#i love how his anxiety just goes full force i am going to cry!!! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

prettyboykatsuki · 3 years

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comforting sleep deprived s/o | bnha

➳ incld ;; bakugo and kirishima

➳ warnings ;; none, just fluff, pro-hero!au

➳ wc ;; 1.8k overall.

➳ a/n ;; i haven’t slept properly in days. running on empty so this is how im coping. i love them.

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i. bakugo katsuki

- doesn’t like napping cause he insists on keeping his sleep schedule tight. not that you can really get mad at him over that - hero work is busy and he doesn’t like being tired cause it makes him more aggravated than usual.

- so he avoids naps almost at all costs and rarely gets tired. his sleep schedule is really, really good.

- not so much the same for you though.

- bakugo accepted pretty early on that you were something of a night-owl. bad sleep anxiety and just generally having too much energy at night made it so that he rarely ever saw you go to bed. you were at least lagging a few hours behind him like. at all times.

- he didn’t really mind at first, but at some point he realized just how little sleep you actually got. one time he woke up at 7am, surprised to see you also awake - only to find out you hadn’t slept the entire night.

- he was pissed. after almost blowing up your kitchen, he sighed and basically told you that if you need helping sleeping to just “fucking ask him” or else.

- needless to say, it didn’t get that much better. you two compromised by setting a time that you had to be in bed by, even if you weren’t asleep. whenever bakugo has time, he’s always trying to get you to rest but sometimes his schedule doesn’t really allow him to check up on you how he likes.

- he’s coming home from a long mission. not super tired but just tedious work. he just wanted to relax. it was late, 3:37am on the clock when he finally walks in.

- to his surprise - there’s a light on in the kitchen. when he walks in, very confused, he sees you sliding cookies off of a sheetpan into a little plastic tupperware. he stops. he stares.

- why the hell were you baking at three in the fucking morning

- “what the fuck are you doing awake?”

- you jump back with a hand over your chest, barely catching your breath. you blink a few times before sighing.

- “baking. i didn’t think you’d be home so soon”

- he hears it before he sees it. your voice is absolutely tattered - he can literally hear how exhausted you are. he pumps the breaks, walking towards you swiftly before staring down at you hard.

- “when was the last time you slept,”

- you press your lips into a tight smile, and he sees the dark purple under your eyes. he feel his heart hurt a little. his hands come up to your face as he brushes his thumb every so slightly against your lashes.

- “it’s uh.. hard to sleep without you. more than usual, you know”

- “Y/N”

- “i don’t know. maybe two or three days ago properly? i mean i got some sleep in between but -,”

- he stops you before you can start. he shuts the cookie container and leaves the tray in the sink before grabbing your hand a little forcefully and tugs you to the bathroom - lifting you up onto the counter. you know to stay put.

- when he comes back it’s with a fresh change of clothes for the both of you. you blink at him owlishly as he strips himself off of his clothes - grateful he took time to shower at the agency.

- he takes his shirt off and then takes yours off too, before pulling you right towards him. your arms instantly are around his neck, the warmth of his body pressed against your figure with his chin tucked over your shoulder.

- and god - he’s so comforting you kind of want to cry. he smells like clean soap and deodorant and a little like smoke. feeling his skin against yours makes you feel instant relief. just hugging in the bathroom has you falling half asleep. you were just so tired.

- when he pulls back, his whole face looks so damn worried it makes you want to cry. you put your own hands on his face and cheek, brushing your thumb on his cheek bone as he rests his forehead on yours.

- “dumbasss. i can leave something with you if it’s that bad - fuck, you could’ve called me, you know?”

- and you sigh and smile and kiss him a bit before pulling away again. man, you’re tired. you’re so, so tired.

- “yeah.. i know,”

- he helps you get undressed and freshened up, even rubs your facewash into your skin and rubs all your skincare in before hauling you off the bed. he turns the lights dim and just holds you, rubbing circles into your back as he holds you right to his chest.

- “go to fucking sleep,” “love you katsuki” “..love you too”

- he doesn’t sleep until you do, and wakes up the next morning to call in sick for you while you sleep against his chest. he should probably wake up but.. sleeping a bit longer won’t kill him.

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ii. kirishima eijirou

- kirishima likes to wake up pretty early so he can workout and do his cardio at the start of his day and his weightlifting later on. sleeping well is important to him cause his workout routine is super unforgiving if he’s not resting properly on rest days and the like. building muscles absolutely requires sleep!

- that being said - he doesn’t mind not sleeping early if he has something to do. drinking especially normally keeps him up on weekends. overall, it was good but he doesn’t limit himself.

- overall, it’s not something he paid a ton of attention too. life is all about balance so kiri goes with the flow. his rule of thumb is trying to get at least 8 hours a night tho.

- but because kirishima is so go with the flow - it took him a long time to figure out that you were a night owl and something of an insomniac. he assumed that when he wished you goodnight everday, you fell asleep around the same time as him.

- but one drunken even, he finds himself stumbling to your apartment. knocking on your and barely standing upright - he immediately is planning on apologizing for disturbing your sleep.

- but then you.. open the door and you’re literally wide awake. you look tired but you’re clearly not sleepy. kirishima, once gain, blasted - pushes the thoughts to the back of his mind and grins toothily. he’s just excited to see you at that point and forgets about the whole ordeal until a few weeks later.

- he ends up texting you about it a couple weeks later, assuming it’d be a once off thing that you’d explain to him.

- ... is upset and shocked to learn that you rarely, if ever fall asleep before two am like on a good day. poor man is in shock for the rest of the day and proceeds to ask you about why you have a hard time to sleeping to try and see what he can do.

- he wants to help but you just keep brushing it off and it honestly made him so upset he didn’t know what to do with himself. he couldn’t sleep a wink that night because the whole thing is bothering him so damn much.

- what really sets him off is when he finally has a chance to see you after a few weeks. you were busy with uni and didn’t really have a ton of time to see him so the two of you couldn’t see each other properly for a few weeks.

- he’s elated to see you. he’s missed his baby so much and he’s pulling all the stops out when he’s getting dressed. jeans cuffed, his best cologne, fresh shaved, brand new sneakers. he really wants to impress.

- he’s wrapping you up into the tightest hug when he see’s you. your dressed comfortably but he still thinks you look so beautiful and he’s complimenting you, giving you kisses and overall just doting on you. he wraps your hand in his yours and just talks.

- in fact, he’s so excited to see you, he doesn’t notice how..deflated you are. not at first anyways.

- but as the date goes on, it becomes more and more obvious you don’t share his enthusiasm in the same way.

- sure, he’s talkative but you haven’t said a word about how your week has been. all of his jokes have been met with mere huffs and forced chuckles and your eyes seem really distant.

- it hits him all at once at the end of your date when you just seem so... out of it. he’s about to take you somewhere else but you stopped listening a while ago. kirishima stops dead in his tracks and holds your hand nervously, calling you a few times to get your attention.

- “Y/N.. are you mad at me? is something wrong?”

- your eyes go wide, flailing your hands to reassure him. you knew you were acting strange but to see kirishima this upset makes you feel awful.

- “oh kiri - god no, it’s not you. sorry for being so.. distant - it’s not you,”

- “well then.. what’s wrong?”

- kirishima feels his heart get pierced when he sees you laugh. you look... so exhausted. your eyes are so heavy and the makeup on your skin is only barely concealing your dark circles. why did it take him so long to notice?

- before he can even reply, he remembers that little tidbit about your sleep schedule. his heart so genuinely aches.

- “Y/N.. when was the last time you got any proper sleep?”

- you flinch, visibly at the question. with an awkward laugh you inform him that it had been at least a week since you’ve had the time to actually sleep.

- “why didn’t you sleep today? on your day off?”

- “i uhm.. wanted to see you. i know you had a date planned and i was excited to see you. sorry for.. ruining your plans”

- he’s devastated by how cute you are. hugs you so damn tight.

- “baby, you can see me whenever. im happy being with you even if all we’re doing is napping together”

- when you mumble a soft “oh” in his chest, he can’t help but melt into a sigh. before you can protest, he’s dragging you back to his car and driving you home ignores your protests and buckles you, covering you with his jacket before kissing the crown of your head and telling you to sleep on the way back to his place.

- he watches you like a hawk the whole time until he arrives at his place. he wakes you up and carries you on his back until he gets inside. all he does is kick his shoes off before pulling the full weight of you down on his body, kissing your whole face.

- “sleep well baby. ill wake you up in a few”

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#bakugou x reader #kirishima x reader #bnha x reader #bakugou imagines #kirishima imagines #bnha imagines #writing tag #bakugo x reader #bakugou x you #bakugou x y/n #kirishima x you #kirishima x y/n #bnha x you #bnha x y/n #this is SO self indulgent im embarassed #bye i rlly wrote this in an hour

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wallflowerimagines · 3 years

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Angst idea? Karl finds out reader stopped taking antidepressants and was about to off themself?

Hey anon, I am willing to write this, but if you live in the US the national suicide hotline is : 800- 273- 8255

Be safe. You matter. You always matter.

Tw: Suicide Attempt, Suicidal Thoughts, Medications, Depression are all discussed under the read more. Unhealthy coping mechanisms from Heisenberg. 18+.

Karl Heisenberg x Suicidal! Reader

Sometimes you feel like no matter how hard you try, nothing works.

You're doing everything right-- taking your medication, talking to a therapist, hell you're even being social, but... it's the same. Everything is the same.

It doesn't get better.

So you just... stop taking your meds. They're not working anyway, so why take something that just makes you feel even more different and weak?

And it's not even like you get worse afterwards, which just reaffirms your negative thought process-- you are broken. Unfixable. The medicine did nothing to help, and now...

What now?

What are you supposed to do, when you are fundamentally broken? Bad to the core?

...you get your affairs in order.

Your main concern is Karl. You do love him, and you want him to be happy, no matter what happens to you and your body. If he somehow managed to find you bloodied and broken, it will hurt him, and that's the last thing you want to do.

You decide it will be an "accident". You complain about having trouble sleeping, and get some pills to help. Karl accepts this, and you get something for your "problem" without him becoming suspicious.

You keep up the ruse for the next couple of weeks, taking one pill a night to help with the "trouble" you're having. And then, the stars align: Karl has to head out to pick up some supplies.

You almost cry. You hug him tightly, pulling him in for one last kiss. He might not know it, but you want his last memory of you to be full of love. Nothing that you are about to do is because of him, and you want him to know that.

Karl seems... suspicious at your behavior. He tells a joke or two, suggesting that you might be trying to get him out of the house for something, but you do your best to assure him that there's nothing wrong.

You're just tired. So, so tired.

And then he leaves, and it's time.

It takes a while for you to gather the courage. You consider writing a note, but that doesn't fit the narrative of an "accident". No matter how much you want to, you can't. You don't want him to suspect anything.

So, after a while, you get settled in bed, open the cap on the medicine bottle, and shake out as many pills as you can swallow.

And then, just before you shove it all in your mouth, Karl walks into the bedroom.

You both freeze. There's a half second where you can see him absorbing the sight in front of him. His expression sort of... Goes blank.

Then, he lifts a hand, and thin sheets of metal peel off the bedpost and clench around your wrists, then pin you to the wall. The pills tumble out of your palm.

Karl is shit with emotions. You know this. But it still gives you this genuine shock when he starts screaming at you.

Heisenberg is PISSED. It's mostly to hide how terrified he is, but he can't stop himself from screaming at you.

Why would you do this? How dare you do this? You're his partner! His other half! His best friend! What the fuck were you thinking??

What did he do wrong?

It's also one of the only times you see him cry. He doesn't take off his sunglasses like he normally does around you, but there are angry tears streaming down from his eyes as he screams his throat raw.

He doesn't let you leave your room at all until he can secure you some help. He doesn't talk to you either. No matter how hard you beg, scream, cry, nothing you could possibly say can convince him to let you out of the cuffs.

