, Spencer.”

“No. It is a risk of the job. Not a defining feature or requirement. But you keep running toward gunfire like you have a quota to meet.”

“Spencer, I’m not doing it at you. I’m not trying to get myself hurt.”

“Well it doesn’t really feel like you’re trying to avoid it, either,” he shoots back immediately, and you feel the anguish radiating from him until it lodges in your own chest, like it was always yours. Maybe it was. 

You want to make it better, but you don’t know how, and even if you did, he’s pushing off the wall and crossing the room toward the door. 

“Where are you going?” You call, a little too desperately for your liking. 

“You need to eat something.”

Which translates roughly to he’s pissed and upset and he needs to leave the room. You’ve done this song and dance before. 

However, food and an absence of him are contenders for the absolute last two things you want right now. 

“Spencer, please don’t—”

But the door is already whooshing closed. 

You stare at the grey and white checkered floor. Light bounces off the waxen reflection—some sort of parallel universe you can’t reach, perhaps. The whole room is desaturated. A mechanical humming threatens to drive you insane. It doesn’t feel like a place for living humans. You’re not convinced you are one. 

When he comes back, maybe ten minutes later, nothing’s moved at all. In fact you’re not even sure you’ve been breathing. 

The door closes as quietly as it opens. 

This time, wordlessly, Spencer comes to you. You see his shoes first—his serious adult shoes. You wish he was wearing his Converse. 

Then you see the bottle of apple juice he’s cracking open for you. Blue lid. Same kind you always get. 

“You didn’t bring food.”

“You wouldn’t have eaten it.”

Fair enough. 

You take the bottle with your good arm and sip shallowly—all that adrenaline and the subsequent interpersonal strife has left you nauseous. The drink is too sweet. It clashes with the tang of metal in your mouth. 

Still, you drink enough to satisfy him, and then you’re tossing his jacket aside before balancing the bottle between your thighs so you can screw the lid back on. He doesn’t go back to the couch or his spot on the wall. 

Spencer doesn’t pull away when you lean into him, but it does take him a moment to reciprocate. You’re still grateful all the same when he cradles the back of your head to his stomach like you’re made of porcelain. 

“I don’t think you understand how upset I am,” he says quietly. 

Only Spencer Reid could be furious with you and still hold you like this. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. 

“That’s not good enough. You need to stop risking your life like that.”

He doesn’t get it. Your brows flutter as they try to furrow but even holding that expression saps you. Maybe the pain meds are finally kicking in. 

“I just wanna help people.”

“That doesn’t explain to me or justify your urge to do it at the cost of your own life. We all want to help people, angel. The whole team. That’s why we do what we do. But we don’t run into shootouts. We don’t split off and provoke people with guns when we’re unarmed and unprepared.”

“But it worked. She got away.” You feel a spark of fulfillment at the memory of Gloria Sanchez in JJ’s arms just before the ambulance doors had slammed you into your first cage of the night. 

“We don’t know if he was going to kill her. He might not’ve fired at all if you didn’t go running toward him. That wasn’t strategic, it was reckless and irresponsible and you know that. I know you do. So something else is going on.”

The pressure in your nose that usually precipitates tears comes as a surprise. 

“I just—if that’s how I can save someone, why shouldn’t I, you know? Why do they have less of a right to live than I do just because they’ve been deprived of the choice? If I have a choice, and they don’t, I should choose to… to help them. That’s my job.”

For a long moment, you listen to your own breath, muffled by Spencer’s shirt, and the mechanical humming, and something dripping, and the low, buzzy chatter of nurses far down the hallway.

When Spencer next speaks you get the sense he’s holding a lot back. His voice is taut enough it wavers slightly. Taut enough that if he weren’t speaking so quietly he might be yelling. It’s like pinpricks all over your body—not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure you’re paying attention. 

“You can’t help anyone if you’re dead. Do you understand me?”

And yes, in theory, you do. But that doesn’t negate your original point. It only takes one life or death moment for you to utilize the most valuable resource you have. What happens after is no longer your concern. 

“On the psych evals you helped develop it asks if you think it’s appropriate to sacrifice the one to save the many. The answer is supposed to be no. If you say yes you get flagged. The FBI frowns upon… lever-pullers. And that’s exactly what I’m doing if I let one person die when I could’ve potentially saved them.”

“Protecting your own life is not pulling the lever. What you’re doing isn’t smart or morally righteous. You’re just throwing yourself across the tracks, too. If you were to fail a psych eval right now it would be because you’re passively suicidal. And you know what? The FBI also tends to frown upon self-immolative delusions of grandeur and girls who like to play sacrificial lamb.”

“’M not a… sacrificial lamb…”

“No,” Spencer agrees quietly, stroking your hair. “You’re not.”

And you can’t react to the fragility in his voice, or the content of his words, and the fact that when he says it he means something different—you can’t do anything about it. You can only catalogue it. You can only know that he loves you, and feel a little guilty about it.

Some time passes. You don’t know how long he remains standing so you can doze against him. He does not smell like the hospital. He’s the antidote for whatever grief they distill from widows and orphans before aerosolizing it through the whole place. 

“Baby?” He asks eventually. You know the lilt of it. He’s been thinking. 

“Hm?”

He hesitates. 

“Can we talk about you maybe taking some time off of work?”

“You heard the boss,” you mumble. “I can’t come in for at least a week.”

“I mean beyond that.”

You intend to respond, but by the time you open your mouth you’ve lost the prompt in all the brain fog. 

“You’re so comfy,” you murmur dreamily. “Thank you for being mad at me.”

If he responds, you miss it. 

You’re imagining the bed waiting for you at home, once the doctor is done observing you—warm, neatly made. Blankets woven with soft fibers. A mattress that will sink under your weight. You think of Spencer, who’s shaping himself to you, Spencer, who intentionally inhales when you exhale at night to make room for the rise and fall of your chest against his. You think of the imprint of his buttons on your cheek. You are both flesh and blood and bone. 

Strange, pill-induced half dreams and visions and memories take over. You’re in that alleyway again. That man fires. You don’t blink or scream or feel. 

Just before the bullet makes contact you’re standing in front of the Pietá. It’s massive. Spencer is there, too, holding your hand. 

You can’t actually see him, only, you know he’s there. You feel his warmth, his presence, when he leans over to whisper in your ear. The way you know him goes beyond sight. 

The Pietá—meaning the pity, in English—is 6’7” and six feet wide. It weighs 6,700 pounds. Michelangelo had to quarry the block of marble himself. He was only 25 when he finished. The Basilica keeps it behind bulletproof glass. 

Jesus and Mary behind bullet proof glass. 

God. Who’d try to kill Jesus a third time? He’s already dead. 

Besides—they’re both made of stone. Bullets would probably just ping right off of them. Or maybe they’d shatter just like you did. 

Probably not though. You’re not actually made of marble. You’ve no idea what it feels like to be a statue and get shot at. You sure know how it feels as a human, though—and it feels like shit. You don’t really know why you keep doing it. None of your reasons are good enough for Spencer, and he’s, generally speaking, pretty smart about some things. 

Maybe you’re tired of being human.

Maybe you’re tired of sleeping on your arm funny and waking up to a hand in your bed that doesn’t feel like yours and remembering all the hands you’ve held moments before they couldn’t hold yours back. Or tired of those moments where you are being held and it’s so unbelievably perfect and then someone has to let go, or when someone you love hugs you goodbye and you realize that there will always be a final I love you, or simply getting older and watching potential life paths fall away like rotten fruit to the ground. Maybe life is sometimes so good it hurts and you can’t bear it. So you tempt fate. You walk a tightrope because even if you fall and it can’t ever feel good again—at least it can’t hurt either. At least you won’t lose anymore. 

And yet. 

It does feel good, sometimes. Sort of often, actually. Even when it’s awful. 

Dead Jesus and Mary, with their marble skin and their bulletproof glass and their holiness and their virginity and all the other things they have that you don’t. Nobody can hurt them anymore. Not ever. 

Maybe that’s something you envy.

But you doubt they’ve ever been so terribly, wonderfully alive as you’ve been, or as comfortable as you are like this, leaning into Spencer’s warmth and his softness, in the hospital, or the Vatican, or your dreams. Your bicep was ruined but it’s healing. You are capable of ruin and rebirth in the same lifetime. In the same day, in the same hour. 

You doubt that in 520 years, behind bulletproof glass and unyielding, eternally flawless skin, they’ve ever felt as invincible as you do now. 

You doubt they ever could. 

[jenosbigtoe]

mdni. nsfw 18+

pairing: best friend!fwb!lee jeno x reader x best friend!jaemin

warnings: 3some, unprotected sex, creampie, cunnilingus, cumeating, masturbation (m), lowkey mxm if you think about it, porn no plot (shitty “plot”)

@jenomov sorry for disappearing.. hope this helps 🤗

—

it was his idea first—you’re both single and horny and you know him the best out of anyone, besides your other best friend, jaemin. it was only natural he asked you, out of everyone, to relieve his needs while he relieved yours. like scratching each other’s backs, as he put it.

you couldn’t even pretend to hesitate about it. who cares if you’ve been best friends for years? it’s not like some fucking would throw that all down the drain—not when you’ve secretly been wanting to sleep with him and jaemin for years. it was bound to happen at some point. your best friends are hot as fuck—why wouldn’t you jump at the opportunity to fuck at least one of them? a greedy part of you wishes you could have both, but one is enough for now.

it seems that insatiable thirst you have for jeno is equally reciprocated by him—after sleeping together once, you’ve been seeing him at least every other day.

it was convenient enough. you already spent most of your time hanging out with him, jaemin, or both. except instead of playing mario kart or watching shitty sitcoms with him, more often than not he has you folded into acrobatic ways to drill his fat cock into your needy pussy.

and jeno fucks like a pornstar.

smushing your face into the mattress while he pounds you feverishly from behind. placing your legs on his shoulders so he can reach that sweet spot deep inside your pussy with his hot length. spitting on your used cunt and using his tongue to lick and fuck your hole like you’re his last meal on death row. it’s like he finds new ways to fuck you every time you hook up—and every time leaves you hungry for more.

it’s an absolute miracle jaemin hasn’t caught on by now. like really, did you both have to go to the bathroom at the exact same time for 30 minutes? did you both have to contract food poisoning and couldn’t make it to your weekly friday movie night?

it’s not like you even tried to hide it that well. fucking in your room right next to the guest room that both jeno and jaemin were supposed to sleeping in, until jeno snuck out to go see you. the sounds of sex—headboard banging against the wall, skin slapping on skin, breathy moans and low grunts—definitely should’ve alerted jaemin to exactly what you two were doing.

but jaemin still, at the very least, appeared to be none the wiser. it’s like he hasn’t even noticed the way you’ve been rubbing your ass on jeno’s boner all night underneath the thin blankets, when you should’ve been watching whatever corny horror movie that was on the tv. the way jeno is gripping your hips in a way that is more than friendly. jaemin’s back is pressed against the front of your body while jeno cuddles you from behind.

“i’m gotta go take a shower.” you fake a yawn, “i’m getting tired and i’m ready for bed.”

jaemin briefly glances over at you but you couldn’t read his facial expression in the dark. “okay. good night.” he scoots away from your body.

“good night.” you get up from jeno’s grasp and walk away, only to hear him tell jaemin, “i gotta go take a shit, i’ll be right back.” you smirk.

—

“mmph—fuck!” you curse against jeno’s hand pressed to your mouth.

with one arm gripping your waist and the other hand pressed against your mouth to get you to shut the fuck up, jeno snaps his hips into yours from behind, every movement jolting your entire body forward and sending shock waves down your spine.

“shit, baby, i can never get tired of fucking you,” he chuckles lowly.

his hips drill his cock deep into your dripping cunt, his fat girth stretching you out just like the first time. with every thrust, the tip of his cock drives deeper inside you, leaving you with an insatiable thirst for more, more.

“mmph, ah—“ you struggle to speak against the tight grip he has on your mouth.

he moves his hand from your mouth back to your waist, using all of his strength to press your body against him in a tight bear hug while he fucks you into the mattress. you suck in a huge breath of relief, gasping for air.

“jen, please! i need—“ you can’t finish your sentence as he delivers a particularly rough thrust right against your cervix. “fuck!” you squeal a little too loud.

he smacks your ass in warning. “watch it, princess. don’t want our jaemin to hear you being a cock slut for me, now do we?” his hips never falter their pace, his cock drilling into you with a mind numbing rhythm. “tell me what you want, baby.”

you drop your head. “jen, need— need more.”

he smiles and leans his head to put his lips close to your ear. “that’s my girl.”

if at all possible, his hips seem to be going faster, harder, deeper than before. you almost scream in delight, if it wasn’t for the fact that you knew he would be so mad at you. your pussy clenches around every ridge and every vein on his cock as he drags his length against your walls in an erratic rhythm.

“fuck,” he groans to himself, eyes rolling to the back of his head.

you don’t notice the bedroom door wide open, as jaemin watches the two of you with his arms folded across his chest.

“well fuck, why wasn’t i invited in on the fun in here?” jaemin’s voice ringing through the room has your heart dropping out of your ass as you jump in fright. jeno freezes on the spot, slowly swiveling his head to see his best friend watching menacingly.

jaemin’s eyebrows are furrowed and the veins on his neck bulging.