He can't trust you not to hurt yourself, so he doesn't leave your side if he can help it. When he does have to leave, your hands are pinned up to the wall once again.

The man hand feeds you, takes care of all your physical needs, but nothing you can do will convince him to let you go until he gets the appointment with your therapist and you BOTH go to the appointment.

He even re-ups your previous perception and forces it down your throat until then. Karl doesn't care if it "doesn't work for you", so what? Tough shit. You're taking it until you get prescribed something better.

Before this, Karl would occasionally sleep in his workshop, but now he keeps you in a tight hold against him at night. It's like cuddling with a vice grip. You never have a moment alone.

In fact, He will have panic attacks if you're out of his sight for too long. He adores you. The idea of anything happening to you, especially if it's self inflicted, causes him such a deep feeling of anxiety that he short circuits and shuts down.

Basically, Heisenberg turns into a control freak about you and your habits. You are the most important person in his life, and until he is absolutely certain this isn't going to happen again, you will not be left alone.

It's not the healthiest coping mechanism, but you can't convince him to stop. Until he gets confirmation from SEVERAL different sources, that's not going to change.

You two can recover from this, but it will be a long, hard road. Let him stress about your safety, and let yourself get help. That's the only way things will get better.

#tw: suicide #tw: suicide attempt #tw: suicidal thoughts #karl heisenberg #karl heisenburg x reader #re8 #resident evil village #resident evil #resident evil 8 #suicidal reader

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bakugosbratx · 3 years

Note

Hi hi! Congratulations!! 🎊

Could I please request a fic with Eren or Levi and could they have some yandere tendencies? Like they’re too protective, gets jealous easily, would absolutely fuck you until you’re screaming so that the guy who’s been checking you out heard?

NSFW 18+ Let them hear you — Yandere Eren Jeager x Reader

Warning: 18+ Content. Sexual content, bdsm, degrading, unprotected sex, oral, non-con, abuse, possessive, toxic relationship, gaslighting, Jean abuse, punishment, violence, etc.

Words: 1.9k

Check out my other works here

A/N: Hey love. Thank you so much for the request! I hope it meets what you are looking for. I am only on the third season so I apologize in advance for anything that seems uncanny. Enjoy.

P.S. I am still on break but I am trying to complete some request that have been sitting in my drafts. I miss y’all and will be back before y’all know it. Thank you for all the love and sweet messages.

“Eren, what are you—“

“Shut the hell up, Y/N.” Eren seethed through gritted teeth as he pulls you along. The death grip on your poor arm is making you cry out in pain. This only infuriated him more.

You did nothing wrong. You were eating your lunch with Mikasa when Jean strolled on over. It is not a secret that Jean likes you. Everyone knows that Jean likes anyone with a pulse. You have told the man multiple times that you are not interested — along with Eren — and you have a boyfriend, but it does not stop the man from trying. Especially when Eren is busy.

“Hello Y/N.” Jean greeted with a flirty smile. Your eyes couldn’t help but roll.

“Hello Jean.” You sigh as he sat across you two.

“What’s with the sad face, pretty thing? Eren got you down?” Jean chuckled before taking a bite of his sandwich.

You scoffed. “Me and Eren are doing just fine, thank you very much.”

“Well, your face says otherwise. If you ask me, I’d say you can do better than that douchebag anyways—“ Jean’s spill got interrupted with a hard punch to the side of the head then another one to the nose. Gasp filled the room as eyes landed on who did this to the man. No one was surprised to see it was Eren himself.

Eren grabs Jean by the collar of his shirt, lifting him up to meet his height. Eren’s natural blue eyes were filled with rage. “You son of a bitch. Why the fuck are you flirting with my girl, Jean? She told you more than once she’s not interested.”

Jean manages to release himself from Eren’s grip, stumbling to keep his balance. This is not the first time these two have had altercations with one another.

“Ha, you don’t see the way she looks at me. Besides,” he pauses to wipe the blood leaking from his nose, “she was totally flirting with me.”

“Bastard!” Eren bellows as he goes to attack again, but the higher ups stop him along with you and Mikasa.

“Eren, stop.” Mikasa and you demand, hanging onto his arms.

“Let go of me! I’m going to make that son of a bitch pay.”

“That’s enough, Jaeger.” Captain Levi scolds. Eren snaps out of his rage to meet the small man’s eyes. “In my office. Now.”

Though Eren is still angry, he still knows when to show respect. Especially when it comes to the higher ups. Everyone in the room knew this.

“Yes, sir.” Eren sighs, still breathing heavy.

“Eren,” You began with sorrow filled irises. Though this is in no way shape or form your fault, you cannot help but feel the guilt within your bones. If only you would have done more than maybe Eren would not be in this situation.

Eren just glared down at your small frame compared to his, clearly not happy with you. It was a look you know all too well and you know you will be in for it later. Your heart pounded against your ribs at the thought.

“We’ll talk later.” Eren hissed before following Captain Levi to his office.

Jean did not mess with you for the rest of the afternoon. Eren was sent to clean up the horse stables while the rest of the team did their chores. Eren made sure to have his eyes on you anytime you were in close proximity. His glare was one you always refused to meet with your own two eyes. It made you feel small. Just like how Eren wanted.

Your anxiety has been through the roof all day. No one can blame you, though. Eren is a loose cannon on a good day. So, your super barely being touched was noticed, but not discussed amongst your peers.

Strong hands touched your shoulders. You jumped out of reflex. Looking up, you see your boyfriend looking down at you.

“Eren!” You exclaimed with joy and fear. He noticed both emotions.

“Follow me.” Eren orders, patting your shoulder more rough than he should have. You did not even have time to comply as his hand snakes around your bicep and pulls you along.

“Eren, you’re hurting me.” You whine as he pulls you towards the closest bedroom available.

“Eren, what are you—“

“Shut the hell up, Y/N.” Eren seethed through gritted teeth as he pulls you along. The death grip on your poor arm is making you cry out in pain. This only infuriated him more.

Slamming the door open, he ushers you along inside and swiftly closed the door behind him. Your hand wraps around your now warm, pulsating arm. You can feel the heat from Eren’s glare down onto you. You start to tremble.

“Eren, I—“

“I said shut the hell up, Y/N.” Eren growls. He has taught you more than once to respect his orders, but you just cannot seem to listen. You will pay for that sooner than later.

Eren leans against the door, arms crossed as he heavily sighs. “What were you doing with Jean earlier today?” He finally asked. You turned to face him.

“N-Nothing!” You stammered. You know this made you sound guilty, but you are actually innocent. Just Eren knows how to intimidate you and when you’re in this position, your nerves take over.

Eren scornfully chuckled. “Please, do you really think I’m that dumb, Y/N?”

“I’m telling the truth, Eren! You know I don’t like Jean.” You spat. Your blood is boiling at this point. This accusation has been thrown at you more than once in your relationship and quite honestly, it’s getting tiring.

“Watch it.” Eren warned. You know you are not supposed to raise your voice towards him. He has corrected that behavior more than once and will do it again if necessary.

“Why was he sitting with you at lunch?” Eren interrogates after he notices you lose some confidence to yell at him.

You let out a deep sigh. “He just showed up. You know how Jean is.”

“And you didn’t stop him?”

“What was I supposed to do?” You questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“Tell him to fuck off!” Eren barks.

“And I did!” You argued back.

A small shriek escapes your lips as Eren charges towards you, wrapping his hand around your throat, and pushing you down onto the nearest bunk bed. You struggled to untangle his fingers as they squeeze your throat tightly.

“What did I say about talking back, slut?” Eren growls.

“I-I’m s-sorry, E-Eren.” You managed to get out as you lose circulation to your lungs.

“Oh, you will be. I’m going to make sure this filthy little mouth of yours will not be able to talk for weeks.”

Eren finally let’s go of your throat. You immediately cough. There is not enough oxygen in the room to get to your lungs fast enough it seems. Eren would argue and say you deserve it.

You hear a belt unbuckle along with his pants unzipping. His pants hang low on his hips as he watches you collect air. By the way his boxers are fitting quite snug, you know what is coming.

“On your knees.” Eren demands, pointing towards the creaky wooden floor below. You shook your head no, your eyes pleading. Eren did not respond to that well as he grabbed a hand full of hair and forced you to the ground.

“Do you ever fucking listen? I said on your damn knees.” Eren growls. You did not even have a chance to explain that you are not in the mood because Eren’s length is now being stuffed down your throat. You choked on Eren’s cock as every inch was entering your mouth.

Your nails clawed at Eren’s clothed abdomen. His hand never let up on your hair as he thrust in-and-out of you. You are choking, coughing for air, but Eren refused to show any ounce of mercy. In fact, he found it quite amusing. You should know better than to disrespect your boyfriend.

“Where is all that back talk now, princess? Don’t have shit to say with my cock down your disrespectful ass throat, do ya?” Eren mocks as takes another rapid thrust down your windpipe. Drool covered your chin and Eren’s dick. You can feel his girth stretch out your throat and he loves it. He loves seeing you struggle.

Pre-cum started to leak from his erected member. You are mentally thanking your maker. You needed a break and a gasp for air, but those prayers were answered quicker than expected. Eren pulls out his cock from your sore mouth. You let out pitiful coughs as he stroked himself to the sight of you.

“Strip then get in doggy.” He demands. Not wanting to make this worse for yourself, you do as your told. You are not even sure whose room this is. You just hope they do not walk into see the sinful things you and Eren are doing.

Each article of clothing fall to the floor and you get in the position Eren wants you in. All of your delicate tight holes are displayed for his taking. He walks over and spreads your ass out some more to get a better view. You yelp when a hard slap hits your ass.

Without warning, he brings you closer to him by latching his hands onto your hips and his cock slips into your tight cunt. Your walls do their best to expand to his girth, but no amount of sex with Eren can get you prepared for that. Your pussy takes in inch-by-inch. His stamina and merciless rhythm is forcing you to be accepting of his cock. Your knees shake under the pressure and your hands tightly grip onto the covers below.

A hard slap to your ass exploits the moan you have his behind your lips. “I kept your throat intact for a reason. Use it.” Eren scolds before hitting your ass again. You whimper.

“Eren.” You mewl.

“Yeah, who is making you feel this good?” He teases as he continues his venomous thrust.

“You do.” You sob. Your pussy is beginning to become accustomed to Eren’s erection and he is hitting all the right spots. He always does.

“Can Jean make you feel this good?” He groans, his knees slowly buckling beneath him.

“Never.” You wail. Your weeping cunt confirmed this as well.

“Damn,” he pants, “straight.”

Cum leaked from Eren’s cock deep into your cunt. You let out little moans as you became stuffed with Eren’s seed. Though you did not like he was not using protection, you have no say in the matter. This is for his pleasure and your punishment. You just have to take it like the good little submissive girl he taught you to be.

You milked every single drop of Eren before you were granted permission to put on clothes. Your hands intertwined as he lead you to the door. There stood Jean, Armin, and Conny. They all looked horrified as well as you. Eren’s smug smirk never left his features.

“What the hell are you doing in my room, Eren?” Jean exclaims in furry.

“Handling business,” he wraps his arm around Jean’s shoulder and let’s go of your hand to pat his chest, “By the way, thanks for letting me fuck my girlfriend on your bed.”

©bakugosbratx

#bratx writes #attack on titan #eren yeager #eren smut #eren jeager x reader #eren yaeger x y/n #Eren Yeager yandere #eren yandere #yandere attack on titan #yandere eren jaeger #yandere eren x reader #yandere eren yeager #eren x y/n #eren yaeger imagine #aot #aot requests #aot x reader #eren jeager smut #eren aot

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pascalpanic · 3 years

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Lovely Josie! Can I request a Frankie piece? Where reader is part of the friend group and really into Frankie. She knows he's also into her but just typical insecure Frankie. So she flirts with him and tries to seduce him every chance she gets until one day she's had enough and really goes for it. And if course Frankie likes it 😇 Merci!

Spicy-Sweet (Frankie Catfish Morales x f!Reader)

summary: ^^

W/C: 4.3K

Warnings: lots of talk of alcohol, food, god Frankie’s an idiot but a cute one, so much pining and flirting, implied age gap and Frankie’s insecure over it, Frankie has a brief and mild anxiety attack but is comforted

A/N: this is one of my favorite things I’ve ever written, I really hope you guys enjoy it!

Bucky- that was what the men called you. When you’d first joined the group of men, it’d been as Pope’s friend, a shock to all of them; you weren’t sleeping together, weren’t sneaking around. Just friends. That threw them for a loop. You were always at his side, his right-hand wing-woman. Frankie had been a little put off at first that he’d been replaced, but he grew to like you just as much as the other men. That’s how you’d earned Bucky: Cap’s sidekick, Pope’s sidekick.

When you finally bonded with the rest of them, became friends with them, you were less Pope’s sidekick and more yourself. You grew to love the men for different things. Benny was always there to cheer you up, full of bad jokes and energy. He’d take you out when a date stood you up, buy you a beer on your shittiest days. Will Miller was a shoulder to cry on. He was smart, strong, emotionally intelligent. Wise beyond his years, Ironhead always had the best advice for you. Pope was the partier, and was the one who got things done. Organizing plans was his forte. He loved getting the group together to hang out, and was the only one who could rally the group.

Frankie was all of that and more. Everything. Frankie had caught your eye the moment Pope introduced you to the men. Frankie was the quietest, even quieter than Will. He never enjoyed the spotlight, especially when you were new, but he loved making his friends laugh. He was comforting and helpful, lending you a jacket or helping you with a manual labor task you couldn’t quite get.

Frankie is the one you have a crush on. All of the men have their attributes, and you have to admit that any of them would make a good boyfriend and surely a good lover, but they are and always have been brotherly first. Frankie was something different. You wanted to stay in his arms forever, wanted to kiss the bald patch on his jaw and steal his Hawaiian shirts. You tease him endlessly to hide your feelings, though never in a mean way at all. Always soft and joking, always reciprocated by the teddy bear of a man.

You were the same to him; the first time he saw you, he thought he wanted to marry you someday. He loves your laugh and your humor, loves the way you nudge his side and even though it’s a little painful, wants you to do it again just so he can feel your body touching his. He loves how you can hold court over the men with your stories, can get them to agree on the most divisive of issues. He’d even proposed once that you become Cap, not Bucky. You were clearly a leader. But Santiago brushed it off by saying that Bucky was getting his own show now, so he’s just fine, and besides pendejo, you can’t change a nickname once it's been given.

Emotionally constipated Frankie is just fine to sit to the sidelines. If he has one principle with love and friends, it’s that he’d rather have you as a friend than not have you at all. That’s why he doesn’t necessarily openly flirt with you, why he suppresses his feelings until it’s late at night and he’s alone and can daydream about your pretty face and tight jeans and the crinkle of your nose when you smile.

You’re different. You wear that green shirt you know Frankie always ogles you in when it’s a night out. You buy him a drink or two. You insist he dance with you, take him on errands with you on a Saturday morning. You can read the man; you’re pretty damn sure he likes you too, but you don’t want to ruin it. Rushing him is the last thing on your mind.

As you wander through the farmer’s market on a spring Sunday morning, you shiver as the breeze rushes past your bare arms. Frankie doesn’t notice; he’s too busy admiring a booth selling hot honey. You can’t help but laugh as he delightedly samples a spoon of the syrupy-sweet-spicy product, and turns to you with wide eyes. “Bucky, you gotta try this,” he insists, handing you a sample spoon.

Nodding, you give in and taste it. The flavor on your tongue reminds you of Frankie if he were a flavor: a little spicy, but more of a warm feeling. Infinitely sticky-sweet, floral and tasting of sunshine. There’s heat, just a little, enough to awaken your tastebuds and mingle with the honey perfectly. “That’s good shit. How much is it?” You ask the vendor.

A few minutes later, you walk away with two bottles. You hand one to Frankie. “Here. This is for you,” you tell him with an earnest smile.

Frankie’s brows slide together beneath the brim of his favorite ball cap. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” you shrug and pat his cheek, your path curving to the right as you approach a bakery stall.

The morning is sunny and just slightly cold, making you shiver every so often. Sweet Frankie walks dutifully at your side like the dogs and their owners similarly strolling the tent-lined sidewalk. His eyes light up as he sees breads and flowers, homemade jerky and beautiful jewelry. The variety is exciting, and you often hear Frankie shouting for you from a new booth.

While you admire the jewelry made of local stones, something warm and soft covers your shoulders. You look down to find that it’s Frankie’s suede brown jacket. “You looked cold,” he tells you and turns a little pink before patting your shoulder and wandering off.

At the end of the day, you have a full reusable bag, brimming with goodies: a small bright bouquet, two loaves of bread, cookies, fresh berries, and a bottle of hot honey. Frankie’s is similarly stuffed, though it’s with much more unhealthy choices. The two of you sit on a grassy hill, munching on a pack of thumbprint cookies Frankie purchased.

The morning sun is just starting to warm up, but the jacket you’re now wearing is cozy. You lean your head on Frankie’s shoulder as the two of you rest there without words, lost in your own thoughts.

God, he’s so cute. So sweet. A little stupid. Just how I like them. Is my flirting not obvious enough to him? You wonder internally.

Frankie’s thoughts are similar but different. She’s so sweet. She’s so nice to me. I wonder if she’d ever like me like that.

Partying is Pope’s favorite pastime. The man enjoys getting shitfaced and taking a similarly drunk date home. Lord knows what they do; you’re glad you don’t. That leaves you and the Millers and Frankie. You and Benny dance and sing karaoke, twirling and shouting the lyrics to the song blasting in the bar. Frankie and Will sit on the sidelines.

That’s exactly where tonight has found you. A surprisingly sober Pope has gone home with a pretty girl he flirted with briefly before she tugged him by the jacket sleeve. He shot a look of excitement at the four of you before leaving.

Now, Benny requested his favorite song through the pay-per-tune machine in the corner. You’d squealed and dragged him out, dancing with him on the wooden floor the bar provides. Frankie can’t help but think the two of you would make a good couple. The two of you are full of sarcasm and energy at most times, around the same age. Frankie’s a bit older, and he can’t help but think that it would be weird for you, that it would prevent him from liking you. If only he knew.

Benny does, actually. He’s annoyed that your group doesn’t give him enough credit for his smarts. He might be mostly muscle, but he’s packing brains too. He’s great at observing social interactions, and he can especially tell that there’s something between the two of you. He’s learned his best friend like he knows how to drive or what his own phone number is. Benny knows Frankie, and he knows he won’t make the first move for fear of upsetting you. That’s why he’s taken it upon himself to be your blonde, blue eyed Cupid and queued up Frankie’s favorite song next.

You know it’s his favorite song. Of course you do. When it comes on, you turn to the bar with wide eyes and wave to catch Frankie’s attention, then wave him over. Benny says something or another and wanders off. It takes some nonverbal persuading, some pleading eyes and pouting to the man, but Frankie eventually adjusts his jeans and gets up, leaving that suede jacket behind on his barstool.

“It’s your song!” you exclaim as you throw your arms around him, starting to dance along with him. He moves back with you, though nowhere near as fluid or free.

He shakes his head but smiles, and you flick the brim of his cap. “Oh come on, you love this song. Don’t be such a dope,” you tease and grab his hips, forcing him to move them a little more than the stiff motions he’s making.

“I am a dope,” he mumbles and you roll your eyes, moving in a way that invites Frankie to move back against it. It’s a two-person dance, and you’re starting to get him moving.

Chuckling, you look up at him. “You ever seen Footloose?” you ask him.

He blows a raspberry into the air, laughing. “Of course I have. It’s my favorite movie.”

“Then how come you can’t dance?” You tease.

Frankie makes a noise of mock-injury, clutching his chest. “Damn, Bucky. Right in the heart.”

You giggle and rest your head on his shoulder. “I was going to say that you remind me of Willard. I guess that’s fitting though. You can’t dance.”

His scent is the only thing you can think about, the way his cologne is spicy and sweet on his flushed skin, warm from having you in such close proximity. “Does that make Pope Ren?”

“And it makes me whatever the girl who dates Willard is named,” you shamelessly flirt, swaying him to the side as the song changes in keys.

If there was anything in Frankie’s mouth right now, he’d be choking. Maybe it’s just because you’re dancing together, he rationalizes. Maybe it’s just because you wouldn’t want to date Pope. It can’t be because you like him. That’s not even a thought that crosses his mind. “Ha. Sure,” he shakes his head, taking off his cap and teasingly placing it backwards on your head.

It’s loose on your head, and you laugh as you look up at him. Frankie has that feeling again in his gut: he’s going to marry you someday. It can’t be the alcohol, not in either of you. You’ve both only had a drink each. No, in this moment he realizes the depth of how bad he wants you, but he cannot comprehend that you want him too. There’s no way you could ever love a man like Francisco Morales, he tells himself. But he wants you to. He aches for you to.

The song ends and the ache only grows. Frankie is not a dancer. This is his time to retire to the barstool. “Well, thank you for holding my hat,” he teases you and steals it back, putting it on himself and patting your side before wandering back to his spot next to Will.

You frown, but then Benny finds you again and the energy returns somewhat. You long to feel Frankie’s arms around you again, to dance with him and whisper jokes next to his ear so that you can feel the way his laugh buzzes in his chest. You consider buying another play of Frankie’s song later, but that would be suspicious. You’ll have to find another way, but you have to do it soon; you’re not sure how much longer you can last before you combust from not getting to kiss his soft lips, to feel his scruff beneath your fingertips as you cup his face and finally close the gap between the two of you.

Frankie is much too old for parties. He’d decided that even a few years ago now, that that sort of thing was best left to the young bucks who could drink endlessly and awaken with only a mild headache. How the hell Benny had talked him into attending this party, he wasn’t sure, but he knew that you’d be there and that was enough for him.

You’re not a big partier either; you can get wild, but only around your friends, usually only with Benny there to egg you on and hand you shot after shot. You don’t particularly like getting drunk, just enough alcohol to make things a bit lighter. Benny and Santiago were the ones who’d insisted you and Frankie come along to this party a mutual friend of theirs is hosting.

Of course, the boys wanted you two there but had failed to mention they were each bringing dates. When you wandered in with Benny and a girl flung herself onto him, peppering his blonde stubble with kisses, you’d quickly learned that you weren’t going to get a good night with your favorite guys. Santiago was similarly taken, a girl draped across his lap in a busy living room, each of them holding a drink. He’d given you a two-finger salute as you wandered to the kitchen, kind of annoyed.

You’d dressed a little nicer, though nothing too special, and you immediately hoped at least Frankie and Will would be around tonight to hang out with. Will’s not a big partier, though he’s a little more social than you and Frankie. Your phone buzzes in your back pocket and your face falls as you read the text.

Ironhead: sorry guys. Not gonna make it out tonight.

He provides no explanation why; Will never does. You know better than to question it. Your only hope now is that Frankie doesn’t blow you off.

Frankie could never. The promise of you being at the party was enough for him to meticulously shave and spray that cologne he knows you love on his flannel, which you’ll surely ask for because you’re always cold. He’s not here yet, so you lean against the kitchen counter and crack open a hard seltzer as you look around. Bringing your drink with you, you hit the bathroom and when you return, there’s a familiar ball cap poking above the crowd, labeled with Standard Heating & Oil. Frankie.

Sneaking up behind him, you snatch the cap from his head and put it on yourself. “Hey, pilot,” you sing as he turns and his face lights up to see you. His hair is still slightly damp from the shower, leaving an indent in those curls from where the cap was.

“Goddamnit, Buck,” he laughs and tries to steal it back, but you dodge out of the way.