“no, don’t let me stop what you were doing. obviously you can’t even take your cock out of her even when you have an audience.” jaemin stalks towards the two of you with a predatory look in his eyes. you both can’t even begin to move yourself from the shock of it all. fuck.

you notice the thick bulge in jaemin’s sweatpants, the look of hunger on his face as he licks his lips. you recover from the shock first—when jeno begins to say, “holy sh-“ you begin to move your ass against his cock once more, using your juices to clench and fuck jeno’s cock right in front of your other best friend.

“that’s right, baby. fuck his cock for me,” jaemin’s smirk reminds you of a hungry beast, ready to devour a delicious meal right in front of him.

noises slip from your mouth with abandon, no longer caring who heard because you’ve already been caught. jeno catches on quick—his hips moving to meet yours, slowly speeding up to the animalistic pace he had been fucking you before. you barely even notice jaemin stripping himself bare as he walks to the side of your bed, standing to the side with his red hot cock in his hand standing hard and proud. jaemin spits on his hand and rubs his cock furiously, his face scrunched in concentration as he watches you fuck his best friend like an animal.

with the added audience, jeno seems to lose himself in your pussy faster. he likes it, likes having his and your best friend watch you get fucked. your cunt drips endlessly around his hot length, allowing his cock to slip in and out of your heat with ease. the pace of his hips quickly grow sloppy and you can feel his cock twitch deep inside your cunt with every thrust now—a sign you’ve grown to know all too well.

“shit—baby i’m going to cum,” he groans. you clench harder at his words, nearing your release.

with stuttering hips, he slams his cock balls deep in your hot cunt. his cock twitches violently as he shoots his white hot ropes inside you, talking his head back and moaning loudly. “fuck.”

you moan at the hot feeling of your best friend’s cum painting your walls. slowly, you turn your head back to face your other best friend, who still has his cock in his hands and a satisfied look on his face.

“get off her,” jaemin commands.

jeno can’t even think from the mind blowing orgasm he just had. he rolls off your body and lays flat on the bed beside you, panting to catch his breath.

before you can even move, jaemin climbs on the bed and flips you on your back. he climbs over your body and traps you underneath his, his hand gripping your face and leaving you unable to move.

“look at this little slut right here. fucking our best friend like i wouldn’t ever find out.” he crashes his lips against yours, sucking and biting at your lips like you were made of candy.

“mmph—,” you moan.

jaemin pulls away from your lips, a string of saliva connecting the two of you. “shut up, slut. you wanna act like a slut? you’re gonna get treated like one now.” jaemin crawls down your body and wraps his arms around your legs, forcing them apart. he uses his strength to keep an iron grip on your thighs as he inspects your cunt from below.

“i wonder how many times jeno has used this slutty pussy,” jaemin chuckles dangerously.

you squirm, with futile attempts to move out of jaemin’s crushing grip. you can feel jeno’s hot cum start to drip out of your cunt, despite your attempts to clench it inside.

you don’t notice jeno sitting up again, this time watching the two of you with renewed interest. his cock is hard again, standing erect as he starts stroking it.

jaemin uses his fingers to scoop the cum back into your cunt, causing you to gasp sharply and jerk your body around.

“holy fu-“ before you can finish your statement, you feel jaemin’s hot mouth press against your core, his tongue shoving into your used hole and licking up to flick your clit.

you scream at the sudden feeling, hands tangling and pulling onto jaemin’s dark locks. your legs shake from the attack of pleasure on your sore pussy. jaemin pays no mind—continuing to eat you like you’re his last meal.

before you can even realize it, your orgasm crashes down on your senses like a tsunami, waves of pleasure coursing through your veins as your brain goes blank.

your body tightens up and you toss your head back to moan loudly. jaemin’s tongue continues to attack your clit furiously, licking and sucking your through your intense orgasm. jeno rubs his cock furiously, his second orgasm approaching.

jaemin removes his mouth from your pussy with a loud pop—before he crawls back up to meet your fucked out face. he smashes his lips back against yours, making you taste yourself as he continues his attack on your lips this time. he pushes his tongue against yours to make you open your mouth—before he forces jeno’s cum right into your mouth.

you swallow it all—the taste of yourself mixed with jeno’s cum and jaemin’s mouth lingering in your own.

[slttygeto]

MORNING LOVE — GOJO SATORU

content warning: pwp, pussy whipped gojo is my favorite gojo, sex in the kitchen, very light spanking, dirty talk, hint of cnc.

word count: 0,6k

note: this is a follow up to this piece right here. i hope you enjoy it :)!

if there was anything you learned from dating satoru, it was the fact that he was all about touching you. whether it be a hand resting on your thigh, or his lips pressed to your cheek as he drills into you from behind--the man couldn’t get enough of you.

you tried to stop him, tried your best to tell him to wait at least until you were done with breakfast before touching you. but the man was on a mission the moment he saw you dancing in his shirt in the kitchen. and you dare ask him to wait?

“toru--the pancakes,” you cry out the last part, his big hand reaching over to fondle with your boobs. he was incredibly touchy, always all over you like you could escape at any moment (you obviously couldn’t with his massive weight on top of you). 

you feel a little guilty to be doing this in the kitchen and over your counter, but his cock was drilling into you so well. you didn’t know why you were so sensitive this morning, perhaps you were ovulating and so your body felt like putty the moment satoru put his hands on you. 

he didn’t even bother taking off your shirt, simply pushed it up and let out a ‘fuck’ at the sight of your ass. this made you push back on him, whining when he delivered a harsh smack to the skin.

“later baby--fuck, I promise.” he was out of breath, hands roughly grabbing your hips to keep you in place. he loved having this much control over you, to see you trying to run away from his cock. only for him to hold you in place and force you to take it, force delicious sounds out of your throat. 

he grins lazily when you try to look back at him and your eyes are glossed over, lips parted and face contorted in pleasure. you look like you’re trying to say something, but the pleasure consuming you wiped every coherent thought out of your head.

“oh baby, you’re so pretty,” he leans down and presses a kiss to the back of your ear, chuckling when your breath stuttered. you were always so weak, so easily breakable when he had his dick inside of you. 

“oh god--satoru!” you cry out when his hand travels down, rubbing at your clit all while his other hand lets go of your hip to press on your stomach. his pace is unforgiving, a string of curses leaves his mouth when he feels you clenching around him as you approach your orgasm.

“that’s it baby, come on, come on,” he hisses out, his chin resting on your shoulder to peek at your face. he especially loved how fucked out you looked when you coated his dick with your juices.

“that’s right, give it to me. all of it, I can take it. take all what your pussy gives me--shiit, you feel so good,” it’s his turn to whine, his forehead resting on your shoulder when you finally reach your orgasm. your pussy felt like heaven, it was a miracle that he held in for so long. 

his orgasm washes over him soon after yours, and you’re both left a heaving mess. satoru refuses to pull out even when you whine at him to do so, only presses a gentle kiss to your shoulder and hums.

“if I pull out, it will be a mess,”

“then what should we do?”

“the paper towels are right there, lemme grab some.”

“...you’re unbelievable.”

2023 © all works belong to slttygeto. do not repost my work anywhere else.

[celestie0]

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

in holy matriphony ch4. in a mother’s eyes

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

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

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

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

ᰔ chapter. 4/x

ᰔ words. 10k (omg a whole number...very sexy)

a/n. hellooo my ihm friends! hope you're all doing well. ahh i'm glad to finally be posting this chapter lolol. it's a littleee off tangent from what happens in ch3, but still has some important plot developments. it does dive into feelings of depression & anxiety, so just wanted to give a warning on that! but yea other than that i hope you enjoy and see you at the bottom!! :) also so sorry if there are errors i only had time to skim through it once :((

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“Just go ahead and sign right here for me.”

You take the pen from the hospice nurse’s hand. It’s cheap black plastic with a pink fuzzy pom pom attached to the end of it with peeling glue. 

Your eyes briefly flit across the paragraphs detailed in printed ink until your gaze lands on the highlighted lines at the bottom of the page. Your signature. Spouse’s signature.

“We’ll need to have your husband come here to sign the paperwork as well, since he’ll have to add your mother on his list of dependents, but we can certainly get started on expediting this process for you since the insurance has already been pre-approved,” the nurse tells you as she accepts your signed paperwork and then neatly tucks it into one of the compartment holders. 

The afternoon goes by smoothly, with your mother surprisingly patient as she sits in the waiting room while you wait for the nurses to formally show you to her new room.

You thought that you could put off putting her in hospice for a little longer, because in all honesty, you weren’t prepared to let her go just yet. You weren’t prepared to not have her in the house anymore. But lately, she’s been putting herself in lots of danger, like attempting to take her own medications when she does not know the correct dosing, and forgetting things on the stove when she attempts to cook.

But the last straw was when you came home from a very brief run to the grocery store at night a couple days ago to see a handful of your neighbors out on the front lawn with your mother at their side. She had apparently gotten out of the house and walked down the neighborhood, then fallen on the sidewalk but was unable to get up. When your neighbors had found her, a miracle as they were just coming home from dinner and caught sight of her in the illumination of their headlights, they tried to help her get up but she couldn’t. She couldn’t even tell the firefighters that came by to help her what her name was, or what year it was, or where she lived.

It was when you realized you couldn’t even keep her safe anymore that you had to let go.

“Is that a wedding ring?” your mother asks, pointing a trembling finger to it as she lays tucked inside her new hospice bed, “are you married?”

You glance down at the ring Gojo gave you in the courthouse, almost surprised to find that you were still wearing it in good faith. “Yes, mom. I am.”

“Why am I here?” she asks you, “I don’t want to be here.”

You stiffen a little. Although you were mentally preparing yourself to answer these questions, the preparation didn’t make it any easier. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just for a little short while, okay? The doctors want to run some tests on you.”

“Who are you married to?” she asks.

“To Satoru,” you tell her, “our neighbor.”

She lets out a small gasp. “The sweet boy who fixed our A/C?”

You roll your eyes. not sure why your mother has hyper fixated on that memory with Gojo when most days she’ll look at you like you’re a stranger. “Yes mom.”

“Oh, I like him,” she tells you with an affectionate nod. She hesitates slightly, wearisome of some other thought that flashes through her mind. “How long have you been married?”

You let out a small sigh. This is already a conversation you had with her a couple days ago, and it doesn’t feel good to lie to her. It was hard enough to do once, but to have to constantly lie to her over and over again over all the smallest things just so that she stays calm and safe and happy seems to drain you of all your energy and happiness you had left in your bones.

Little white lies, that’s what they are. Harmless ones. That’s what you tell yourself to absolve yourself of the guilt.

“I’ll come back soon, okay? I’ll tell you more about him some other day,” you say to her, speaking gently in the way an adult would speak to a child. The way she used to speak to you. You could never exactly pinpoint when those roles became reversed.

You finish discussing some more insurance matters with the front-desk nurse as she puts together a small folder of documents for you. While she works, you glance at the little counter shelf that includes a plethora of pamphlets on how to deal with the complicated feelings that arise from putting a loved one in hospice care, and dealing with the emotions of having a relative with advanced stage dementia. They are pretty brochures, lovingly creased at the folds as if looked through multiple times by people who walk in and out of this facility, but seemingly only few take them home. You slip one of each into your folder when the nurse hands it to you, manage the best smile possible, and then turn on your heel to head out the hospice doors.

The sun is setting outside as you take the walk back to your car, which was purposefully parked a half mile away to afford you the luxury of a melancholic stroll. Somehow, you feel like you’ve left a piece of yourself back at the hospice. A feeling you can’t quite shake from your bones.

Your feet stop walking somewhere along the sidewalk on their own, the street lights above you flickering brighter into life as the sky is now a dusty gray with only streaks of purple. There’s a liquor store you spot across a small parking lot to your right, and you’re guided towards it, but not without a sickening feeling in your chest.

When you open the door, the bell at the top jingles, and you glance to the right where you see a lanky young man playing some sort of shooter game on his phone by the cash register. You grab a bottle of vodka, a bottle of white wine, some packs of skittles, one of the mini pizza boxes at the hot food station, and then dump it all onto the counter.

The young man scans all your items without even so much as sparing you a glance, but does take a look at your ID, then says, “Total’s $68.65, cash or card?”

“Card.”

Just before you tap your card, something displayed behind the cashier counter catches your eye. Something familiar, something tempting, something you weigh in your head about twenty times within one millisecond all due to the cortisol coursing through your veins and you eventually say, “Uh, and could I get one of those, too?”

The cashier looks behind himself to what you’re pointing at before turning around. “Sure.”

The same jingle is heard on top of your head as you leave the store, now with a burning hot mini pizza box in your hand as well as a plastic bag that carries your candy and the two clinking bottles of alcohol.

“Oh!! omg, y/n,” you hear a feminine voice call out and you’re instantly wincing. The last thing you wanted was to be bothered right now. You just wanted to go home and get drunk and then pass out on the floor of your living room. But alas, the world is small.

You turn around to see Hana come running across the sidewalk lot towards you, and when she’s about a few feet away, she glances down at your hands and all the things you were carrying. You quickly shove your last-minute purchase into your jacket pocket with a shameful conscience, and try to hide the plastic bag of liquor behind your calves. There was no hiding the pizza box, but at least that was the least incriminating.