“Looks like it’s just us tonight, flyboy,” you sigh as you prop an elbow on his shoulder and look around, finding Benny and his girl making out on the dance floor and Santiago playing with a woman’s hair on the couch.

Frankie has to admit he’s okay with that. “They didn’t tell me they’d be bringing dates,” you grumble. Frankie holds back a chuckle. This was most definitely planned, Wingman Benny embracing his role in forcing the two of you together. Frankie couldn’t say he was too upset about it, in all honesty. “Come on, let’s get you a drink,” you shake your head and grab Frankie by the bicep, trying not to shiver at how muscular his arms are.

In the kitchen, you toy with the hem of his shirt as he mixes himself an old fashioned from the vast cocktail bar. “I love this one,” you murmur absentmindedly, admiring the worn fabric and the ripping seams at the hem. It’s so perfectly Frankie: an old black Fleetwood Mac shirt, nearly falling apart. There are holes in the hems and under the left armpit but it always smells sweet and spicy, just like him, and feels like a security blanket. “Looks good on you.”

“Looks like a piece of shit. I need to just throw it out, but I can’t bring myself to,” he chuckles as he finally takes a sip of his drink. He knows the reason he can’t: you love it too much.

“Good,” you nod and set down your hard seltzer, making yourself a drink.

“What you got there?” he asks as he watches you stir up a concoction.

“Essentially the same as you. Old fashioned but with Fireball instead of regular whiskey.”

“You seem to like the spicy-sweet thing, don’t you?” he teases.

God, if only he knew. “Spicy-sweet, just like someone else I know,” you tease him and nudge your shoulder with his. “Maybe that’s why I like you so much.”

Frankie’s heart does several backflips in a row, complete with a roundoff and a cartwheel. He’d earn the gold in the Olympics, the way his heart tumbles and turns in his chest. “Ha,” he laughs dryly, looking down at his own drink, swishing it and watching the ultra-sweet cherry spin through the dark liquid.

The music gets louder from the other room as you and Frankie drink in silence, both of you leaning against the kitchen counter as the amount of alcohol per cup steadily decreases. “I’m gonna go see if I can find Pope,” Frankie finally speaks over the loudening noise, nodding to the living room where everyone is clustered.

“Sure,” you call back, even though he’s just a few feet from you.

It’s practically a maze, trying to find his way through the people. They’re all moving and bouncing, the sound overwhelming him. It’s like a goddamn mosh pit, he thinks, or how it must feel to be buried inside one. How did this party become something like this, and why the hell is he here? Frankie wanders through, getting turned around as the group moves and sways.

His breathing gets heavier, and suddenly Frankie feels suffocated. His primary objective no longer is finding Pope, it’s getting the fuck out of here before this herd stampedes him to death. He feels pathetic and small, like a single fish in a giant school wandering through an abysmally deep sea.

When the tide loosens its hold, when Frankie sees a path, he takes it out. He’s not sure how long he was trapped in there- 20 seconds, a minute, five minutes, but he’s overwhelmed and his head is spinning, his drink somehow gone and lost in the shuffle.

You see him stumble out, looking terrified, and rush over. “Hey, hey, Frankie,” you murmur as you grab his forearms. “Are you okay? Did you find Pope?” You ask, your thumbs tracing over his pulsing veins.

He shakes his head, and you take it as a no for both. “Okay, come on, did you drive here? Is your truck out there?”

He nods and grabs his keys, putting them in your hand. “Alright, pilot, come on. Let’s get you out of here.” You stick the hat back on his head and hope it could maybe bring a sense of normalcy back to him.

Frankie’s head feels like radio static as you bring him to the truck, unlocking it and sliding in first across the bench seat. He follows in after you and closes the door, and he turns the air conditioning on full-blast, feeling desperately hot.

“Hey, hey. Talk to me,” you beg of him, cupping the side of his face with one hand. You shiver under the quick breeze of the vents, the cold air immediately filling the cab of his truck. “What happened?” You ask, just above a whisper, fingers tracing the stubble of his jaw.

His eyes are getting more normal, less panicked and more sane. He must’ve had some kind of anxiety or PTSD moment in the crowd. “Just… thought I was gonna get crushed,” he murmurs, not looking at you.

“Frankie. Let’s breathe together, okay? Look at me.” His eyes find yours and you smile. “Good. Follow me.”

You ground him nearly instantly, your chilled skin under his hands as he grips your upper arms, your soft lips parting to breathe in and out. The flutter of your eyelashes when you close those beautiful eyes, the one that have such a distinct unique color. He would kiss you right now if he had the courage.

He breathes along with you and is calm enough by the second breath to think rationally again. The wave has passed, leaving his body feeling tired and limp. “I-I’m good,” he assures you, tracing his fingers across your skin. “Bucky, you’re freezing.”

“Frankie,” you give a sad chuckle. “I’m supposed to be calming you, and-“

“I’m super hot, please, take this,” he says as he shucks his flannel and hands it to you. “It would help me,” he says simply, enjoying the way the air conditioning more directly contacts his skin without it on.

“Well, okay,” you laugh and slip it on, breathing in the warm scent that is Frankie and sighing contentedly. “See? I love the sweet and spicy thing, like your cologne.”

He shakes his head and looks away. “Oh, stop. You don’t mean that.”

You frown at him. “Frankie. You’re thinking straight again, right?”

He nods.

“Then how aren’t you processing how in love with you I am?” You ask with a soft laugh, resting your head against his shoulder. “I flirt with you endlessly, and it feels like you never pick up on it. So now I’m just going to say it: I like you, Frankie.”

Biting his lip, Frankie looks down at you with slight confusion. “Really?”

You laugh incredulously, burying your face in his neck. “Yes, Frankie, really. I like you a lot. I have since the moment I met you. And I’d like to think you like me too.”

There’s a beat of silence and he nods, taking one of your hands in his and lacing the fingers together. “I really like you too. I’ve been in love with you since the moment we met, Buck,” he admits, wide brown eyes looking down at you with all of the love in his massive heart. “I just… didn’t want to assume anything. You’re so good to me, but you’re so good to the other guys too.”

“Do I buy the other men bottles of hot honey? Have I ever brought a date around like the other guys do?” You ask, lovingly and hoping he sees your point. “I’ve been pining for you for so long, Morales. I just want you to get it through your thick skull that I care for you and I’ve been in love with you for quite a while.”

“I feel stupid,” he mumbles, ears turning pink at the tips. “It was pretty obvious. You’re right.”

“Hey, you’re not stupid,” you assure him and squeeze his fingers. “I personally think it’s fucking adorable that you didn’t want to assume that. I like that, that you didn’t want to do anything first without knowing the same about you. I like all of you, Frankie, from that scruffy beard to these cozy flannels you always let me borrow.”

His heart melts in his chest, reducing him to a puddle. “Then I guess I should ask if you’d be my girl.”

His girl? If you thought he couldn’t get any cuter, you were wrong. You can’t hold back any longer and you swing your leg across his lap, straddling him in the bench seat of his truck. “Can I kiss you, Frankie?” You ask, gently removing his cap and setting it aside.

“God, yes please,” he practically whines as he cups your face in both of his big hands, kissing you deeply and breathing out heavily through his nose.

It’s the best thing you’ve ever felt, Frankie’s body pressed to yours as your lips meet. You both taste that perfect spicy-sweet flavor, the way that’s so Frankie in your head. This might be the sweetest and softest man alive, you think to yourself, and goddamn, you’re lucky, Bucky.

His body radiates the heat of his love and stress and everything, completely melting into yours. You’re never going to stop doing this now that you’ve started. You’re never going a day without holding Frankie like this.

Your legs are firmly planted on either side of him, and Frankie moves his hands to grip your waist and pull you in closer. Shivering at the way he practically manhandles you, you moan into his lips, murmuring his name breathlessly. It’s like the most perfect melody, the way you say it. He mumbles your name back, your real name. Not Bucky.

Your arms wrap around his neck and you press yourself tight against him, running one hand through the soft curls at the nape of his neck. He tastes like heaven, just as perfect as you’ve dreamed about for as long as you’ve known him. When you break away, you smile softly, admiring the way he’s panting beneath you. His head is tilted back to look at you on top of him, his eyes glazed over and cheeks warmed with pounding blood. You gulp and trace the side of his face with feather-light fingertips, admiring his beauty. “God, Francisco,” you murmur. “Why didn’t I do this sooner?”

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freshmanyearhistoryteacher · 2 years

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hi, i love these

could you possibly write a female student, female maths teacher where like the student goes to her after class because she thinks the teacher looked sad and then they like talk about struggles and about life and the teacher asks if she's gay, that she's seen her looking at her often and you know, kind of thing?

thank you so much

I am answering a few requests here so

Word count: 1, 193

Contains:

crying

descriptions of anxiety and slight hyperventilating

coming out themes (as gay)

this was kinda sweet and i tried to write it very vague but also idk it was cute to imagine.

You knew it was a bad day when getting out of bed felt like you were dragging your body ten feet behind you and when the mere thought of having to catch the bus to school was too much. But you did, you always did. It didn’t matter how heavy the lead in your blood seemed to be that day or how much your throat constricted the second you stepped into your first class.

On this particular day, the first class didn’t seem so bad. It was normally calm and never too difficult, and the teacher was always nearly too understanding of what you went through. Even the sprint sun streaming through every window you passed couldn't lift your moods, the chirping of birds and laughter of friends only seemed to get on your nerves. Usually, you could appreciate the way the halls spiralled around like a spider web of classes or the way the outdoor paths were lined with luscious green grass but it all seemed greyed out.

You went in with eyes burning from the lack of sleep, your head hanging low to hide under the veil of hair you’d let out of your usual ponytail, and textbooks a mess in your arms. You looked like a mess and felt worse. You swore the second she saw you she audibly gasped but remained standing at the front of the room, smiling and waving at each student who entered until the entire class was seated and the lesson was well underway. She was sending you glances of ‘are you ok?’ and ‘do we need to talk after class?’, all of which you guitily ignored because the thought that you had caused her stress was bad enough to tip your worsening anxiety into a full blown panic attack.

Your breathing was harsh, too sharp for your lungs which protested with every quiet gasp. Your lips were chapped and cracking from the forced ventilation and your eyes were gradually filling until the occasional tear slid down your cheek, hidden only by the hair strategically curling in front of it. This was such a fucking mess and you were just going to cause a scene and the class had so much longer to go and the work was all too hard and … why does it always have to be this way? Your leg shook uncontrollably under the desk. It made the entire frame jump and your writing to become scribbles but the care you would have normally poured into your work required too much effort in the midst of your break down…. yet another break down. You sighed, not realising the close proximity of your teacher who had stopped to watch your half-assed work.

“Are you ok?” she whispered, running her finger under each line of work as she read. You nodded but her lips pulled into a thin line and the slight wrinkle on her forehead deepened. “Ok,” she conceded, “just come say hi after class.” You knew you weren’t in trouble and honestly the conversations always helped yet, you felt as if you were her burdan. You were just something she couldn’t get rid of fast enough and she only pretended to care so she didn’t get fired for letting a student killt- you really weren’t ok.

To your shock, the class passed by relatively quick considering your half zoned out half frozen with panic state. The students around you shot to life and launched across the rooms to grab friends and begin loud conversations without care for what class may have needed the room in the next lesson. Their books had been packed 10 minutes before the siren even sounded and their bags were empty enough to show that their education was more a social experience. The teacher was waving them out with a strained yet permanently kind smile that they rolled their eyes at or smiled in return before rushing away and through the winding halls.

“Tell me then,” she said appearing in front of you. You shook your head and attempted a smile which fell flat and instead resemble some half cringe, half cry. “Don’t lie, I know you too well for that.” She was joking but it was true. Out of everyone, she was the person you knew the best which at this point was just sad.

“Honestly, I promise it’s nothing,” you said as you cleared your swollen throat and battled through the lightheadedness left from oxygen deprivation. “Just an early morning.” You smiled more convincingly this time but she still held the concerned and unwavering look of worry.