“Oh, Hana, wow! What a coincidence seeing you here,” you say to her, pressing your lips into a small smile.

“Yeah, I um,” she points over her shoulder towards the hospice that’s standing tall in the darkness of night, cells with windows illuminated with light. If you didn’t know any better, you would think it was a prison. “Remember I told you my friend’s mom is sick and she’s at this hospice?”

“Yeah,” you say.

“I was just visiting her mom with her,” she tells you.

“Aw,” you comment, “I see, I see.”

You adore Hana, you really do. She was there for you when the whole Yuna and Choso thing went down, picking your shifts up for a good week when you couldn’t stomach going into work when your ex-best friend’s stupid face was gloating in the halls over how she stole your boyfriend. Hana was there for you when you were a new hire and all the doctors were being bitchy about a “newbie in the ED”, but she stood up for you, even cussed the fuck out of one of attendings for the whole hall to hear when you were being disrespected by one of them. She’s someone you can beam about how hot the EMT and Firefighter men that stroll into the ED are, too. A priceless companion.

And even though you two have hung out after hours sometimes, it was still always a little awkward to see a coworker outside of work.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

“I actually, um, was going to tell you at our shift tomorrow, but I just admitted my mom to the hospice too,” you say, “and…thanks a lot for telling me about it. I really appreciate it. It seems like a wonderful facility.”

Her eyes briefly widen with surprise before they soften once again. “Oh, that’s wonderful, love. I hope all goes well. And your little insurance scam worked! Good for you!”

“Shhh,” you hiss at her, looking around yourself with paranoia, “the feds are everywhere.”

She laughs, sweet in the air, before the sound settles and she looks at you with something reminiscent of well-intentioned concern. Her eyes flit to the plastic bag you were still holding behind your legs. “Hey…um, if…if you ever want some company when you come to visit your mom, just let me know. I hope you know you don’t have to do everything alone.”

You blink at her, sucking in a short breath to respond, but it only leaves you as a slight puff of air. There’s a silent gratitude that you give her, because it’s hard for you to express any feelings with words, but you’ve found that the people in your life who know you best can always read you without them. 

“Thank you, Hana,” you manage to say with a slight croak to your voice because you were fighting back tears.

She smiles at you. “Take care, okay? And see ya tomorroooowwwwww,” she coos at you, coming up to you to give you a small hug, a squeeze of your upper arm, and then she heads back towards the direction of the hospice.

You watch her walk away until you can’t see her anymore. And then you head towards your car.

When you arrive at your neighborhood, you park in front of Gojo’s house. You have a feeling that you won’t be able to bear the vast emptiness of your home now that your mother is elsewhere, and so you drag your feet up the stone stairs of his house with a heavy heart instead.

The spare key that he gave you weakly pushes into the keyhole with about as much force as your fingers can manage, and you realize they almost feel atrophied. 

The house is dark when you step inside, spare for the ambient street lights shining through cracked open blinds on the windows, and the curtains rustle gently from the draft of the AC, a chill that reaches you too by the time you make it to the staircase.

It doesn’t seem like Gojo’s home. A glance at the clock tells you it’s close to 8pm. You briefly consider texting him to ask where he’s at, why he’s out so late, when he’ll be home, and what’s for dinner, but you can’t even bring yourself to pull your phone out of your coat pocket.

Weak legs manage to take you upstairs and you’re about to pass through to your room when the slightly open door to the master bedroom taunts you, like a peephole into some other wordly dimension. Like the wardrobe in the chronicles of Narnia. A portal into your fake husband’s life.

With a palm pushing on the door, you slowly crack it open, and you know the anxious voices in your head are getting worse by the day when the creaking of the door hinges sounds like a lullaby to you. 

Was this an invasion of privacy? And did you really care if it was?

The room is big, with a king sized bed off to the left, sheets neatly made and duvet primly tucked under, like the way hotel beds are set up. You feel a slight flush of embarrassment when you remember you haven’t been making your bed in the mornings for the past couple days you’ve been living here so far, and you wonder if Gojo would judge you for something like that. If he’d think you were a messy or undisciplined person. If he would think less of you.

Truthfully, in a lot of ways, you still felt like a child. You barely weathered a lot of your formative adolescent years when dealing with your parents’ divorce, and you’ve had to put so much of your life on pause to take care of your mom ever since she got diagnosed. So here you were, in the body of a 29-year-old woman, yet still feeling so painfully juvenile. One that forgets to make her bed in the mornings, and on most nights can’t seem to stomach anything other than cereal for dinner. It was like you were still at a party that everyone else had left, except all it ever was is hell. Your life was such a stark contrast to the lives of other adults you’ve come across. The ones that wake up at six to go on runs, the ones that have paid off mortgages with five figures in their retirement accounts, oh god, the ones that meal prep, and the ones that, all things considered, have their lives together. The ones that don’t spend at least an hour of every day, in fetal position on their bed, sobbing until tears soak through the sheets of the pillow down to the feathers like bone, because you’re so overwhelmed with stress and preparing yourself for the grief of losing your mother which you know that, no matter how hard you try to save her from, will inevitably one day come. 

You used to cook dinner every night, make your bed every morning, and go to pilates on the weekends. Back when you were a little younger and healed and excited to live life. But now, you barely get by. Your priorities are with your mother. You can’t remember the last time you did anything nice for yourself, including something as simple as the luxury of getting to come home to a clean house because you hardly ever had time to clean it, not with all the doctor’s appointments you were driving your mother to, not with all the extra shifts you were picking up at the hospital to pay off your debt, not with all the times you felt too depressed to even get out of bed. 

But your mother is in hospice now, so you’ve made time, right? You’ve made the decision that everyone in your life has been begging you to finally do. So why do you still feel so empty inside?

By a quick survey of the room, you notice Gojo doesn’t really have many framed photos hung up on the walls or perched up on surfaces. None, actually. Only a contemporary painting above his bed frame and then a faded vintage horror movie poster plastered up near his desk. Not terribly odd, since in your experience most men don’t really do the whole “cluttering the house with millions of photos of their family” thing until they at least have a couple of kids and some purebred dog. The thought of Gojo someday setting up a little portrait photo at his desk with his wife’s—his eventual real forever wife’s, pretty face in it, posing with their two beautiful kids, makes an oddly melancholic feeling waft through you. You wonder if he would keep a two-by-two in his wallet, too.

Your feet move one in front of the other as your finger traces the surface wood of a dresser cabinet, something that looks a little vintage and oaky, in stark contrast to the modern minimalist vibe Gojo has set up in the rest of the room. A family heirloom, maybe? There’s no dust that coats your finger, which surprises you. If you were to run your finger across your dresser at home you’d have collected enough dust to snort down your windpipes like a recreational drug. But Gojo’s a real estate agent, making a living off of dressing houses up in perfect cosplay so that monetarily stable middle class families feel inclined to buy them. So you’re not exactly surprised he’s invested in keeping his own house in pristine condition too. 

There is a little bit of chaos, though. Like the shirt he has haphazardly hung over his chair at his office space over to the right. There’s a coffee mug sitting there too, porcelain and reflecting the moon light off, but upon peering inside you see that it’s half empty with stale coffee. He’s got pens sprawled across the desk, in a fashion that suggests he accidentally knocked them over in a rush, and slowly, like some grounding exercise, you place them one by one back into the paper mache pencil holder. It briefly occurs to you that he has a lot of paper mache containers of sorts around the house. You lift up the pencil cup, turning it in your hand until your eyes catch something written on it with glittery pink gel pen.

i luv u unkle toru! -yur BEST FREND 4EVUR juno!!! :D

A small smile makes it onto your face. The handwriting was messy, more like scratches than smooth lines, and nothing less than what you would expect of a child. You remember making paper mache and clay trinkets at preschool for your mom and dad when you were younger. And you’re sure if you were brave enough to open the box of memorabilia that sits in your attic some day, you’d see your own scratchy scribbled handwriting on them. An innocence that is long gone and buried, never again to be delicately placed on desks or counters for all the living.

The draft from the AC reaches you once again, brushing over your skin and causing a chill to shiver down your spine. It kicks at the curtains as well, causing them to ruffle up towards you, baring the dark outside world into the streets. And you notice in that momentary glance that there’s a roof just outside the window that overlooks the backyard. A roof? Spotted by a depressed woman going through a quarter life crisis? There was nothing more tempting than that. 

The window was easy to open, which only caused unease over the revelation of how easy it would be for someone to rob this house. You make a mental note to tell Gojo to get a ring camera or security system of some sort since he doesn’t seem to have one, but you can already picture him telling you something about how statistically low the crime rates are in this neighborhood compared to all the other neighborhoods, and then you’d tell him that it’s just for your peace of mind. But whether he’d compromise or not after that, you’re really not sure.

You take a seat on the roof, a little scared as you sit because of the slight slope, but it’s comfortable once you’re settled. You sit criss-cross-apple-sauce, staring out into the neighborhood of perfectly lined up suburban houses. You’ve got a better view into some neighbors' backyards, noticing that a couple of them had pools while some of them have big gardens. There's a cat resting up on a fence in the distance. A car drives by with headlights illuminating everything in its proximity briefly before zooming off. You glance up at the sky, and notice the full moon, but it’s too cloudy to see any stars. Or perhaps it was just the light pollution from the lamps making it difficult to see.

On instinct, your hand reaches inside your coat pocket for your phone, but your knuckles hit something else instead. A moment of brief confusion flickers through your head, but then you immediately recall the last-minute purchase you made at the gas station.

Your hand pulls out the object, and then you stare down at it. Squinting your eyes a little, because it’s a sight that feels familiar but also one you haven’t seen in so long: a pack of twenty Marlboro red cigarettes. 

You’ve tried a lot of things to manage your stress over the years. Excessively working out, eating a lot of sugar, going on six hour hikes to touch grass, flirting with random men at bars, fucking Choso until he was rendered speechless, multiple types of antidepressants, you almost tried smoking weed once with your roommate in college but you wimped out last second. But the habit that had gotten you through the years of 21 to 24 is held loosely in your hand right now. It’s been five years since you quit, but resolve was often a fickle thing. As the saying goes, once an addict, always an addict. 

There’s a brief moment of hesitation as you slowly peel the plastic off of the back, but then it all comes back to you like a reflex you’ll never forget up to where you slide a cigar up out and then pinch it between your two fingers. Forgetting to buy a lighter with the cigarettes is definitely something you would do, but because you remembered it was something that you would do, you remembered not to do it. The flick of the flame coming to life is ASMR you didn’t know you were painfully nostalgic for, and you balance the cigarette between your lips in that sort of movie-star way people used to obsess over back in the day. But just as you bring the lighter up to the end of the cigarette, and just before you can light it—

A hand shoots out in your periphery, grabbing your wrist and entirely stalling the movement.

You gasp, lips parting enough for the cigarette to fall from them and into your lap. The hand wrapped around your wrist is large and masculine, and you briefly consider screaming, but when you snap your neck to look at the perpetrator, you see Gojo crouched down next to you on this roof. You notice he’s wearing a black suit, a tie that was loosely secure hanging from his neck into the space between his spread thighs as he’s crouched, and whatever gel he had in his hair from earlier only barely remains as strands fall over his forehead haphazardly. He looks like he’s on the other end of a long work day. 

You blink at him, expression plastered with surprise, but his is only earnest. With breathtaking blue eyes that you realize he could easily use to surrender a person just by looking at them, like the way he’s looking at you right now. His lips are pressed together into a firm line, as if to suppress some emotion, but the slight crease to his brow makes you feel like you’re in trouble somehow. Like he was silently scolding you for something.

“I—” you stutter.

He lets go of your wrist and discreetly pulls the lighter out of your hand. And then his hand reaches for the pack of cigarettes you were balancing on your knee, but on some reflex that you don’t even think about, you try to snatch them away from him, and now you’re both tugging at the same pack of cigarettes.

“y/n,” he says, “let go.”

“No,” you say stubbornly.

He sighs and tugs a little harder. “Give them to me.”

“But—” you stammer, voice becoming softer to see if that’d work on him, “I’m…” Your grip on them tightens. “I’m stressed.”

He raises an eyebrow at you, then finally loses his patience and snatches them right out of your hand. He stands up from his crouched down position to toss the pack off to the side onto the roof somewhere. You’re surprised when he lets out a sigh and sits down next to you on the roof, as if he felt the obligation to. His legs stretch out in front of him, but still bent slightly at the knees, and he leans backwards with his body weight braced on his palms laid flat on wood paneling behind him. “There are better ways to relieve stress,” he tells you candidly. 

“Like what?” you ask, and just when he opens his mouth to speak, you clarify, “and don’t say sex.”

He shuts his mouth and his eyes flit up to the sky for a brief second. “Damn. I didn’t have a back-up answer.” 

You roll your eyes, releasing a deep breath, then draw your knees to your chest before resting your chin on top of them. 

“I didn’t know you smoke,” he says after a century-long minute. 

You wince a little, because you were half hoping he was going to just drop the subject all together. 

You bite your lip nervously and hug your knees to your chest tighter as if to hide yourself from him. “I don’t. Well, I haven’t. Um, not for a while.”

“Huh. I see,” he says.

Another silence passes, and as he shuffles next to you, the fabric of his suit brushes against the fabric of your coat, and you’ve become entirely too aware of the feeling.

“So,” he says, breaking the awkward silence, “your mom’s in hospice now?”

You nod, enthusiastic enough to where you won’t look like you’re entirely depressed about it.

“That’s good,” he says, “no issues with the insurance?”

You shake your head. “They need you to sign some papers by the end of the week though,” you tell him. “We’ll have to go in person.”

He nods slowly to affirm he’ll make time for it. “I really hope things get better for your mom,” he says, voice soft as he stares off into neighbors homes like you had been doing ten minutes ago. You see the cat that was resting on the fence get up, do a big stretch, and start walking along the length of the fence. Your eyes briefly glance at Gojo, and you notice his gaze is tracing the cat’s path. 

“My—” you start, hesitant all of a sudden by the vulnerability you already feel swelling within you, most definitely due to sitting with someone on a rooftop late at night, but you decide that you’ll be nice to him for once, “…my mom seems to remember you a lot. More than she remembers me.” You let out a small humoring laugh, as if that fact doesn’t completely destroy you. “She was blabbering to me again for the seventh time about how you apparently fixed our AC.” You try to bite your tongue, but can’t help it when you say, “although I’m pretty sure you just pressed a bunch of buttons until it started working again.”

“Yup. That’s exactly what I did.”

You roll your eyes and sigh.

Another awkward silence.

“Can I ask you a question?” you say.

“Sure.” His voice sounds deeper, like he’s sleepy. 

“Why did you agree to marry me? That’s not something people just do out of nowhere.”

He glances over at you, and you flicker your eyes to him. “Why? Having regrets?” he teases, with a slight nudge of his elbow to your side. 

“Just answer me.”

He lifts his palms up from behind him and leans forward, placing his hands on his knees instead. “I don’t know. If something I could do would help someone out that much, I wasn’t going to say no.”

You hum quietly, still confused by his intentions. But you’re too jaded to question them.

“It costs nothing to be nice,” he adds. 

You run soothing circles over your thigh through the fabric of your jeans. For some reason, your mind wanders to Choso. Thinking of all the years you wasted staying with him even though you knew his affections were long gone, just because you didn’t want to break his heart. Only to realize that you never had that privilege in the first place. 

“I think,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper as you draw your knees closer to your chest, “that sometimes it does.”

A gust of autumn wind breezes by, ruffling the trees that the two of you are at eye-level with at the moment. You're pretty sure you’ve completely lost Gojo’s interest at this point, where he’s finally too tired to deal with your oddly cryptic attitudes and overall generally displeasing vibe, assuming this based solely on his prolonged silence beside you. You’re ready for him to get up and abandon you here on this roof, left to ponder every single thing you’ve done wrong in your life. It was any second now.

“Sometimes,” he instead speaks up, and it’s so surprising to you that you jolt a little bit, “you can do everything right, and people will still find a way to fuck you over. But I don’t think that’s any reason to stop being nice to others.”

You glance over at him, your eyes widening slightly, but he just continues to peer off straight into the night. His blinks are slow, lingering on being closed for a moment before he opens them again, and you’re mesmerized by the sight. The skin under his eyes is slightly dark from exhaustion, heavy with character that makes you aware that he’s just a person too. And for what feels like the tenth time this week, you realize that he’s—…handsome. And for what feels like the tenth time this week, your heart flutters in your chest.

He scoffs suddenly and dusts his hands off. “I sound like a fucking youth pastor.” He lets out an exhale before suddenly standing up onto his feet before you can think more on it. He looks off into the night again and lets out another exhale that sounds more like a sigh this time. “God, it’s getting a lot colder these days. Might have to start running the heater.”

You blink up at him with no commentary to add. 

He looks down at you. His face is relaxed, but you can tell those eyes are distracted. A shimmering blue ocean in its own world while he attempts to stay present in this one. 

He holds his hand out to you, and you stare at it blankly like you’ve got no clue what he intends for you to do with it. But you finally take the hint and curl your hand around his palm so that he can pull you up onto your feet too.

You stumble a little, falling forward from the sudden blood flow to your brain, but he holds you steady by the strong grip of his hands on your elbows. He’s close to you, close enough to where you can smell the faint lingering scent of his cologne. Something different than that expensive one he wore to the courthouse, but it’s comforting somehow. A fragrance that’s more him. And you feel nervous as you look up at him underneath pale moonlight. 

He lets go of your elbows. You feel cold from the loss of his touch. But his right hand moves to gently hold your left hand in his palm, holding it curled as his thumb barely grazes the stone you wear on your ring finger; the one he gave you.

The way his thumb prods at the silver band is like he’s inspecting its quality, as if it has to pass some test to be worthy of sitting on your finger. Or maybe just any finger, if you were to quell the delusion. You’re not sure if he’s satisfied with his inspection.

“Where did you get it—” you blurt out.

His gaze flickers up to your face briefly before he’s back to examining the ring. “It was my mom’s.”

Your mouth gapes slightly in shock, heart dropping a little in your chest, and all of a sudden you feel guilty. Guilty that he put his mother’s ring on your finger for something that was fake, something that was essentially a business deal, something exchanged to you out of fraud when it was a precious family heirloom that should be exchanged with love. And maybe he didn’t care about it much, some people don’t care about the sentiments of objects. But your mind thinks of the oaky vintage dresser in his room, so out of place in the aesthetic of its surroundings, a decision you can only imagine him of all people, mr. “everything in this house has to look like an IKEA catalog”, would do if the dresser held some importance to him that was more than meets the eye. And so you’re compelled to think that maybe this ring did, too. 

“Why would you give me this?! You could’ve just gotten a cheap fake diamond ring from a pawn shop and called it a day,” you ask him, suddenly feeling burdened by it.

“Well I wasn’t exactly given much time to think of other options.”

“But—” you start, only to realize you have no counter arguments for that.

He lets out a huh noise, like the sound someone makes when they’re pleasantly surprised by something, as he looks down at your hand that he still held in his. “It’s kinda crazy that it fits you perfectly. I wasn’t sure.”

Your mind wanders to when he slipped the ring onto your finger in the courtroom, followed by the kiss. Soft, sweet, the lingering warm sensation of his palm on your cheek as he cupped your face, the same way those heartthrob actors do in all those romance movies and kdramas that you watch on Friday nights while snuggled up in a blanket, wondering when anyone will ever kiss you like that. You remember the ghost sensation of his hand hovering over the small of your back, fingers lightly grazing the nape of your neck, his frame blocking out everything around you as he kissed you, just to pull away and for the two of you to then pretend like it never happened, as if it wasn’t one of the sweetest kisses you’ve ever known.

You slowly pull your hand out of his, the moment feeling too tender for your liking, and you clear your throat before flitting your eyes up to his. 

“Rule #1,” you remind him with a soft whisper, “no touching.”

You purse your lips, watching his round eyes blink once, then twice, before he shoves his hands in his suit pockets. He rocks back and forth on his heels for a few seconds, nodding slowly in submission, and then he turns on them to head back to the house. You’re standing a little stunned from the abrupt ending to this trance of a moment on the roof, and you’re also a little surprised with how your chest is heaving a little bit with fast breaths, but you eventually snap out of it to follow him inside too. 

You two make it back inside the house, with little words exchanged. You pretend to not notice the way Gojo tilts his head at his desk, like he’s confused about why it looks tidier than when he left it. You’re prepared to feign innocence or ignorance, but he doesn’t press you about it. 

“Y’know,” he says from behind you, his chest briefly brushing against the back of your head as he pushes the bedroom door in front of you open so that you can head out into the loft, “those oversized 1800s-esque nightgowns you’ve been wearing around the house kinda make you look like a less-hot version of Ebenezer Scrooge.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

“Sign right here for me, sir.”

You watch as the nurse slides the papers across the high-raised counter of the hospice nursing desk towards Gojo, his eyebrows narrowing as his eyes skim the words on the paper and land at the highlighted lines where he’s been intended to sign. You feel nervous for some reason, as if he’d suddenly find something disagreeable and refuse to sign, then take you to the courthouse first thing to finalize a divorce and send you off to prison while claiming he was blackmailed into the whole marriage in the first place.

Instead, he pulls a pen from the chest pocket of his suit jacket, clicking the end of it and scribbling his signature onto the paper with some jet black ink that looks like it takes a second to dry. How pretentious of him. The pink pom-pom pen was right there.

The nurse behind the counter continues to chat with him about something, blah blah dependents, blah blah tax claims, blah blah you’ll receive an itemized bill in the mail. You’re trying your best to eavesdrop in on the conversation, but most of your senses are being occupied by examining all your surroundings. When you dropped your mother off at the hospice, your feelings were at the forefront of conscience, but now that you’ve had a couple days to come down from that overwhelming emotional high, you’re here to scope out the quality of this place you’ve just dumped your mom at.

The facility is clean and sleek, with a color theme of red and an ocean blue across the signs, the furniture, even with the paperwork they hand out. All the workers had color-coded scrubs based on their occupation or specialty, and none of them had stains on the fabric. You take a glance down at the modest leather pumps you were wearing past the creases of the long skirt, and notice that the floor was shimmering off their reflection in a perfect polish. It wasn’t bad, this place.

“Thanks, you too,” you hear Gojo say to the nurse behind the counter. He has a professional smile on his face, but still kind and genuine, which makes the woman at the computer something bashful and unable to make eye contact. He folds something that looks like a receipt into his chest pocket before tucking his pen back in there too and then turns to face you. You make a mental note to pay him back for whatever he just paid for, at least once you move some money around. 

Your eyebrows lift, feeling a little dazed as you blink at him blankly.

“Alright,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets, the sound of his shoes on the polished hospital floors satisfactorily tapping in your ears as he took a couple steps towards you, “where’s your mom’s room?”

“Huh?”

“What’s her room number?” he asks you.

“Y-You wanna go see her??”

“Of course I want to,” he says, “she’s my mother-in-law.”

You roll your eyes and pet the fabric of your skirt to smooth the wrinkles out. “You’re getting a little too invested in this role of fake husband.”

“I get to annoy you all day and ride the adrenaline rush of committing a federal crime,” he says, “of fucking course I’d get invested.”

You sigh, tossing some of your hair to behind your shoulder before glancing up at the signs, squinting slightly to locate the ward where your mother’s room is, before you hear an extremely high-pitched and somewhat catty feminine voice call out from behind you. You glance at Gojo’s face as he peers off to whoever’s behind you, and you see him visibly stiffen a little.

“Is that Dayton county’s sexiest realtooorrr???” the voice purrs, and you turn on your heel to see a blonde bombshell of a woman clacking her kitten heels down the glistening floors of the hospice, with another brunette bombshell just a few paces behind her. Bombshell #2 sighs something like “it issss” before they walk right up to your fake husband and take turns at giving him a playful squeeze of his bicep. You have to physically stop your jaw from dropping at the sight. 

“Wow! Ladies, so–...so great to see you two,” he says out of polite obligation, and you immediately clock the fact that he doesn’t address them by name.

Bombshell #1 turns to look at you, all of her hair moving as one solid entity with the motion from all the hair spray that’s probably holding it up, and she points at you with a long slender finger that narrows into a french-tip. “Oh who’s this?? Another one of your clients??”

“Oh, no, she’s my–”

“I’m his wife,” you interrupt him, irritated for some reason. 

Both the women chirp something out like oh! before their faces twist with confusion. 

“I didn’t know you were married,” Bombshell #2 says in a thick New Jersey accent.

Gojo lifts his left hand up, the silver band on his hand glimmering under fluorescent hospice lighting. “Very happily,” he says, as if someone was holding a gun to his head.

Bombshell #1 crosses her arms, and you try not to stare at how nice her boobs look in the low scoop-neck jaguar print top she was wearing. You were no better than a man. And now you’re pissed off at the idea of Gojo glancing down too, but a flick of your gaze up to his face tells you he’s safe. For now. 

“You weren’t married when I asked you if you were a month ago,” Bombshell #1 sneers at him. It’s true, the math wouldn’t make sense, but in his defense, this marriage was a fraud.

“Or when you took me out for dinner last week after I bought my house,” Bombshell #2 snarls with an undertone of hurt. 

Gojo clears his throat beside you before pointing at Bombshell #2. “How is that, by the way?” he asks in an attempt to change the subject, “the half acre down on Maple Ave, right? You, uh, enjoying the pool?”

The woman let out an offended scoff and–were her eyes sheening with tears?? She puts her hands on her hips. “No. Mine is the three bedroom house with the cedar gazebo on 14th street.”

Her friend next to her rolls her eyes and smacks her gum between her cheek. “I’m the one that bought the half acre down on Maple Ave, jerk. Ugh!” She grabs her friend’s arm with a high-pitched hmph noise leaving her throat, and you can hear the other one sniffling subtly as she wobbles on her heels with her friend’s pull of her arm. 

Right before leaving the two of you alone, Bombshell #1 turns to you and says, “I hope you find someone who treats you better,” and then they storm off together down the hallway, their perfectly blow-dried hair bouncing in sync with each stomp.

You blink at the sight, a little flabbergasted from the interaction, and then flit your faze up to Gojo. You see him awkwardly scratching at the back of his head with a grimace on his stupidly handsome face. 