“I felt like that once,” she said, standing to sit against the desk in front of you, “when I was around your age.” You tilted your head, questioning and jumping at the excuse to avoid your own feelings. She nodded and leant back, studying the roof before looking back at you. “The whole anxious, depressed, alone feeling. Heck, I still do.” she laughed a bitter laugh. “It feels like the entire world is crashing down around you all at once, huh?” you nodded, avoiding the eye contact she attempted to catch before continuing. “I mean, I’m sure your reason is different than mine was but god, if i don't get it no one will hah.”

“What was your reason?” you asked before you thought, but she didn’t look taken aback or offended. She’s too nice. It was probably some boyfriend.

“I was gay, or well.. I am, that doesn’t really change you know? I wished it did, when I was in highschool. It’s hard in a small town,” she said it so simply you almost didn’t realised what she was actually saying. Mentally, you scrapped the boyfriend drama and began spiralling in your own thoughts. You were more similar than she realised… The anxious pressure of expectation and the world, the depression… the sexuality crisis.

Her hand landed on top of yours. “It’s ok, you know… if you are gay,” she smiled like it was easy to say and you felt the oxygen begin to leave your body once again, but in a different way. It was comforting, like the oxygen had been too heavy and keeping you stuck to your chair. You wore a genuine smile now.

“Yeah, I know,” and you didn’t but you said it anyway and believed it for that moment. “Honestly, that’s not even half the issue. Sometimes I just, just-” you couldn’t even begin to describe it.

“Feel like everything is too much effort? Like giving in to the darkness and laying in bed would be easier than showing up in this hell every day?” she said, laughing but with an overtone of seriousness. You nodded again. “I get it,” she repeated. “But trust me, we would miss having you here. And your bed is only so comfortable for the first day… after that the sheets get too hot and the pillows are never right.”

The second bell rang and the next class filled in as the two of you rushed away, your bag only half closed but your mind so much lighter. Even her smile, as you looked back, was brighter.

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hanazou · 3 years

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hello,, I’ve been feeling down lately and a loved one of mine recently has passed away...

if you are comfortable with it may I request a scenario of Atsushi and Chuuya comforting their s/o who were grieving over a death of a loved one? ;0 thank you I love your blog 💖💖

𝙘𝙝𝙪𝙪𝙮𝙖 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙖𝙩𝙨𝙪𝙨𝙝𝙞 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙛

Books : Chuuya | Atsushi

Genre : Comfort, romance

Category : Headcanons, short scenario

Shelves : Hardback | Paperback

Warning : Description of grief

Note : I am deeply sorry for your loss. I can’t do emergency requests but I tried to get this one out as fast as I could. I could only do short scenarios of this so I added headcanons, I hope this is alright. Once again, my condolences and please stay strong.

Chuuya has to ask you a couple of worried questions before it strikes him what you’re dealing with.

He will be on the verge of panicking when he first hears the bad news, worse if you're the one that has to tell him what happened. He instantly undergoes flashbacks from experiencing something like this himself and he fears that your coping with the grief might harm you.

If you can’t afford to talk to him like you usually do, he understands.

He stands/sits next to you, arms crossed, occasionally glancing at you to see if there’s any change in your stance, expression, anything.

He avoids staring at you directly in concern that you'd become pressured by him.

He’s ready to catch you if your legs fail you

Holds the top of your head lightly yet firmly. If you don’t show signs of protesting, he’d slowly pull you closer to his neck.

Getting physically affectionate is his prime card to comfort you, but before anything, he takes off his gloves so he won’t dirty you.

His fingers move kind of unevenly and feel rough, but that’s how you can feel his desire to support you

If you can’t stop crying or on the verge to go on a complete mental breakdown, he immediately collides his body against yours as tight and strong as he could.

If your legs give up, he drops down with you in his arms instead of keeping you standing with his ability and he’ll clutch your face close when you both land on the floor.

If you won’t hug him first, he’ll pull you to him. He forces your face down his shoulder so you’d grieve as much as your heart can empty while his hand brushes your back up and down.

“Cry as long as you need,”

Words, as I’ve once said, isn’t his speciality, but he tries regardless. He wants to make sure that you know you aren’t alone, that you have him with you.

He doesn’t talk as much but his distressed expression stays as long as he’s with you.

“You can take it out on my shoulder, you know,” He hesitates a bit, unsure if he sounds too rough.

If you can’t stop crying, he pats your shoulder, only knowing how to say “There, there” since he thinks it’s better than saying nothing at all. Chuuya thinks you need to hear him being there.

Chuuya squeezes through his tight schedule to make time for you.

He negotiates as best as he could with Mori to give him as much time off as possible.

If it’s impossible to take a week off, he goes full rampage in his job with the thought of you in his head motivating him to finish everything as soon as possible, making a mess where he goes.

If someone gets in his way, Chuuya shouts, "I've got someone more important to see, you punk!" while blasting them away.

He always brings food and drink over and makes sure you eat. He spoon-feeds you if necessary. He isn’t the cleanest but him wiping your face clean makes up for that.

"Come on, babe, you gotta eat," Chuuya says. "They won't like seeing you grieving like this, so eat, yeah? For them?"

If the emotions exhaust you to sleep, he sits against the wall and pulls you to him so you’d sleep against his body, making sure his limbs are around you so you’d never feel the loss of pressure around your body.

If it's cold, he wraps you with a blanket and occasionally touches your fingers to know whether you're staying warm or not.

Since Chuuya’s goal is to make sure you don’t feel alone or abandoned as I’ve mentioned, he does everything to solidify his presence.

He calls often if he has to be away, he sends food delivery, leaves short sticky notes, and sends voice messages.

It’s noticeable he doesn’t know what to say and even more obvious that he wants to keep reaching out to you.

Chuuya tries to strike a light and brief conversation once in a while. He’s disturbed by your uncharacteristic silence, it scares him.

“Do you want some takoyaki?” He’d ask randomly. The anxiety on his face never wavers away.

He does any activity that comes to mind when he stays at your place, but regardless of what he does, he’s never more than three feet away from you.

Always, without fail, kisses you good morning and good night on the forehead regardless he stays at your place or not.

Or if you're not opposed to it, Chuuya wants to take you to his place. He may still have to go to work, but something doesn't feel right about leaving you alone for so long in a place he's not too familiar with. At least in his space, you're constantly reminded you're not alone and that you're there because you're never abandoned.

Like a strayed ship in a storming ocean, your emotions are the waves storming your damaged vassal of conscience to the point that even looking forward to sunray from the bleak sky of endless cloud sounds mythical, making speaking a heavy chore. You’ve been exhausting yourself to sleep, soaking everything with your tears until it no longer comes out. It’s frustrating, it’s turbulent, so active in making you passive. Your tears run out but not the multiple stabs around your heart. Your voice leaves you but not the intensity or the transparency of hurt on your face.

It feels impossible, fictional, but if it were, then you aren't supposed to have your heart cauterized. It's the reminder of the bitter truth you're grappling against accepting.

If they had to go, why not bring the pain with them? Why do they have to leave you fractured, incomplete, empty, by transcending away while you stay behind, only able to watch them shrink somewhere unreachable?

Why do pieces of you have to be chipped off your already fragile soul, leaving holes in your essence? Why leave many pieces behind, why leave you alone?

“Hey,” A voice zaps your mind back to your head.

You remove your face from your wrinkled, moist, and sweaty palms, everything in front of you foggy from the swelling of your eyes. You still wear your dark clothes, unable to find the heart to change into something new, something brighter, after the sudden tragedy strikes. It was not, and still not is, in your capability to even stand up to eat.

Chuuya’s oddly timid and soft-sounding voice for this week is what makes you feel something other than rocking instability.

Slightly opening your eyes to see him, his figure before you hurts your eyes from how colourful he is. His face appears like a messy mix of vibrant paint, his orange hair, blue eyes and fair skin, and dark clothes sticking out from the stale background behind him.

A pair of silver keys, ones that unlock your door, stand out from his black-gloved hand from beneath his tightened fist. He puts it in his pocket and takes your hands, forcing you to stand and steadies your arms when your knees wobble.

"Have you eaten the lunch I had delivered here?" He pats off the dust from your shoulders and arms, his vibrant face still paining your swollen eyes.

Your eyes roll to the untouched paper bag on the table. You figure Chuuya’s eyes follow because of the stifled sigh he holds in.

"Babe, come on…"

"I can't," is what you try to say, although with your dry throat, it comes out like scorched empty words. "I'm sorry, I know you picked it with great care and thoughts so I'd eat, but I just can't, not when—" You catch a coarse breath. "Not when I'm like this, I can't yet."

"Still don't want to talk about it?" His voice squeezes. "You can't keep it in forever, you know, and you really shouldn't."

With your blurry vision, you figure that his arms extend open. A weak ‘what?’ is all you can hoarsely ask.

“Saying nothing, skipping meals and not drinking.” He says sourly. “Let out your grieve like how it should be done. That's what they'd want too."

Your tears make a reappearance at either a bad or perfect timing, depends on how you tilt your head to see it. They prickle your eyes, some rushing down your face.

“Come here,” Chuuya says, perhaps frowning from the way his voice changed.

Your eyes close slowly before opening again, your puffed eyelids troubling you from keeping your eyes opened. “I don’t think I can,” You sound like an overworked opera singer. “If I hug you, I won’t be able to let go and I might suffocate you without meaning to.”

You think Chuuya makes a sound of annoyance until a force smashes your body forward, lunging your face against him. The brief faint glow of orange earlier helps you process that he used his ability on you to bring you to him. Now his arms trap you in him, your forehead strongly weighted on his shoulder.

“Then suffocate me,” His muffled voice says from behind your head, one of his hands taking your arm to hold his body. “I’m always here.”

Your hands stretch his shirt with your tight clasp as you feel yourself getting lost in the waves. The turbulence crashes out from within you as you incoherently cry on Chuuya’s stable body, him becoming your guaranteer in the midst of the rocking forces that threaten your balance. His rigid arms support your weight as you wail out, ensuring that the waves don’t sweep you away, somewhere unreachable from him. He secures you, letting you explore the storm’s rolling waves while still grounding you safe.

“I’m here,” The soft wind in the storm grazes your ear. “I promise.”

Atsushi is one of the most sympathetic and empathetic people you could ask for when it comes to comfort you through your grief.

He’s nowhere oblivious to someone who’s hurting. He recognizes what kind of pain you’re going through and it doesn’t take him too long to identify what you’re feeling and the intensity of it although he can’t process it into words.

Atsushi is so worried sick for you that he has trouble thinking straight and his breaths get faster.

He’s really anxious about you feeling left behind or abandoned.

He makes sure that you don’t doubt that your beloved one who has to leave earlier definitely loves you.

It breaks him if you think of things such as disappointing them, unable to fulfil their wishes, etc.

Atsushi can feel your hurt as if it’s his own, and because of his heightened emotional senses, he’s quick to jump in to support you. It’s instinctive.

He’s at first hesitant to touch you, let alone comfort you with his embrace, so he starts with generic sentences like “I’m so sorry” and “You can lean on me” while offering his empty shoulder

It’s challenging for him, but Atsushi is persistent to comfort you with his words before he touches you.

He insists on speaking before holding you around him.

Atsushi validates your feelings by putting his guesses of how you’re currently feeling into words. He’s not the best with words so he’ll struggle to pick his vocabulary, but the things he says are mostly true.

“I’m sorry you have to feel like your heart is becoming stiff,”

“If you feel like everything around you is empty, I’m still here,”

When he does get to the point where he feels that physical touch can help you, Atsushi is very tender.

He starts with wiping your tears away until your cheeks are drier and offers you tissues. He’ll help you blow your nose

He removes the hair sticking to your face and wipes your face until you’re dry

He hugs you like he's the one broken; putting his face on your shoulder, arms hanging from your neck. It's because that he fears that you might get as hopeless as him. He dreads for that for that happen so he holds you with the strongest Affirmation he can give.