“That’s what you get for being a manwhore,” you tell him.

“I’m not a manwhor–”

“You went on a date with another woman while you were maaaaarrrieeeddd?!” you coo as you let out a fake gasp and slap your cheeks with your hands, “despicable, really.”

He lets out some disgruntled noise, the source coming from deep within his throat. “No. We weren’t fake-married yet,” he vindicates himself, “and it wasn’t a date. I just bought her dinner as a congrats for buying a house. Not a big deal. I do it for all my clients.”

“Satoru. You do realize you’re leading these women on, right? I mean, I’ve seen the way you talk to them. Even if you think you’re just being friendly, please know that your definition of friendly is most people’s definition of flirting.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s true.”

He raises an eyebrow as he glances down at you. “Alright, how come this flirting in disguise of friendliness hasn’t worked on you then?”

You scoff in disbelief before crossing your arms. Maybe you did deserve a better fake husband. “You’re never friendly with me. You’re always rude to me.”

“What? I’m not always rude to you.”

“Well, you’re certainly much more rude to me than you are to other women,” you say, tapping the tip of your shoe with irritation.

“Can we not do this right now? We’re in the middle of a hospice.” 

“God, you’re such a cop-out,” you mumble as you forcefully push past him towards the hallway that’ll lead you to your mother. You can hear that Gojo’s on your tail, following you down one of the more dimly lit hallways, and you can tell he needs to stall the strides of his Daddy Longlegs to not overtake your pace.

“What the fuck is a cop-out?” he asks you from behind.

“Look it up on urban dictionary, Grandpa. Unless you don’t know what the Internet is, either,” you spat. 

You waltz right up to your mother’s room just in time to see a nurse making her way out with a clipboard in her hands. She glances over to you when she sees you approaching in her periphery.

“Hi! How can I help you?” she asks.

“Is it alright if we visit my mother?” you ask her.

“Oh! Sure, let me just clean her bed pan really quick.”

Your brow furrows. “B-Bedpan?? Why is she using a bedpan??”

The nurse stops in her movements. “Well, yesterday and today, that’s just what she has decided to use.”

You immediately become hostile. “That’s not right. She never needed to use one at home. Why is she suddenly using one here? Is that not a clear sign of deterioration? The restrooms must not be kept well enough here if she doesn’t want to use them.”

The nurse becomes something meek, her eyes widening as her mouth gapes slightly. “Ma’am,” she squeaks out, “we see this commonly with patients as they begin to adjust to hospice life. We’ll urge her to use the restroom, but as of right now, we need to prioritize what she finds most comfortable.”

Your expression softens, your shoulders relaxing from their tense position, and you duck your head a little with guilt. “Right…I’m sorry.”

The nurse presses her lips together with a well-meaning smile before shuffling into the room and closing the door behind her. You sigh and lean your back against the wall next to the number plate, cheeks flushing slightly from the confrontation. You have no idea how loud your voice was or who heard you. But you try to convince yourself that you’re just stressed and trying to look out for your mother, although the guilt still sits.

You glance up to see Gojo staring at you with slightly wide eyes, his hands shoved into his pockets, and he tilts his head to study your expression.

“What?” you snap at him.

“Are you doing okay?”

“Just fine, thanks.”

“Are you sure?”

“Satoru,” you cut his questioning off by raising a palm into the air, “just—…just stop.”

His brow furrows together slightly, but before he can show any further concern, the nurse exits the room and holds the door open for the two of you. 

“All set!” she chirps, and Gojo moves to hold the door open in her stead, and then the nurse bolts down to disappear somewhere down the hallway.

You hear Gojo let out a small huff of a scoff as he stares down in the direction the nurse ran off in. “Glad to know I’m not the only one that’s scared of you.”

You roll your eyes and walk into the room through the open door.

Your mother lays in her bed, looking out the window with her hands resting on top of layers of white linen sheets, her skin looking slightly paler than usual. You approach her bedside slowly and she finally turns her head to look at you.

“Hi mom,” you gently greet her, sitting down on the stool beside her bed, “how are you doing?”

Her eyes dart across the features of your face, and you briefly glance towards the wall to the right where you see Gojo standing from a slight distance.

“Oh, hi dear,” she says with a smile, and relief washes over you.

You match her smile with your own. “Mom, I brought someone here to see you.” You glance over at Gojo, who starts to close distance now as he approaches the foot of the bed, “this is Satoru, my husband.”

Your mother’s eyes widen, “Oh! I know him,” she scoldingly swats a hand at you, like you’ve embarrassed her somehow by assuming that she doesn’t know who he is, “he’s my neighbor!”

You sigh, “yes mom, the one that fixed the A/C?” You attempt to finish her sentence for her.

She looks confused for a moment, but slightly nods as if to avoid any further confusion for herself. “But—…but, why…” she trails off and then looks at you, “I’m sorry, are you my nurse?”

Your shoulders drop slightly. “No, mom, it’s me. Your daughter. Do you remember?”

Her face scrunches before it entirely relaxes to keep some image of composure despite the haze you know she feels in her head. “Oh…yes, yes…my little girl. I remember you, of course!”

Your eyes become layered with a slight sheen of tears, “I’m glad.”

“Where’s your father?” she asks, “he said he’d bring me some…oh dear, what—…he said he’d bring me tea. I’ve been waiting.”

“Mom, dad is—” you pause for a moment to think on your feet. You could either tell the truth, or a little white lie. You never know what to do. And either one comes with either guilt or sorrow. “Well, he’ll be here soon, I just wanted to come see you.”

“Oh okay…” she trails off, her eyes squinting at you once more with that same look of confusion on it, but then they drift towards Gojo. “Oh you’re a very handsome young man! You look just like my neighbor.”

Your eyes flicker up to Gojo, and he walks up to your side by your mom’s bed. “Yes, Mrs. l/n, I am your neighbor.”

“With the lemon tree!”

“The avocado tree,” you correct her with a small sigh. “And he’s my husband mom. And also our neighbor.”

“Oh I see I see…” she says, looking up at him, and in a moment that shocks you, she holds her hand up for him to take.

There’s a slight moment of surprise on his face too, but he accepts her frail hand in his, and you glance over to your mom to see her look at him with some look of peace on her face.

“Oh, sit down here, won’t you?” she tells him, and you both blink at her in a moment of hesitation.

He pulls a stool up to the side of the bed right next to you and takes a seat down onto it. Your mother holds his hand with both of hers now, soothing her palm over the back of it before she taps on it lightly.

“Oh, my little girl is very sweet. She would bring me flowers from the garden when she was,” she glances at you, confused once more, “well I remember her when she was so little but she looks…a little older now. Ah, but she would bring me such pretty flowers.”

Your heart aches in your chest. You never knew what version of you your mother would remember. Some days, you’re still supposed to be an angsty teenager that shuts doors in her face, some days you were just as you are right now, and other days, you were just her little girl. And it confused her, the image of not seeing you in the way that she remembers. In the only way she knew how.

“You’ll take good care of my sweet girl, won’t you?” she asks him.

And it knocks the wind out of you.

It drops your heart to the center of the earth.

The thought that, after so many moments where she doesn’t remember you, she still knows that you’re someone she wants to keep safe.

Your mouth gapes slightly, tears welling in your eyes and you try your best to blink them away, but you see Gojo’s hand slip out from being held by your mother’s hands, to instead use both of his to hold hers. Your eyes snap to his face, and you see that same earnest expression you’ve been growing used to seeing these days. 

“Yes,” he responds, eye contact level with hers, “I will.”

A small puff of air leaves your lips, a single tear streaming down your cheek and you quickly swipe your trembling fingers to remove any evidence of it before you huff out a shaky, “excuse me.” And then you’re standing up off the stool, and in a few hurried steps across the room as more tears continue to stream down your face, you make it to the door to push out into the suffocating air of the hallway.

It’s hard to breathe, huffs and puffs barely leaving your lips as you struggle to pull air into your lungs while you storm down the hallway at a fast pace, your heels clicking underneath you in a way that only sets you off further. Suddenly, all the sounds around you make you sick to your stomach, a wave of nausea washing over you, and your nose burns with the intensity of the tears that continue to stream down your face. A few hospice staff look at you with concerned expressions, and you eventually reach a heavy-duty door that leads you out into a secluded staircase hallway where the dim lighting serves to relax at least some of your senses, but you still feel like you’re about to pass out.

Even in the haze of your emotions, there’s this glimmer of a memory that comes to mind. One from when you were younger and you were pushed on the playground at school. You cried and cried and cried in your mother’s arms, but even then, you didn’t want her to baby you. You would say to her, I’m a big girl now! in that same way a child knows nothing of what it truly means to brave the world. 

That little girl had no idea that one day, there would be moments where she wouldn’t be remembered as her mother’s little girl anymore. 

No matter how old you grow, you will always be my little girl, your mother’s voice echoes to you, the feeling of her squeezing you in her arms as she holds your sobbing little form in hers casting a ghost sensation across your skin.

In a mother’s eyes, you’ll always be her baby.

And that’s why it hurts.

Because it’s all fake.

It’s phony.

It’s not real.

This arrangement you have with Gojo.

And if your mother were to die tomorrow, there would be no one to take care of her little girl anymore.

Not in the way she believes there will be.

Of all the white lies, this one pierces you straight through your heart in a way that leaves you gasping for air.

Amidst your whirlwind of thoughts, you hear the door push open harshly, and when you glance over, you see Gojo standing in this dimly lit hallway as he turns his head quickly to the left and sees you standing there.

“Hey,” he says, catching his breath as he lightly jogs up to you, “hey, hey, hey,” he repeats with more concern now when he sees the state you’re in, and he seamlessly pulls you into a hug, your cheek pressing against his chest that feels warm even through the fabric of his suit jacket and shirt, and that familiar scent of him completely engulfs you.

You sob quietly, wiping your snot on his tie and your tears on the felt fabric beside it, your hands balled into tiny fists at your chest, squeezed between the two of you. You feel him tuck your head under his chin and his arms wrap around you tighter. You don’t even realize it at first, but suddenly, it has become easier to breathe.

Then, you wail, and you cry, and you sob, because you don’t have the words to even explain how you feel, about not just this, but with everything, a buildup of everything that has been suffocating you in your life that just comes crashing down on you all at once.

“I know,” he says, his palm resting on the back of your head as he holds your face to his chest, his voice soothing in your ears while you sob until there’s nothing left to cry. “I know.”

You two stay like this for another minute or so as you come down from the cries, your remnant sniffling echoing in the hallway while you wipe more of your snot on his jacket. You make the first move to pull your face away from his chest, but he still keeps his arms wrapped around you when you look up at him.

With your gaze darting across his face, you take in the blue in his eyes. Eyes that are looking at you so softly it’s suddenly hard to breathe once more. And when those eyes flit to your lips, your mouth parts slightly as you two breathe in unison.

It’s possible that you could have dreamed the moment you saw him lean down slightly towards you, his eyes still set on your lips, but it didn’t matter because you’re pushing him away with strong fists before you can even register the thought in your head.

He lets go of you entirely, his eyes wide once more, and you glance down at your feet. 

A tender moment, just like on the roof, broken just because you can’t handle that—…that way, that intense way that he looks at you. New rule, no looking at me longingly like you want to kiss me. I won’t allow it.

“I want to go home,” you whisper, still examining your shoes. And you suddenly feel embarrassed that he had to see you this way. He’s supposed to be scared and intimidated by you, not holding you in his arms while you cry. 

He’s silent for a moment, but you can tell he’s searching for things to say. “You don’t want to say bye to your mom before we go?”

You swipe your palm against the wetness on your cheek. “No. I just want to go home.”

“y/n,” he tried to convince you.

You finally look up at him. “Please.”

He breathes in a few breaths as he studies the features of your face in a way that makes you feel so seen that it’s frightening. But he slowly nods, then says,

“Okay.”

.

.

.

.

.

[end of chapter 4]

a/n. hi friendsss i hope you enjoyed :'') yea like i said at the a/n in the beginning, this chapter is a slight off-tangent from last chapter, but ch5 will continue with a lot of the stuffs that were brought up in ch3. but yea i wanted to explore the whole process of emotions reader would go through putting her mom in hospice, since it kinda felt like a big thing, hence why it got its own chapter. aaa i hope to see you in the next one!! much love from me :''0

➸ take me to chapter five!

note: please do not ask me for updates or when i will next update (read rules)

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[laligraves]

sweet angel agency

dark!joel miller x fem!reader

[18+] | wc: ~2.3k summary: Joel mistakes you for the escort he ordered. masterlist | AO3

warnings: dark!Joel, TLOU AU, noncon/dubcon (im so serious don't read if it makes you uncomfortable), older!joel/no outbreak, not proofread, no use of y/n or too many details on reader's appearance, reader has hair joel can pull, reader can be picked up by joel, fingering, squirting, unprotected sex, creampie

a/n: happy october! i have these three serial killer!joel WIPs i keep jumping between but idk which one to finish 😭 so i wrote this instead lol

“No, no, no. Shit!” 

Your car emits a loud creaking sound and begins to shake. Thinking quickly, you drive into a small cul-de-sac, away from the main road and fast cars. It rolls to a stop with one final groan, shutting off completely. 

“Fuck,” you mutter, “are you kidding me?” 

You grab your phone from the center console, noticing the 3% battery, and shoot a text to your friend that you’ll be late to the Halloween party. 

It dies as you press the send button and you throw it to the passenger seat in exasperation. You look around the rows of houses. There’s a Halloween event in the city, which probably explains the lack of cars in the driveways and the turned off porch lights. 

Well, all except one. 

A pickup truck with tools and materials in the bed, is parked in the driveway of a home. The porch light is on and you can see the flicker of the TV through the closed blinds. 

You hope the family is nice enough to let you use their phone or even if by some miracle, one of them knows how to fix your car. As you step out of the car and smooth down your dress, you pray they aren’t judgmental of your outfit choice. 

It’s a tiny, silk dress complete with angel wings and thigh high stockings. You pull the dress down in an effort to cover your thighs but it only brings it down from your chest, accentuating your tits. 

With no choices left, you ring the doorbell to the house. There’s no noise aside from the crickets and the TV, until you hear the heavy thuds of boots walking towards the door. 

It swings open, revealing a tall, older man. His hair and beard have streaks of gray and his brown eyes are lined with soft wrinkles. The button down he wears stretches over his broad chest and as he leans his arm on the door, the bottom of his shirt rises to show a slight belly and a happy trail. 

In other words, he's handsome. A quick scan of his left hand shows no wedding ring. 

You give him a pretty smile, not above using your looks to get what you want. 

“Hi,” you say as you give him your name, “sorry to bother you. My car broke down and I was wondering if I could use your phone to call a tow truck?” 

His eyes do a slow sweep of your body, lingering on the lacy band of your thigh highs, then back up to your eyes, 

“Didn’t realize you came with a story.” 

Your eyebrows pinch in confusion. “Uh–story? What?” 

“And the angel costume… I guess that’s expected.” 

“May I use your phone?” you ask again.  

He pushes the front door wider, motioning for you to walk in. “It’s in the kitchen.” 

You walk inside and accidentally brush against his body. Aside from his confusing comments, the deep rumble of his voice caused goosebumps to rise on your skin. You walk into the hallway, stopping at the entrance of the living room, waiting for him to lead you to the kitchen. 

“Are you… home alone or–” 

You feel his hand snake through your hair and pull you back into his chest. His other hand slips under your dress and cups your pussy, rubbing over the thin material of your panties. 

“What the fuck–” 

You lift your hands to scratch and push him away but he only holds you tighter. 

“Stop playin’ games, little girl,” he growls, “we both know why you’re here.” 

His fingers, rough and calloused even through your panties, glide over your panty-covered slit in rough strokes. You’re frozen in his arms, unsure of what to do. 

Your heart pounds fast in your chest and you feel warmth spread through your body. 

“I don’t–please, sir–” you stutter. 

His fingers slip into your panties and you bite your lip to muffle your moan. He swirls his middle finger at your entrance, gathering the slick that’s dripped out of you, and drags it up to circle your clit. 

You gasp, the sudden jolt of pleasure taking you by surprise. 

“So fuckin’ sensitive,” he growls, “can’t wait to sink my cock in ya’, angel.” 

Your hands try to dislodge his arms from around you, but he slips his hand around your neck and squeezes, cutting off your air supply. Your wings bend in his hold and the plastic middle digs into your back. 

“I told them I wanted you to call me Joel,” he murmurs, loosening his hand to allow you to breathe, “but I like sir.” 

“What are you talking about—” 

Joel interrupts you again, ripping your panties in a stinging snap and spinning your around to face him. You teeter and almost trip on your heels, but he crouches and swings you over his shoulder. 

He brings his hand down on your ass, ordering you to stop squirming, girl, while you feel the cool air brush on your naked cunt. 

Joel walks you through the hallway and into a room, dropping you on his bed. You try to scoot away from him, but he grabs your foot and yanks you back down. 

“No, please,” you cry, “I don’t know what this is–” 

“We won’t be needing these,” he says as he slips off your heels. 

“Sir–” 

Joel grabs the top of your dress and rips it half, maneuvering your body so he can untie your wings, leaving you in nothing but your stockings. 

You don’t like the way your belly tightens with each stroke of his rough hands over your heated skin or the way your cunt drips with need every time he calls you a pretty angel. 

He laughs at your attempts to kick or shove him away, and easily overpowers you. Joel pushes your hands back and nuzzles your breasts, gliding his nose over one, sliding to the other, until he suckles a peaked nipple into his mouth. 

It gets you to stop fighting and instead you whimper in his hold, pushing your chest up so he can get more of your plump flesh into his mouth. 

He makes room for himself between your thighs, grinding down his bulge onto your bare pussy. The rough material of his jeans contrasts the softness of his mouth and your brain short circuits. 

“Always the same with you sluts,” he growls, “beggin’ me to stop but look at ya’, soakin’ my jeans.” 

Joel props himself up, giving a kiss to the tip of each breast, and holds your mouth open with rough fingers to shove your panties inside. With your now torn dress, he uses the silk to tie your hands together. 

“Can’t get away from me now, little girl. You’re all mine.” 

Your knees are bent and thighs spread open, giving him a perfect view of your cunt. He uses one hand to thumb your tiny hole while the other unbuckles his belt. 

“Prettiest pussy i’ve ever seen,” Joel says, “gonna make a mess in it.” 

Joel pushes his jeans down and fists his cock, squeezing the thick length in his hand. A pulse starts in your cunt at the sight and you unconsciously tighten your inner muscles.

You push the inappropriate thoughts out of your head, reminding yourself that this is a stranger, one that you wanted help from–but the dribble of pre-cum on his purple tip makes your mouth water. 

His cock is thick, angry-looking, and curved slightly. A patch of curly hair, silver streaked just like his head, covers his base. 

Joel slips a single finger inside of you and you both groan, him from the snug fit and you from the stretch. Your back arches and you cry out from behind the gag. 

“So fuckin’ tight,” he murmurs, “how am I gonna fit in here, angel?” 

He slides his finger out and notches the tip of his cock to your slick entrance. You cry, no, no, please, through your gag, but your resolve slowly slips. 

Joel holds your thighs open and thrusts in with one firm push, lodging himself to the hilt. It takes you a few moments to react, but you scream behind the gag.

“Fuck, fuck,” he says, “that’s—fuck. You’re fuckin’ perfect.” 

You flutter around his length, trying to accommodate his size, feeling every veiny and bumpy ridge on his cock. 

He stills, clutching your thighs and sliding his fingers beneath the lace band of your stockings.

“Grippin’ me so well, angel,” Joel groans, grinding down. “Meant to be, yeah?” 

No, you scream in your head, but your body quivers in excitement and you breathe in the scent of his cologne and sweat, wanting him but, at the same time remembering how you ended up here.  

“Look at cha’,” he laughs, “impatient little thing. Already fuckin’ herself on my cock.” 

You try to deny it, that you’re currently not swiveling your hips, bouncing with the little room you have, trying to get him to move, but it’s no use. You’re chasing the warmth that simmers in your belly and you purposefully clench around his length.  

Joel moves slowly, sliding out, watching the flicker of emotions on your face. 

It barely fits, and it borders on pain. But the heat in your pussy only grows with each growl or moan that spills from his mouth. 

You’re embarrassingly wet, making it so much easier for him to pound into you. He watches your joined bodies, eyes half closed but focused on the way your inner lips grip him, on how your slick drowns him from tip to base. 

“Should I keep you, little girl?” Joel groans. “Chain you to my bed so you never leave?” 

The image flashes in your mind—you, naked and sweaty, covered in his cum and spit, completely at his mercy. 

He doesn’t need a verbal answer to know the idea excites you. Little slut, he says, as your inner muscles tighten around him. 

Joel pushes your hands above your head and presses his face into the exposed column of your neck. He stretches over you, trapping you under his heavy weight. 

Even if this isn’t the first time you’ve been fucked—it is the first time you’ve been fucked like this. The sounds you make, whines, screams, pretty whimpers that have him holding you tighter and fucking you harder—it’s all new. 

“Deep,” he whispers in your ear, “so goddamn deep.” 

There’s something strangely intimate about this. He stays fully clothed, only giving you his bare cock to feel, while you lay beneath him, completely nude except for the thigh highs.  

Joel, if that even is his name, is a complete stranger. Yet he pounds into you like he owns you. 

His lips trail from your neck, licking the droplets of sweat that gather on your skin, leaving kisses on the corner of your mouth, uncaring of the drool from your gag. 

Your thoughts jumble from the overstimulation and soon you’re sobbing, filled with his big cock, dominated by the sheer force of his entire being. 

“So fuckin’ tiny,” Joel grunts, “take me cock, little girl. Take it, take it.” 

His breathing becomes erratic and he thrusts harsher, hauling your thigh higher so he can move quicker. He’s close. It might be your mind playing tricks or, his cock could actually be swelling inside of you, ready to fill you with his cum. 

His thumb swipes over your clit in fast circles and you ripple around his length, coming in sticky, wet spurts. Your scream, caught by surprise by the pressure of your orgasm. You tremble and cry in his hold, squeeze him hard enough that he groans in pain. 

“Fuckin’ gorgeous,” he mutters, “gonna make this pussy mine.” 

And he does. Joel fills your clenching, little hole with his cum, spilling his seed in your unprotected womb. You remember too late that you’re no longer on birth control, but it’s no use. You have no way to stop him from painting your cunt white, so you let him make a mess inside of you. 

His hips piston with enough force to sink you into the mattress. You’re not quite sure if your orgasm ever ended, but your cunt pulses with another wave as Joel fucks the rest of his spend inside of you. 

“All full of me, little girl,” he murmurs, dropping down to lay partially on top of you. 

You won’t be able to walk tomorrow, or maybe for the next few days. Your entire body feels sore and your mind is delirious. 

Joel gently slides out of you and places a kiss on your chin. He unties the silk from your hands and removes the wet panties from your mouth. You hear him walk out of the room, but fall asleep before you’re able to drink the glass of water he brings you. 

-

Joel’s POV.

He’s glad he followed Tommy’s advice and switched to a new escort agency. 

The others aren’t usually so responsive or reactive to his touch. They’ll play along to his fantasy, throw out a few no, please stop, but it never feels real. 

You’re different. 

You kicked, scratched him, drew blood from his skin. It felt real, bringing out the primal side of him that he’s so desperately tried to repress. 

Joel walks into the kitchen to grab you a glass of water and his phone, intending to order you food, when he sees an email from Sweet Angel Agency sent almost two hours ago. 

Dear Mr. Joel Miller, 

We apologize for the late notice but our Angel will not be able to make it to your residence tonight. We will be providing you with a full refund. Please wait 2-3 business days to see that reflected in your bank account. 

For any further questions or to schedule another appointment, please contact us. 

Thank you, 

Sweet Angel Agency

“Who the fuck is in my bedroom?” Joel says after reading the email. 

But as he walks back into the room and sees you spread out on his bed, your inner thighs soaked with your combined juices, marking your heated skin in white and clear streaks, Joel realizes he doesn’t really care. 

He strips out of his sweaty clothes and climbs onto the bed with you. Now that he knows you aren’t from the agency, there’s no reason to let you go just yet. 

- - -

a/n: i know there are probably a few fics out there with similar tropes however if anything in this one is similar in plot to another, it is purely by coincidence! i would never steal someone’s work and i appreciate each and every fic writer out there who does these for free and takes time out of their day to give us amazing fics 🤍

[actual-changeling]

welcome back to alex's unhinged meta corner, today's topic: the chest touch at the pub. that scene has me in a chokehold for some reason and i still cannot stop thinking about it.

the first thing i wanna talk about is crowley's reaction, since this is the shorter part. he did not expect aziraphale to reach out to him like this and freezes for a second while aziraphale happily chatters away.

they were both walking and the hand on his chest stops him, so he comes to a stop right next to him while he was slightly behind him before that. his gaze also snaps to aziraphale's face, who is very much not looking at him.

they were having a conversation, but the touch essentially shuts crowley up and zira leaves him to get their drinks.

now, my question is why aziraphale does it. sure, it could just be an absent gesture since they're in a crowded place, just that he has never really done so before. i think it was very much planned, like asking crowley to dance and grabbing his hand later on.

a second before he actually reaches out, he also looks back to check whether crowley is where he thinks he is. that is the only time he does that, he was busy looking for a free table and miracles them one when he cannot find one - the look back is deliberate. especially since crowley is practically glued to his side, he has no need for confirmation, he can feel him brushing against him while walking.

the hand motion he does gets me, too. he is busy fidgeting with his hands like normal and has them clasped in front of him. aziraphale lifts them once he gets to "that is precisely the point", yet also already moves it slightly towards crowley, realizes he miscalculated where exactly he/his chest is, looks to check, then looks away again before actually touching him. am i reading too much into it? maybe.

i think it is his version of a little temptation. not only does it make crowley's brain short-circuit for a second, he also gets them their drinks and is now (or so aziraphale hopes) a bit calmer and will take the news aziraphale is about to give him better. the conversation at the cafe did not go entirely as planned, after all.

additionally, something i am not sure if other people have noticed or not is that aziraphale does not just touch crowley, it is a caress. he moves his hand down his chest.

the movement in order:

bar girl unfortunately moves in front of them, but you can clearly see the way his hand takes. to give you a direct comparison of the starting and end point:

a good point of reference is crowley's bolo tie but also the angle of aziraphale's arm while it is still visible.

the best part, in my opinion, is that aziraphale puts his hand right on top of crowley's heart. i think the symbolic importance of that is pretty clear and does not require any more explanation, although it makes me want to throw myself into a river. but that's by the by.

to summarize, aziraphale caresses crowley's heart chest to get him to calm down and not go insane over the news he is about to give him. he is also simply a bastard and knows exactly what he is doing to crowley.

as always, this is me going nuts with analysis, but i'm also curious to hear other people's thoughts on this.

don't tell my therapist about my unhinged meta posts or she will probably be very concerned for my mental wellbeing

[acid-ixx]

I have a question, well 2 questions to be exact that’s been rattling around in my head since I started reading platonic yandere batfam fics, why would reader stay in Gotham? I’d be sneakily stealing as much money as I could without getting caught as soon as I reach a “fuck these guys” mentality. Like, asking to have some money for groceries or something and just pocketing it so that I could get a bus ticket and leave the city. Would you do it if you were reader? It just makes sense to me “this place sucks, these people suck, I’ve gotten enough to leave”, this is with me assuming that reader has the means of course, if the reader doesn’t then okay, yeah that makes sense

And my second question, do you ever feel resentful towards Alfred when you read batfam photonic yandere content? I do sometimes, especially when the reader is neglected. I know this might sound odd but when I read these fics I recognize that Alfred could do more, out of everyone in the manner, I think Alfred’s word carries the most weight, especially with Bruce due to him raising Bruce. I also notice in some batfam fics that the reader doesn’t get mad at him due to him giving them attention, but idk it feels kinda like a slap to the face, knowing that I don’t have the power but he does and yet not exercising it until I’ve burned every last tie to that family.