"I'm with you, I'll always be," He keeps repeating while he hugs you.

Touches your fingers most of the time and squeezes your hand

Atsushi fights tooth and nail to get several days off to stay with you in your place. He’ll have a whole speech prepared so he can convince Fukuzawa and Kunikida

He’ll spend the morning bargaining with Fukuzawa in his office after giving Kunikida a 15 minute TED talk about how badly he can empathize with your loss and how he’s rock certain you need his company

He asks Kyouka to help him make your food that’s easy to digest for the stomach, like soup and porridge. You can best bet that she’s going to add some tofu to it.

“Kyouka-chan helped me make this fish soup,” Atsushi presents you the bento boxes, unwrapping the cloth. “Let’s eat, okay? You have to keep your stomach filled. I’ll help you.”

If he’s unable to spend the night at your place, Atsushi makes sure to arrive at 6 am sharp every day to check on you, and the earliest he’ll leave is around 8 o’clock

He cleans your place every day diligently and does an excellent job at it. Doing the dishes, cleaning the floor, making sure the sink is clean and ensures the bathroom floor isn’t slippery. He doesn’t want an untaken care living space to worsen your emotional state.

Despite always bringing fresh food, Atsushi makes sure to cook fresh batches of rice to eat with anything he delivers so if you miraculously want to eat something, you’ll have something to consume.

If he has to leave for a while, he surrounds you with plush toys. If you don't have any, he borrows Kyouka's bunny plushies collection and arranges them around you, your pillow, the corner of your bed, and on your blanket.

Atsushi never wants you to forget that your loved one loves you. He does everything in his power to remind you everyday that although they're gone, the love they have for you will eternally stay with you and that nothing can ever change that.

He hugs you while verbally reminding you of that.

His hugs always lasts a long while if you're not uncomfortable with it. He can stay long minutes in that position.

Or he sits/lays down next to you in silence, doing absolutely nothing. He's anxious about the quietness himself so his fingers are always near yours.

Words of affirmation randomly comes out. Sometimes he talks about his personal experience to encourage you that everything will be alright, sometimes he tells you the reasons to his belief why your loved one's love for you preserves through all.

He keeps his talks motivational and faithful for the future. Sometimes he'd quote the things Dazai had said to him, filtering out the nonsense if necessary, or the things he always told himself in hope for a brighter tomorrow.

A breathing doll has been haunting your room for a week. It blinks, it moves, it can be spoonfed, but nobody at a glance would argue that it lives. It’s a doll. Calling it an undead is more generous than calling it a doll because of the existing needs. A doll sits inanimately, breathes at the bare minimum, and is devoid of wants and needs.

It’s the perfect status to illustrate how corpse-like you’ve been living like for this week. Your stone-cold face, just as cold fingers, eyes that barely shift, dried mouth and chapped lips make it a challenge to have you described as something living. To even use the word ‘live’ to describe you is contradictory and to hear the word ‘live’ suffocates your throat and clamps your once functioning heart. The indescribable pain mutes you, paralyzes you, turning you doll-like.

A broken doll, you are, once full, once living and moving until the one you love had to bid life farewell first without warning.

One tireless and loyal white-haired boy frequents you every day, bearing food and water to make sure the living doll in your room doesn’t fade into the cold. Cobwebs would have formed between your arms and your bed if he didn’t clean you off the filth you don’t bathe away, your nerves have been too dormant for you to feel filthy.

A bright white figure shifts around in front of you like a poltergeist. You pay it no mind. This isn't the first or second time you're seeing things that aren't there, or rather, someone who isn't supposed to be here. Your cluelessness to cope with the grave reality seems to have driven your brain on autopilot, it seems that this time it decides to give you a hallucination so you'd have someone to cling to.

A sudden snap startles your eyes to open wider, albeit without focus. Something black was in front of you, it had five branches and moves so... humanly. Like it's real. You trace it back to the white hallucination in front of you and it takes you a while to realise that you aren't hallucinating. The white haired boy who has been frequenting your place is here again today.

"Atsushi..." His name falls emptily through your teeth.

Atsushi’s mouth opens and his lips move in accordance. His face wrinkles to the centre. The inconsistent pressure he applies around your cold hand before holding you as tight as now tells you of how fragile he knows you are.

His mouth opens again familiarly. You shift your eyes to him without any effort to listen through the incoherent sound.

When his lips move for the third time, you figure out he has been calling your name. You blink twice and his chest deflates with a long exhale.

“You’ll pull through,” His hold around your hand boldens as he grit his teeth. “They had to depart first but they did so while loving you. You're loved, they love you. You can use that to push on, their love for you lives on and so do your memories of them.”

He observes you with high intensity as if expecting you to speak. You notice the disappointment when all your eyes do is gaze hollowly through him. You think he breathes in a sob from the sudden squeak he makes.

Your eyes lazily roll to follow your hand Atsushi lifts to put against his face. “I’m with you, I'll always will be. You’re not alone, you’re not alone, you’re not alone.” He chants. “You’re never alone, you’re never alone.”

He brings your hand down against his chest. Something beats inside to hammer you the reminder that it will never stop thrumming. The warmth reminds your nerves of something. It feels contagious, bringing you recollecting something you used to feel often.

“I promise, I promise, I promise,” Atsushi hurriedly says, “I’ll always be here for you.”

Like a mantra, his words deliver the familiar sensation his chest makes you feel to your essence. After your slowed blink, you tilt down your head and tilt back up, repeating that movement until it’s fitted to be called a nod. Atsushi heaves a breath out and pulls your hand to get between his arm and side until your upper body drops against his.

“They watch over you, I promise,” His hand holds your head as you passively breathe on his shirt. "Anytime and anywhere, they're with you, and so am I.” He says airily. "You're never alone and never will be. They're with you and I'm staying forever, you'll never see your side empty, I promise they watch over you, I promise, I promise, I promise,"

Your head tilts to the side, giving more space to breathe. His solid body exudes more of the feeling you don’t realize you crave. It reaches your throat eventually, nourishing you with words you once lost.

"Thank you," You whisper.

A living doll you temporarily are but not forever, and most certainly, a loved human you are for as long as the memory of your beloved and Atsushi keep you close to them.

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skiyoosmi · 4 years

Text

if fate permits

chapter twenty two: i love you

previous < masterpost > next

note. i am sorry for the veeeery long wait; i finally finished it tonight (after fucking up with it for two whole months) but yeah, my emotions are quite unstable right now so this was affected by it (in short, this is a roller coaster ride so pls be ready)

playlist. stay (acoustic ver.); never let me go (both sung by ghostly kisses)

You absolutely had no idea what you were doing right now. As far as you could remember, you were the playwright, the writer of the script. You never had any interest in acting in plays, musicals, nor acting in general… none at all – so why is it that right now, you were standing right on the side of the stage, waiting for the cue for you to come out, dressed up as someone you weren’t supposed to be, someone you were only supposed to have written for?

You swear, this was the most chaotic crowd you have ever seen your whole life. You only watched, alongside Hajime, as people lined up right by the entrance of the university’s theater, murmuring and gossiping about the play that was less than an hour away from starting, “I gotta say, they look way too excited for a story that they should know like the back of their hands by now. It’s kind of funny,” Hajime chuckled, letting out a quiet ‘yeah’ as he shoved his hands in his pockets, watching you cringe on the girls that were obviously here for your best friend. You swore you heard one of them say they’re going to ask him out after the play and you almost wanted to drag her out of the venue by her hair.

“I would say it would be a waste of a ticket for people who are here just to gush about handsome faces instead of the story itself but then again, it’s us who are benefiting from it anyway.” You huffed and muttered a few more things under your breath, beginning to walk to the direction of the entrance for the crew members which was on the farther side of the theater, Hajime silently following and shaking his head out of amusement for your obvious jealousy. I can’t wait for the time when it’s me you’re being jealous for, he thinks.

You thought the crowd outside was chaotic? Nothing could have prepared you for the view you were welcomed to as soon as you entered the backstage. Literally, almost all of the crew members were running around frantically, pushing the small and large props here and there. Hajime, as if he had his ‘danger’ instincts set on, grabbed you by the waist and pulled you to his side just right when a random lad passed by where you were at a while ago, struggling to carry what looked like a heavy log on his shoulder (you figured it would be for one of the scenes that were supposed to be in the forest). You were sure as hell that if you weren’t moved out of the way by your friend, the lad would’ve collided with you and that thing he was holding would’ve fell on you because he was too busy looking back and chatting with his companion who was carrying other props.

Irritated by their carelessness, Hajime clicked his tongue and spoke up, “Oi, you two have to be careful and watch where you’re going. You might just cause an accident with what you’re doing.” The boys replied with an insincere apology, immediately going back to their business. You were soon brought to your senses as well and realized that you were still in his arms. Blushing profusely, you muttered a quiet ‘thanks,’ too flustered to think of a more decent reply. Hajime raised an eyebrow, smirking before leaning his head close to yours again, foreheads touching each other, much like the other day.

“You’re red. Are you feeling sick?” If it was someone he wasn’t close with, it would look like he’s just being concerned but you know better because you can practically hear the teasing behind his voice, so, you punched him right by his shoulders, muttering with a hint of shyness in your tone, “Asshole. Stop trying to tease me, it’s way too much for me. When the fuck did you even get so brave to act like this with me? Jerk.”

He cackled, slinging his arm around your shoulder, and beginning to pull you deeper inside the backstage. You both stood idly by the corner of the backstage, watching the actors get ready. From your position, you could see your blonde best friend, eyes looking lost as they wandered around the area until it stopped right to where you were. You think you held a staring contest for about twenty seconds until your companion spoke up, “You know, I personally think it would be better if you go to him and say your good luck, yeah? Nothing’s going to happen if you just stare at each other all day. I’m willing to share you with him… just for today though. After this, no more.”

A confused expression formed on your face, wondering what he meant, though he just snickered and ruffled your head, “I said… go to him before I change my mind and pull you away from here.”

“I can’t. These days, I’ve been feeling way too many feelings and I don’t know how to control them. I feel like… I might just burst and tell him everything but I don’t want to. I’m not ready yet,” you admitted, fiddling with your fingers as you looked down, only for your head to be raised up again as Hajime held it up using your chin, a tender smile plastered on his face.

“Tell you what… if you lose control and everything goes astray, just look at me and I’ll save you, like a knight-in-shining-armor,” he whispers, patting you on the head before pushing you towards your best friend who was still looking, by the way. You took a deep breath, stopping right in front of him, biting your lip before opening your mouth to say something but Atsumu beat you to it, arms immediately going around your form and pulling you into a bone-crushing hug, “I’m sorry,” He mumbles into your hair, while you nod, reciprocating the gesture, “I… I’ve been such a shitty best friend, huh?”

“Yeah, right,” You huffed, trying to look mad and intimidating but it only came off as cute in Atsumu’s vocabulary, “After this, I’ll treat you to this really good restaurant. We can talk about anything and everything you want to tell me, even if they’re bad, I’ll listen, yeah?” He suggested, his hold on you still not loosening as he looked down on you, “I’d prefer it if only good things come out of your pretty mouth though.”

You rolled your eyes, getting ready to retort as usual but a loud crash and a cry of pain interrupted you. Looking to the source of the sound, your eyes, as well as Atsumu’s widened. You can only watch as Yui, who was on the floor, clutching her ankles, angrily screech at the boy who was bowing his head and apologizing, the large piece of wood you luckily avoided a while ago found its victim and it’s the main actress of the play, “What the fuck! Why weren’t you watching where you’re going?! Look at what you did!”