I know my thoughts are a more “well you’re on the outside looking in” type takes, but idk, it hurts my heart knowing that if reader stays in that city, it will be far more easier for the batfam to find them, where if they were outside the city, they’d have a fighting chance to make a new life for themselves

On a side note, I think we are underutilizing the angst potential of reader legally changing their name and the batfam not knowing until months or even years later when reader leaves. Like Bruce and the fam would just have to sit and realize that reader hates/dislikes/doesn’t care about them enough to legally change their name from Wayne to whatever reader chooses. Jason was Batman’s greatest failure, but Reader would be Bruce’s greatest failure, and what a delightful public failure it would be if the tabloids were to somehow find out that one of Bruce Wayne’s biological children changed their legal name

I’m loving your batfam content btw, like it makes me want to create one of those “screw therapy, I need to fist fight my dad” tiktoks and tag Bruce Wayne, that’s what I can phenomenal writing!! And sorry for making this so long! Hope you have a great existence!

slight spoilers for future chapters.

this is one of my favorite asks... anon, you are so brilliant because your two questions tie into the reader's character so well and the flaws that they (you) conjured from years of neglect, so i hope my answers would suffice (i am answering based on the perspective of the reader from my series: again & again with a bit of my own perspective). tysm for sending this in, i actually really enjoy long asks and appreciate it when people take the time to send me these things!

why would the reader stay in gotham?

chapter one wasn't all the detailed about why they stayed in gotham. firstly, their self-worth had them reason that in no way, shape, or form would their family that basically estranged them would come running to them, especially not when the only time the reader could even stumble across them is by some miracle of coincidence. this also ties into their lack of knowledge about their family. sure, they know that babs is the oracle but do they know just how much access she has across gotham? not really. they know tim, like bruce, has a tendency to collect information about other people, but they don't know that they have contingency plans to be creeped out enough to get away from gotham and from their reach.

"it's not like tim or bruce or barbara considered you important enough to be stalked. hah, as if!"

and the third point is, despite bruce being a billionaire of some sort, it was stated that the reader was too well-behaved and quiet. how does this make sense? as you've stated, they wouldn't simply have the means to get out. seeing as they were sheltered by alfred and never really explored the concept of traveling far away, they never asked for money; the only advantage of being a wayne is having quite a lot of things served on a silver platter.

they have this sort of toxic bond for staying with the people who have hurt them and it materialized to them physically staying despite knowing it would only cause more pain than anything else, and they don't know that. plus, they'd rather not have the wayne name associated with them and getting money from cheques or credit cards would be too risky for the reader's safety.

they've only realized just how shitty their family is after more than 10-13 years of staying in the manor, and saving up to move to an entirely different place would be difficult, alongside college and the jobs they have to take. so the next best thing they could do is rely on any means of advantage they could get whilst also moving on to the path of self-discovery and recovery.

but that doesn't mean they're staying in gotham forever, definitely not. the moment the reader realizes that dick gained some sort of interest towards them, they're booking it out of gotham. preferably to metropolis or central city or even somewhere far, far away— they're naive, but not stupid. sudden interest towards them means danger rather than anything else. and they're aware that alfred is capable enough to pull strings, so that's why spoiler alert: they have a secret stash of money hidden somewhere and like any children of bruce, they inherited the capability to be smart enough to already back up their contacts and everything on their phone, buy a burner phone and even change their entire identity in one quick go right after they move into an entirely different city or country.

gotham is merely their practice course.

do you ever feel resentment towards alfred?

quite frankly, yes. the reader in the fic feels resentment towards everyone for a reason actually, but alfred's part was stated vaguely as to not spoil a future chapter that focuses on his perspective. they know that he has the more power inside the manor more than bruce has. everyone, and i mean everyone respects alfred, and it doesn't take a genius to know that if you mess with him, you're messing with an entire family of crime fighters.

it's not obvious, but the reader's narrative in chapter one is them trying so hard to delude themself into thinking things can be better until it's too late. so in a sense, there's false narrative coming into play.

"alfred would be too busy sometimes to attend your school ceremonies because he had to assist bruce with missions. of course, you understood his priorities. after all, he tried his hardest to make you feel less lonely inside the mansion, it wasn't enough but he was there at least."

at some point in time, alfred had also neglected the reader emotionally with the same reasoning as the others; he was busy with their father. and this all could've been avoided if alfred had tried to confront the entire family about it. i'm not delving deeper into this to really avoid spoilers other than pointing out some details in the first chapter.

just know that alfred relishes in your newfound favoritism towards him, and that he may or may not have pulled some strings himself from helping you become closer to the family.

the part about reading changing their name from (name) wayne to (name) (last name) is what made me so drawn to this ask. you have pretty much predicted one of the chapters that explored (name) wayne to the public eye. they're not so much of an internet celebrity because of their rare appearances in public, but that's what causes immense curiosity about their identity to uprise in gotham, and their fame was one of the means to get to you.

there was one news article published that was the reason that made bruce distant towards you.

but let's focus on what yan! bruce would've felt once he turns a full 360.

because the first thing he would do once he has you in his grasp is to change your last name back to his. you are not the child of a (last name), you are a wayne first and foremost, bruce's third child and his greatest mistake, quite literally. you were a product of a one-night-stand, and because he was drowning in despair from jason's death, he had failed to notice you. all his years of neglect, and he doesn't even know a single thing about you, simply because he refused to acknowledge your presence.

and you rightfully hated him, he should've accepted that. but your diary entries and the way you innocently thought of him destroyed any sliver of hope for a peaceful reconciliation. he hates how you were experiencing the same type of despair as him when it comes to battling your own monsters— you truly are a wayne at heart. he couldn't afford to let you get away any further. just like dick, he needs to fix it now or further sever the already broken ties you have with him.

it's not batman now, but rather bruce. bruce wayne had failed to save another one of his children, not as a vigilante, but as a father.

knowing bruce, he's quick to take into action and search for you.

holy shit, this is a really long post but i hope it does answer the questions ! im so grateful that you like my writing enough to write a really long ask, and i hope to see your messages more once the new chapters are published <3

[punkshort]

Sweater Weather

Thank you @canteenee4 for this prompt!

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: A famous popstar's Christmas Eve concert brings an unexpected love into your life.

Warnings: language, flirting, fluff, shitty exes - not much else!

WC: 4.1K

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

"Oh, thank god!" you exclaimed under your breath when you saw it. You didn't even care what size it was, Ellie was going to wear that damn sweater if it was the last thing she ever did. "Ellie! Over here!" you called out into the busy store as you hurried over to the table.

Of course the merchandise for the most popular singer in the world would be almost gone so close to the holidays, but compounded with the fact that tickets were going on sale in just a few hours for the only show she planned on having in Austin caused your chances for finding what Ellie wanted even slimmer. But when you spotted one singular sweater folded and all alone on a display table, the very same one Ellie had pointed out on the website where it was listed as sold out everywhere, you let yourself for just one moment imagine your parents were looking out for you somehow.

With a sigh of relief and the smallest flicker of Christmas spirit, you reached out to grab the sweater, but your smile slipped from your face when you were met with some unexpected resistance in the form of another person's fist curling around the fabric from the other side of the table.

"Hey!" you exclaimed, eyes darting up to glare at the person who dared try to steal your victory. But when you locked eyes with quite possibly the most handsome man you had ever seen, your throat went dry and your grip on the sweater loosened.

"Shit, uh," he stammered, realizing your predicament. You both still held onto the sweater, unsure what to do. You blinked and looked around the crowded store.

"Maybe we can ask a worker if there's any more?" you tried, knowing full well there was close to a zero percent chance of there being any more in the back. It was a miracle you had found the one you did. Your handsome stranger seemed to have the same thought.

"Doubt it. Me and my kid have been searchin' all over town for this... stuff," he replied, motioning towards the empty table with a stunning photograph of the pop star in the center. "What do you want for it? I promised her I'd get somethin' for Christmas."

"Well, I promised my little sister the same thing," you argued with one hand on your hip. "I'm gonna try to get tickets later for the show and she's insisting she needs something with this girl's face on it to wear-"

"Yeah, same here," he said with an exasperated huff. It seemed as though you were at an impasse: two guardians who wanted to give the perfect Christmas to their respective teens, no matter how silly or frivolous it seemed to the two of you.

"Sarah?"

"Ellie?"

You each turned your heads towards the familiar voices. Both girls all wrapped up in bulky winter coats and scarves looked at one another in delight as they approached the table, ignoring you both and the sweater still held firmly in your hands.

"What are you doing here?" the curly haired girl, apparently named Sarah, asked your younger sister.

"Christmas shopping, duh!" Ellie laughed while holding up an armful of bags. Her eyes flickered to yours, then to Sarah's father, and then the sweater. "Oh, no," she said softly. Then Sarah glanced down and mirrored the same look as Ellie.

"How do you know each other?" you asked Ellie, hoping to deflect and buy some time.

"We go to school together. Sarah's a year older but we're in the same science class," she explained.

"Is this the last one?" Sarah asked her dad. Your eyes met again, neither of you wanting to let down your girls but still not sure what to do.

"Yeah, babygirl, but this nice lady had it first," he said, finally letting go of the fabric. You swallowed thickly, surprised by the kindness he showed you. It wasn't even true. If anything, you had both grabbed it at the exact same time.

You watched Sarah try to hide her disappointment and finally a lightbulb went off when you came up with a great idea.

"Hey," you said before they could walk away. The man turned to you with the softest pair of brown eyes you'd ever seen and your heart skipped a beat. "What if we all went to the concert together? The girls can share the sweater or something-"

"Yes!" both teens exclaimed while jumping on the balls of their feet. A slow smile stretched across the man's face before shrugging and extending his hand.

"Guess that's the plan. Name's Joel," he said. You told him your name and slipped your hand into his, both of you jumping when the static charge shocked you. Each of you laughed softly when you pulled away and the girls exchanged mischievous looks behind your backs.

"Well, alright, first thing's first - let's buy this damn thing before another person tries to take it and then maybe we can get something to eat in the food court. It's just a few hours til the tickets go on sale, we can make sure to get the seats together," you said, protectively bunching up the sweater under your arm.

After one quick disagreement over who should pay for the sweater (Joel won and you promised to buy him a beer at the concert to repay him), you found yourselves in the food court finishing up Panda Express and Cinnabon while you listened to the girls talk excitedly about the concert and which songs they'd hoped to hear.

"Can we go to the arcade?" Ellie asked once she got rid of your trash. You pretended to be annoyed but couldn't stop yourself from grinning when you handed over some money.

"Sure, just bleed us dry," Joel joked when handing over some cash to Sarah. She kissed him on the cheek before tossing a thanks, dad! over her shoulder and disappeared with Ellie into the arcade shoved in the corner of the food court.

You pressed your lips together and looked around, suddenly feeling a little nervous now that you were alone. For the past hour you had tried your best not to get caught giving googly eyes to the man sitting across from you, but it was hard when he was so painfully attractive.

"So, uh," you said, clearing your throat and pulling out your phone. "How many seats are we looking to get together? Just the four or is Sarah's mom going to be joining us?"

You knew he would be able to see right through you so you kept your eyes locked on your phone screen. The tickets weren't even on sale yet but you still pretended to scroll the website while you waited for his answer.

"Nah, just us. Her mom ain't in the picture anymore," he replied. You bit the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from smiling when he shifted in his seat and asked, "Uh, what 'bout you guys? You wanna bring a boyfriend or somethin'?"

"No, no boyfriend," you told him quietly, eyes shyly flickering up to his once before chickening out and looking back down at your phone. Joel smirked and leaned forward on his elbows.

"I ain't got anyone, either. Case you were wonderin'."

You nodded and pursed your lips while your heart did cartwheels in your chest.

"Good. That's good. You know, it's easier to get four seats together."

"Yeah, 'course," Joel replied. He watched you closely, catching the way you tucked your hair behind your ear and bit your lip. You heard Ellie's familiar laugh somewhere within the depths of the arcade and you smiled.

"Sounds like they're having fun," you said before forcing yourself to look him in the eye. It was then you noticed the first hints of grey in his beard dusting the corners of his jaw. He probably wasn't much older than forty and damn, did he wear it well.

"You're a good sister for doin' all this," he told you warmly. You sighed and began to rip up an unused napkin left on the table.

"I try to make the holidays extra fun for her ever since our parents passed away."

Joel's face softened and his eyebrows knit together.

"Shit, I'm sorry," he all but whispered. You saw his fingers flinch like he wanted to reach out across the table for your hand, but he kept them linked together. "When'd it happen?"

"Ellie was eight so, six years ago," you told him. "Car accident. Luckily they had me when they were young so I was already twenty-two when it happened. I had no idea what to do for the longest time but somehow we made it work. She's been so incredible. She's tough and strong and smart..." you trailed off and gave Joel a little smile. "Sorry, I'm rambling."

"Nah, don't worry 'bout it. I can relate. I mean, sort of. Sarah's mom took off when she was only a year old," Joel began. Your fingers paused their destruction on the napkin to listen. "I had no idea what to do, either. I had just started my construction business and for months I thought I'd have to sell it, but we just focused on gettin' through one day at a time. I had help from my brother and our parents but goddamn, there were days I was afraid I would fall asleep sawin' two by fours," he said with a chuckle.

"Crazy the things we're capable of when we're put to the test," you told him quietly. He nodded solemnly, scanning your face for a moment and you could have sworn his eyes lingered on your lips. The tips of his ears went a little pink when he tore his eyes away and you hid a smile behind your hand.

"So... you sure you wanna spend Christmas Eve at a concert with a stranger and his kid?" he teased, dragging his gaze back to you. He grinned when you leaned back and laughed.

"Yeah, why not? You're not gonna murder me, are you?"

"Nah, if I was gonna do that, I woulda done it back at the store," he joked, making you laugh even louder.

You were about to say something snarky in response when an alert went off on your phone and you gasped.

"Shit! The tickets! We have, like, two minutes before they go on sale!"

Joel scooted his chair closer so he could peer over your shoulder while you feverishly refreshed the page on your phone. It was a miracle you were able to think straight and snag four tickets together in a pretty decent section when all you could smell was his heavenly cologne insanely close to you.

"Okay, we did it!" you exclaimed when you got the confirmation email, then smiled when you got a Venmo notification with Joel's picture as the icon for his half of the tickets.

"Cute picture. Looks like you had a little too much fun that night," you giggled when you zoomed in on his heavy lidded eyes and the drink in his hand.

"Alright, alright, that was taken a long time ago," Joel chuckled while covering your phone with his palm. You swore you saw his cheeks starting to tint and it just made him even more adorable.

"Hey, so, uh... what's your number? You know, so I can send you the tickets," you tried to say casually, but he arched an eyebrow and leaned in so one arm rested on the table and the other on the back of your chair.

"If you just wanted my number, darlin', you coulda asked. Don't gotta pretend it's 'bout the tickets," he said with a smirk.

Your jaw dropped and you felt your face grow warm, making him laugh and lean in a little closer.

"Oh, you wish," you shot back when you got your bearings.

"Yeah, I do, actually," he replied smoothly. His laughter died down but his smile remained. "No pressure or nothin'," he added when you didn't answer right away.

"Oh! Um, well, ye-"

Ellie and Sarah interrupted your terrible attempt at flirting when they came racing up to you from across the food court, seemingly unphased by how close you and Joel were sitting.

"Did you get the tickets?" Ellie asked breathlessly when they made it to your table. Ah, no wonder they didn't seem to care.

"'Course we did. We're makin' Christmas dreams come true over here while you two are off wastin' our money in those damn machines," Joel said while gesturing towards the arcade.

"We?" you repeated while holding up your phone. Joel glanced at you with a twinkle in his eye and shrugged. But the girls didn't hear you because they were jumping around excitedly and babbling to one another about the concert. While they were distracted, Joel pulled out a pen from his shirt pocket along with a business card and flipped it over to jot down something on the back.

"Here," he said, handing you the card and standing up. You looked down at it briefly, Joel Miller, Miller Construction with a business number and fax with a little black and white house next to it. You flipped it over and your heart skipped a beat when you saw he had scrawled his cell phone number on the back.

"For the tickets or... anythin' else," he told you with a wink that made your knees weak.

"Okay," was all you could muster as you watched him and Sarah walk away. It took Ellie poking you in the ribs for you to snap out of it.

"Ouch!"

"You got the hots for Sarah's dad," she teased in a sing-song voice.

"I do not!" you argued. Ellie stood and began to walk in the opposite direction, back towards the part of the mall where you parked your car.

"So you won't mind if I ask Sarah what her dad thinks of you?" she called back over her shoulder with a smirk. You gasped and jumped up to chase after her.

"Don't you dare!"

Then you took a moment to think it over before adding, "Just don't let him think I was asking."

Ellie threw her head back and laughed. "Oh, boy, you got it bad."

Christmas Eve

You weren't sure why you were so nervous, but you were. The entire ride to the stadium had you fidgeting anxiously in your seat, every mile closer making your heart beat faster and faster.

It would be the first time seeing him since the mall, but it certainly wasn't the last time you spoke.

After about three days of trying to stay strong, you caved and texted Joel.

Saw a Miller Construction truck on the highway today but sadly, it wasn't you

To your delight, it only took him a few minutes to reply.

You need some work done, darlin? Cuz I can stop over any time ;)

You giggled to yourself, happy you didn't even need to tell him who you were. You were partly relieved that he wasn't talking to several women at once, and partly pleased that you made a big enough impression to be memorable.

After that, you somehow found yourself texting him almost every single evening. Like clockwork, Ellie would take a shower and do her homework in her room with music pumping from her speakers while you snuck away to your bedroom to text Joel. It started out simple. Questions like, How was your day? Did you get caught in that nasty storm? Are you going to the science fair? And eventually it morphed into more personal questions.

Joel: how do you take your coffee in the morning?

You: excuse me?

Joel: what? don't drink coffee?

You: why do you want to know? what popped into your head that made you ask that question?

Joel: I think I struck a nerve. Let me try another one - how do you like your eggs?

You: OMG

One night you both happened to be watching the same movie. You found it kind of endearing you were two of the few people left who still watched cable television, and you told him so when he got sick of texting you back and forth about the movie and opted to call you, instead.

At first, your nerves spiked when you saw him calling your phone, but you quickly shrugged it off and answered before you changed your mind. And you were glad you did. Talking to Joel was easy. You could sit in a comfortable silence and watch the movie with your phone pressed against your ear without feeling the least bit uneasy. Most of the time, your conversations were casual, but typically towards the end of the night they got a little flirty.

"Anyone ever do that for you?" he asked through the phone.

"What? Ask me to marry them?" you replied as you watched the two main characters on the television jump around happily with a sparkling ring on the girl's finger.

"Yeah."

You shook your head. "Nope. Been a little busy the past few years, haven't had time for much of a love life," you admitted, then cleared your throat, praying you didn't sound too pathetic. "What about you?"

"Nope. Never."

"Not even Sarah's mom?"

Joel scoffed. "Thought 'bout it once or twice but glad I didn't. Would've made shit a whole lot worse, lemme tell you."

You hummed sadly, not wanting to pry too much but also intensely curious. But right as you were about to change the subject, he spoke again.

"I think she hated bein' a mom," he suddenly said. You went quiet, eyebrows raised in surprise at his cold tone. "Blamed me for everythin' towards the end. Said it was my fault we even had a kid in the first place. Who the hell checks expiration dates on condoms? It was in my goddamn wallet for Christ knows how long and in the heat of the moment she expects me to turn on the light and look at the date?"

You could hear his hand dragging roughly through his beard when he sighed.

"Sorry. Anyway. She took off. Tried to stay in contact with Sarah but the second she found another guy she lost interest. Is what it is, I suppose," he said tiredly. Then he clicked his tongue and you heard his sheets shuffle. "What 'bout you? When was your last boyfriend?"

"Sarah's mom was your last relationship?" you asked, mentally doing the math. Joel chuckled.

"Last serious one. Had a few dates with a few women here 'n there, nothin' lasted more than a month. Now don't change the topic, tell me 'bout you."

"Uh, well, last year I guess. I was dating a guy named Tim. We were together... nine months? Give or take?" Your nose scrunched up as you tried to remember, surprised at how much time had passed.

"And what happened to the honorable Tim?" he asked with a teasing lilt to his voice.

"What always happens," you said, "People grow apart. People get busy and don't have the time to give." You lowered your voice to a grumble when you said, "Some people have to grow up fast and take care of their sister and can't look after a grown ass man at the same time."

Joel whistled on the other end of the phone and you felt the corner of your mouth twitch.

"He was lookin' for a mama, not a partner," Joel stated plainly. You nodded.

"Yeah. That's a good way to put it."

"Well, his loss is my gain."

You laughed, completely ignoring the movie by that point.

"Did I miss the part where we're dating?"

"We ain't?" he asked. "We talk every damn day. Tell each other everythin'. We just haven't made it official yet."

"And what would make it official, exactly?" you pressed with your heart hammering in your chest.

"First date, of course," Joel said, "Christmas Eve. It'll be our first date and we'll make it official."

You laughed nervously, cheeks on fire from how forward he was being.

"Well... okay."

That was four nights ago. Now you had parked your car and you were following Ellie towards the stadium along with thousands of other fans buzzing with excitement in every direction, completely unaware your excitement was for an entirely different reason.

"C'mon, this way! They said they'd meet us by gate seven," Ellie said, grabbing your hand to make you move faster. She was clad in the sweater her and Sarah promised to share: Ellie got it the first act of the concert, Sarah the second act. A week ago they had stayed after school to decorate tshirts to wear anyway, and it had you wondering why they even cared about the sweater anymore when they had so much fun making the shirts together, but you decided not to point it out and just be grateful the stupid sweater brought you and Joel together.

You spotted him before Ellie even pointed them out. The stadium was decorated with Christmas trees and the television screens mounted in every direction flashed pictures of the famous popstar wearing a Santa hat or other holiday garb, but you still saw him through all the noise. He was one of the few men in a sea of women, to start. But he was tall and broad and exactly as you remembered him: loose, dark curls that sat perfectly on top of his head, a slight dusting of grey at the corner of his jaw, and gorgeous dark eyes that you could drown in. When he turned his head and spotted you, your heart rate spiked and you raised one shaky hand in their direction.

The girls were oblivious practically the entire night. They were on cloud nine, screaming this is the best Christmas ever! and dancing to every single song while you and Joel watched them have the time of their lives.

It was impossible to talk. It was too loud and everything you wanted to say was too important to be yelled into his ear around eighty thousand people. So you stood next to him, hips swaying to the music, lips mouthing the words to the songs you recognized from the radio, and smiling as the girls screamed when they heard the first chord of the next song.

When the music quieted down to a ballad, the stadium grew more still and people brought out their phones with the flashlights on. It was kind of beautiful, you thought, to see so many tiny little lights moving in sync around the crowded arena. It felt like you were a part of something bigger and you finally understood why Ellie and Sarah were so excited to see the concert live.

"Pretty damn good first date," Joel said in your ear now that it was quiet enough to hear him. You grinned and tilted your chin up to look at him.

"Better than mini golf."

"Better than a movie."

"Better than bowling."

"Now, hey, wait," Joel said, making you laugh. He smirked. "I happen to like bowling."

"We can go bowling on our second date, then," you told him when your hand nervously found his at your side. Your fingers laced together and he drew you half a step closer.

"Deal," he replied, eyes flicking down to your mouth briefly before leaning down and pressing his lips tenderly against yours. You shouldn't have been surprised, but you were. However, you recovered quickly and immediately retuned the kiss while looping your other arm around the back of his neck. You could feel him smile as his lips continued to massage yours, temporarily forgetting where you were until you heard -

"Ew!" Sarah giggled somewhere behind you.

"Gross! Come on!" Ellie added, but you knew her well enough to know she was smiling. When you broke away and turned around, you confirmed your suspicion was correct. Both girls were staring at you with huge smiles plastered across their faces.

"Sorry," you told them, grateful for the dim lighting so they couldn't see how embarrassed you were. Joel's arm snaked around your waist from behind and tugged you close.

"Well, I ain't," he said firmly. "You two enjoy the concert and mind your own business."

Both girls dissolved into a fit of giggles and began whispering amongst themselves when Joel spun you back around. He cupped your face and dragged his thumb across your cheek with a smile.

"So, it's official?" he asked you. You grinned and nodded.

"Yeah. It's official."

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