Your best friend jogged towards her and once again, you were left behind. Love seriously sucks, you thought as you watch him try to shush Yui’s cries. The director, who heard about the situation, ran to where you are, asking what happened. “I think her ankles are injured, Miyu-chan,” you quickly replied, anxiety beginning to arise within you because what was supposed to happen now? You can’t cancel this play; you all have been working for months for this! Besides, the theater must be full of the audience now. As if she was reading your mind, she spoke up, “We can’t cancel this now, but we can’t force her to act as well. She can barely stand up, look. Mina, tell Mari to ask the audience to wait for a little while more, we have to think of a solution.”

By now, Atsumu was supporting her, making their way towards you with Yui limping, “Miyu-san…” “No, Yui. I know what you’re going to say but I won’t let you do that. Go to the infirmary and have your ankles checked. Your well-being is more important than this play,” the director firmly said, much to the brown-haired girl’s dismay.

“But you can’t cancel it! The people who bought the tickets will get mad! I can do this, it barely hurts, Miyu-san!” Yui pleaded, even going as far lifting her injured foot in a pathetic attempt to show that she was fine but it only put her to a worse situation as soon as she winced. Miyu only gave her a look of ‘I told you so.’

“Don’t worry about the play, Yui-chan. YN can replace you in your role.”

“What?!” “WHAT?” You simultaneously yelled out, obviously not expecting the sudden decision to be made, much less one that has something to do with you, “Wait, wait, wait… Miyu-chan, aren’t you being a little rash right now? I’m not a good actress!”

“She’s right!” Yui scoffed, “I’ve been practicing this for so long and you’re going to replace me with someone who never did?!”

“That’s right,” Miyu nodded, crossing her arms, “She knows the script and the lines better than anyone here. And don’t try to fool me, YN, you know you can act.” Her unrelenting eyes told you that she knew everything there was to know; she’s been your friend for more than a year now, after all.

“Oh, well. You won’t change my mind no matter what you say, so just go, Yui. Iwaizumi-kun, sorry for this sudden request but can you take Yui to the infirmary after what we’re going to do?” Hajime blinked but nodded, nonetheless. He feels somewhat sorry for the brunette who was on the verge of tears as she was helped by the crew members into one of the changing rooms to undress her costume.

It’s definitely not the first time in your life but you felt like vomiting the breakfast you had this morning.

You already lost count of how many times you took a deep breath in hopes that your heart will calm down. You listened as Mari neared the end of her welcoming rites and speech for the play, placing your hands on your chest as a final attempt to get tranquility within. The fairytale-like background music began to play and soon, a younger version of your character appeared on the stage; it’s the beginning of your Cinderella play. To be honest, you don’t even know where they got that child actress and how they managed to convince her to join the play but right now, you couldn’t care less because all you’re thinking of right now is how to not mess up your lines and deliver them with the proper emotions.

Your brother, Osamu, Tooru, Makki and Mattsun, who you were sure as hell were in the audience, will never let you hear the end of it if you mess this up. You don’t want to live the rest of your days in Japan being a laughingstock. No way, you refu–

“You’re thinking too much about it. Calm down,” A voice from behind you interrupted, hands beginning to massage your shoulders to get your stiff muscles to relax. Turning around, you were met with the one and only Miya Atsumu in a prince costume. Right there and then, you felt like your heart’s going to burst for a different reason this time.

Goodness heavens, Lord Jesus, thank you for blessing me with this beautiful man and letting me meet him, you thought as you savored the view in front of you, also thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Miya for successfully creating Atsumu and delivering him to the Earth, it must have difficult to produce such fine masterpiece.

“Ya look… beautiful,” the blonde mutters, a hand rubbing his nape and sheepishly grinning, a slight blush adorning his cheeks, “Ya should dress up yourself from time to time, yanno? It really suits you.”

“Gee, thanks for calling me ugly on my normal days,” you scoffed, giggling when he let out a sound of disagreement, “No! That’s not what I meant, idiot!”

“I know.”

Before you can continue your conversation, the signal for you to come out is finally closing in as the “stepsisters” appeared onstage. Rather shakily, you took a step forward, almost tripping on your dress due to your nerves. You were fortunate that Atsumu was attentive enough to grab your wrist, “YN, I told you to calm down.”

You gulped, nodding and taking a deep breath. He smiled upon seeing the determined look on your face and for some reason, his body moved on its own - placing a hand on your cheek with his thumb rubbing it, he approached you and placed his lips on your forehead. Maybe it’s because you were so nervous or maybe it’s because you longed for this moment for almost your whole life. Whatever the reason is, you just find yourself tearing up a little bit as he whispers, “That’s my girl.”

Never in your life had you wished that time can stop this much before. As you stood still in Atsumu’s embrace, you felt your heart being squeezed with so much love yet pain at the same time. How is it that he’s so close yet he’s someone you can’t have?

“I love you, Atsumu,” you tell him, eyes still watery; heart hoping that it reaches him, that he picks up the meaning behind your words. But he doesn’t, as he stops to look at you, he squints his eyes in a joking manner as he speaks, “Hey, why do you look so emotional today?”

Disappointment grows in the depths of your whole being, though you don’t show him that. Because perhaps this was enough, you can try again another day. You’ll try and try until he finally understands. You can do that… you’ve been holding on pretty well the past fifteen years, so you huff instead, ignoring the painful thump of your heart, “Nothing, you jerk! Is it really that weird to hear me say I love you to you, hah?!”

You hear the dialogue of one of the stepsisters, calling out as your cue. You start to trudge forward but before you could fully go, he replies, “I love you too, YN, always remember that although I’m so shitty sometimes.”

Yeah, this is enough for now.

Perhaps, you shouldn’t have been so confident in saying that; you should’ve just been straight to the point because nothing has ever compared to the agony engulfing your insides as Miya Atsumu sat in front of you in a random booth of a restaurant, speaking the words you’ve always dreaded to hear as a Moira and as his very own soulmate, “YN, I think I’m done waiting for my soulmate. Can’t you just cut my thread off please?”

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu smau #atsumu x reader #iwaizumi x reader #atsumu headcanons #iwaizumi headcanons #atsumu smau #iwaizumi smau #haikyuu drabbles #haikyuu angst #haikyuu texts

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amyscascadingtabs · 3 years

Text

darling, you should know i’m a helicopter

a healthy dose of hurt/comfort with added baby snuggles, because i truly felt for amy in this episode. it's been a long time since i just wrote something quick but i hope you enjoy! 🥰

oh and if you want a picture this is the pajamas mac is wearing, okay cool

read on ao3

Amy doesn’t mean for it to be a breakdown.

She’s not surprised when Mac’s familiar piercing cries wake her up again a mere hour and a half after she’s fed him and put him to sleep for the night. As miraculous as Charles’ methods seemed, she still believes some babies are just fussy, and her son is one of them. It’s the only logical conclusion she’s come to after six, eight, ten, and twelve weeks all passed without any notable improvement in Mac’s ability to sleep longer stretches, and now he’s five months old and defying every single baby book and website that informs her he should be well settled into a sleeping schedule by now. He’s just fussy, or a high need baby, or whatever other term with needlessly negative connotations there is to make Amy feel like she's doing a bad job. It’s who he is and it’s what she’s used to, so she just scoots to the edge of the bed and picks him up from his travel cot in her still hurting arms before he can wake up the rest of the house.

On another night, she might have tried to walk around with him first, play some white noise or bounce on the yoga ball with him, but she’s tired and dejected and scared to wake up anyone else, so she goes for the easy option. The buttons of her pink striped pajama shirt are easily accessible for this exact purpose, and resting Mac’s head in the crook of her right arm, she gently guides him to her chest and exhales in relief as the crying comes to a stop. At least this, she can do, and the idiots who write advice pages about how you shouldn’t get your baby used to falling asleep at the breast have probably never even met a real baby.

She leans back against the pillows when she’s sure Mac’s found a good latch and she can hear his content grunts and swallows. His hand has found a steady grip on her newly washed hair, probably getting drool in it again, but she can’t be bothered to try and unclench his little iron fist when he’s finally happy. Watching his perfect chubby cheeks as they hollow and fill, stroking the soft baby curls that are getting lighter and more like Jake’s every day, Amy’s overcome with another wave of that crazy all-consuming love that keeps surprising her, and then she’s the one who can’t stop her tears from falling.

The only thing she ever wants is to keep him safe. In a world of pandemics and injustice, where the news gives her anxiety attacks more days than not and everything she thought she knew keeps changing, at least she can make sure Mac has his every need attended to. It’s been her life while staying home for the past five months, and she likes to think she’s handled it well all things considered, but after Charles’ nip tips and three-hour imprisonment of her child, Amy can’t help but feel like she’s done it all wrong.

Her son is at his happiest when she can’t bother him. Once again, her high-strungness and failure to just be chill have proved her unfit for motherhood. She’s too anxious, too stressed, too overprotective, and the baby in her arms looking up at her with the warmest, roundest brown eyes she’s ever known is seriously unlucky and he doesn’t even know it.

She doesn’t know where the negative thoughts are coming from, but sometimes breastfeeding has this effect on her – another sign, the self-hating voice in her head whispers – and it’s been an exhausting day, so she lets the tears come and hopes Jake is too deeply asleep to notice her mini-breakdown. Why is this so hard for her, and why can’t she just relax? How come Mac seems to be the only child she’s heard of whose sleeping habits at home have gotten worse and not better after his first few weeks at daycare, and how come even the most gentle of sleep training methods break her heart when Mac cries like he’s been abandoned?

She’s wiping her tears with her free hand before wiping Mac’s cheeks with the muslin blanket when Jake begins to stir next to her, and even that makes her feel guilty, because he’s had a long day, too. He rubs his hand against her upper arm as if sensing that something’s off, yawning as he pushes himself up into a half-sitting position.

“Hey,” he mumbles in his softest sleepy voice, a worried crease appearing on his forehead. “Are you okay, Ames?”

“Yeah,” she tries, but her voice breaks, so she shakes her head. Mac is starting to pull away, so she unlatches him and sighs when she realizes that the shirt she’d packed clean already has milk stains on it. She rests him upright with his head on her shoulder instead, patting him on the back and trying to stop the tears that won't stop coming.

“Whatever it is, you can tell me. Is it Charles again? Because I really think he felt bad, but I’m happy to tell him off again if you want me to.”

“It's not Charles.” Amy sighs. “Well, it kind of is, but it's more that... I can't believe the best Mac has ever slept was when I wasn't even there. I try everything and nothing works, and Charles straight-up locks him in a room, and that makes him fall asleep? It feels like more proof I wasn't meant to do this,” she says, and she can see him immediately opening his mouth to protest. “Like even Charles is a more natural mom than I am.”

Mac makes a hiccuping noise, spitting up a little bit of milk on the muslin blanket Amy put on her shoulder. Jake wipes it away before laying an arm around them, half-hugging them both.

“No offense, but that's the worst lie I’ve heard today, and that's including the stuff Terry said about me.” He strokes Mac’s back through the blue pajamas with little moons and clouds with faces as he begins to whimper again. “You're the best mom to him ever, Ames. You do everything for him. You literally kicked down a door to get to him today. Why do you think someone would be better?”

Amy sighs as she adjusts Mac in her arms, swaying him slightly and being surprised when it actually makes him go quiet. He has his eyes closed, fists up in front of his face, and just the thought that she could be doing something wrong by him makes her heart shatter.

“Because I try too hard,” she whispers, just loud enough for Jake to hear. “When he was locked in by Charles, I couldn't check on him, and it was the best nap he's ever had. All because I worry too much about him. Because I don't know what else to do. I want to keep him safe, but instead I’m somehow not doing enough and doing too much at once.”

She tickles that adorable baby chin with her index finger. Mac grips it, bringing it to his mouth with determination, and it makes both parents laugh. Why he likes this but rejects every single kind of pacifier Buy Buy Baby had to offer, she’ll never understand.

“He knows you love him,” Jake says, as if that was an obvious fact. He likes to claim he can read Mac’s mind about these things, a skill which Amy thinks would have been a lot more useful if it had also worked to figure out what it is their son needs during their worst nights of crying. It's what she needed to hear right now, though, and she leans her head on his shoulder as a silent thank you. “And just because he might be a little introverted sometimes doesn't mean he doesn't love you like crazy, too. I mean, that's what you tell me when I interrupt you when you're reading, right?”

She smiles. “I guess.”

“I know you worry,” he continues. “But just because Mac likes his peace and quiet sometimes doesn’t mean you’re doing a bad job. Maybe we could even let him start sleeping in his nursery at night, you know, just see what happens?”

Just the mention of not having her son within arm’s length at night makes Amy freeze and a million nightmare scenarios flash through her head, and Jake laughs a little as he feels her shoulders tense. “Okay, I can tell that was too big of a step and you’re freaking out, so maybe not. But one day?”

“We’ll talk about it later,” she decides, carefully trying to pull her finger out of her son’s mouth. “Thanks, babe. I just really want to go back to sleep.”

Mac’s eyes are fluttering, a telltale sign that he’s starting to fight his sleep, stretching his legs and letting out the most adorable of baby-sighs. Jake runs his thumb over his son’s forehead and nose in an attempt to make him relax, and shakes his head as Mac only forces his eyes open again.

“He’s lucky he’s so cute, isn’t he?”

“He’s lucky we love him,” Amy mumbles, trying and failing to stifle a yawn.

“Yeah. I mean, who needs a full night’s sleep anyway, right?” Jake says, and Amy just stares at him with a blank expression.

“I know you’re joking, but I would almost leave him in Charles’ hands for a night again if it meant I got a four-hour stretch, and that’s saying something.”

“Yeah.” Jake grimaces. “I shouldn’t have said that. Now I’m kind of thinking about it too.”

Thinking that maybe Mac will repeat his magical streak of at least managing to fall asleep on his own, Amy tries to put him down in the cot again, but she’s barely moved before he lets out another unhappy cry. She lifts him upright against her chest again, biting her lip and trying not to feel defeated as she starts the hushing and rocking all over again.

“Hey, I can take him,” Jake says, reaching for him. “You need to sleep so you can stop crazy-spiraling, and I’ve barely held him all day. I’ll walk around with him outside for a while, that might do it.”

It’s not the typical declarations of love they used to share, but as he puts the muslin blanket on his shoulder before taking Mac and getting out of bed with him, Amy’s confident that she’s never loved her husband more. This, right here, watching him with sleep-tousled curls in just his t-shirt and pajama pants as he adjusts his son and bounces him slightly in his arms while the crying turns into a more gentle fussing, is far hotter than any sex dream about Sanjay Gupta could ever be.

#my writing #b99 #peraltiago #b99 fic #b99 fanfiction #jake x amy fanfiction #here it is i hope you enjoy!!!

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rinarecommends · 4 years

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Serotonin - Sero x F!Reader

Serotonin is thought to regulate mood, anxiety, and happiness in our bodies.

italicized text is meant to be spanish, however, I don’t speak spanish, and I didn’t want to try to google translate and it be wrong. Latin sero is KING though.

Nobody ever wants to be a cliche, right? But here you were being one. You became roommates with Hanta Sero a little over a year ago, and you slowly fell in love with him, irrevocably in love with him, but you were determined to suffer through it because you were sure that he would never feel the same. He was a HERO for crying out loud, a damn good one. He could have anyone he wanted, with his neat quirk that may or may not bring about not so safe thoughts, at times, and his spanish accent that would make any man or woman drop their pants, especially when he was mad, but it wasn’t just that. He was caring, always trying to save the day and people. He would give someone the shirt off his back if they needed it, it’s just who he was. He was loving, especially towards his friends and family, if the pictures hung all over the two bedroom apartment that you guys shared were any indication, even if one of those friends was a blonde asshole who was the epitome of anger in human form. He was everything you wanted, and all the things you never thought you needed all wrapped up in one person. It wasn’t really a problem, living with him while being in love with him. He didn’t date because he was too busy with hero work, so you didn’t have to see him with other women, or even think about him possibly being with someone else, until today.

Today, you woke up like any other day. You ate the same breakfast. You did the same morning routine, except when you walked out of your room, you walked into sero arguing with someone over the phone, in spanish. You could tell it was an argument because of the language his body was using.

“I know his ideas are normally bad, but I can not think of any other viable option, Kirishima. I need these feelings to go away, look at her and look at me, she 's perfect and she deserves someone just as perfect.”

He angrily hung up the phone and drug his fingers through his hair in frustration, and that’s when you decided to pipe up to let him know that you were in the room with him.

“Hanta, are you okay?” You said making him jump in surprise, and he turned to you, forcing a smile on his face, but you could tell it was forced.

“Everything’s fine. I was just talking with Kaminari and Kirishima, and they said something stupid that set me on edge, that’s all. Anyways, Goodmorning Sweetheart.” You felt your body flush at the usual pet name that he gave you, it always made your heart flutter. You smiled brightly at him.

“Goodmorning Cellophane.” You teased at his hero name. He rolled his eyes and scanned the room, searching for something. You could tell he found it when his eyes lit up like a christmas tree. He sighed in relief, picking up the hero belt that he had finally found after searching for it the whole time while he was on the phone, but it was just his luck for it to be hiding in plain sight.

“I’ll be out later tonight than usual, so we won’t be able to watch movies like we usually do on friday nights. Sorry Sweetheart.” He said with his back turned to you. Your heart dropped to your feet. You always looked forward to the movie nights that became a ritual for you and him. If you didn’t know better, you’d consider them dates.

“Oh? Work Event?” You asked with curiosity, wondering what could drag him away from movie night, knowing it had to be something related to work.

“No, not this time. Kaminari has set me up on a date with a girl he knows, and I told him I’d go. Give dating a shot, y’know, get back out there in the field.” He rambled out, but you weren’t paying any attention. As soon as the word “date” left his mouth, your heart crumbled after each word thereafter. You forced a smile onto your face while your heart broke into a thousand pieces while screaming at you to stop him, tell him how you feel, but you let it break and silenced its screams, letting your brain convince you that it was not a good idea. Letting him know you had feelings for him could mess everything up, and you loved hanta, loved living with him, loved being his friend. You didn’t want to ruin that.

“That’s great, Hanta. I am so happy for you.” You were not happy. You knew you should be. If this was what he wanted, you should be happy for him, but you weren’t. You wanted him to want you, wanted him to love you.

“Yeah. I think it might be a good thing. Everyone needs someone to love them and be loved in return, right?” Yes. Yes they did.

“Right!” You said with enthusiasm that you could only hope sounded genuine. He smiled at you one last time before he walked out the door, headed to work as a hero.

Once you knew he was gone, you sighed, but it came out shaky and before you knew it, you were crying, sobbing really. You felt this sharp pain through your heart as if something was squeezing and would not let go. You knew in that moment, you were experiencing real heartbreak, and the only thing to do when you’re heart broken? Call your best friend.

It rang twice before she picked up, and if you weren’t so upset, you’d smile because you knew you could always count on the ever reliable Mina Ashido.

“Yo Bestie.” She said as she answered, her typical nonchalant greeting for answering your calls. You opened your mouth to say something to her, but all that came out was a sob.

“I’ll be there in ten.” She said without you having to say anything, hanging up the call quickly to get to you. You let your phone fall out of your hand, clattering to the floor. How could everything go to hell so fast? You were living peacefully with the man you were secretly in love with, with no problems in sight, now he was going on a date, and it felt like the end of the world.

She made it in eight. She came into your apartment with you on the couch sobbing, hardly able to catch your breath.

“What Happened, Y/N?” She asked, quietly, needing to know what the problem was, so she could hopefully fix it, hating to see her best friend in this condition.

“H-h-he’s g-g-going on a-a-a da-a-a-te.” You stuttered out between your sobs. You didn’t say a name, but you didn’t have too. The thing was that your feelings towards Sero was evident to everyone but him, and apparently Kaminari who kept trying to set him up with girls, and his feelings for you were evident to everyone but you.

“He told you that?” She said to you, all you could do was nod.

“And you’re letting him?” She asked, making you look at her. What did she mean letting him? You didn’t have a choice in the matter of whether or not he goes out on a date. You weren’t his girlfriend, just someone that was hopelessly, desperately in love with him, who happened to be his roommate. It was like she could read your mind, and maybe she could, you had been friends since you were kids, friends throughout highschool, even though you weren’t at UA or in a hero course. She’s the reason that you were able to score this roommate when you were desperate to get out of your family home. She’s the reason you were able to meet Hanta at all.

“N/N, you have two options here, and I am going to tell you what they are, honestly, with no sugar-coating bullshit. You can let him go out on this date, ignore your feelings forever, be insanely upset as you watch him maybe fall in love with this nameless, faceless girl, or maybe he won’t, but then there will be another one after her, and another, until he finds “the one,” and you can wallow in all the “what if?” scenarios you can come up with about your feelings towards him and how it might’ve played out if you had just said something, or you can open your eyes, and see that you are “the one” for him, and say something to him. Tell him how you feel. Then nothing has to change. He will either let you down gently because he’s not an asshole like our neighborhood #1 hero that is also an angry pomeranian, he’s SERO for crying out loud. He’s either gonna let you down gently, or he’s gonna return your feelings, but it’s a chance that you’re gonna have to take because I know you. You’ll regret it, in the long run, if you never tell him.” She took a deep breath after that monologue. Your tears continuously dried up as the words poured out of her mouth, and you felt silly. Why were you so scared to begin with? Was it rejection? She was right. Sero wouldn’t be harsh if he didn’t return your feelings. Was it the fear of change? What would really change if you confessed? You’d still be friends, if he didn’t feel the same, and you’d still be roommates, even if it’d be awkward for awhile.

That’s when you decided. You were going to tell him how you felt. You were going to take a leap of faith and just go for it. Mina was all about living carefree and with no regrets, and she was right, when you thought about it. You would definitely regret not telling him.

You nodded at her and gave her a small smile.

“I’ll do it.”

She sat down beside you.

“What’s the plan then?” She asked with a mischievous smirk on her face, and seeing that, you couldn’t help but match it with one of your own. Sero was certainly the love of your life, but Mina was undoubtedly your soulmate, two halves of the same hole.

“So here’s the plan…” You told her what your plan was, and she nodded along with you, agreeing with your plan, piping up when she thought something needed tweaking, and you two had a solid, doable plan almost an hour later. She left you to your own devices because she was on hero duty tonight, and she needed some semblance of rest to be able to protect the citizens at full potential.

You got dressed for the occasion and watched the clock until you knew he was almost due to clock out, and you called him.

Ring. Ring.

“Princesa. Are you okay? You never call me when I’m at work unless something is wrong.” He rushed out, answering after only two rings. Your heart soared when he called you a princess in spanish, and then it twisted in horror thinking that if you didn’t do this, that he’d call someone else that, or at the least, cease calling you that because what girl wants their boyfriend calling another girl “princess?”

“... I’m actually not okay, Hanta. I know you have a date, but can you come home before you go? I really need you.” You inhaled and exhaled slowly, trying to keep your breathing even from all the nerves in your body standing on edge.

“... sure, princesa. I can come home before then. I’ll be there in 20. I just have to turn in paperwork and stuff. Will you be okay till then?” You nodded even though he couldn’t see you and breathed out a “yes” to give him confirmation that you’d be okay for twenty more minutes.

You hung up with him and stood up, started pacing back and forth while looking at the clock. You were actually gonna do this. This was a pivotal moment. After this, there was no going back, only forward.

Pacing back and forth, time seemed to only drag on making those twenty minutes feel like an hour, until you heard hanta’s keys jingle in the slot, unlocking the door.

“N/N? Where are you?” He said as he opened the door, not noticing you in the small living room. You looked at him, and your heart clenched, in the best way. He was so beautiful. He looked tired from a day of hero work. His hair was still wet from taking a shower at the hero office, like he always did, hating coming into the apartment smelly and sweaty.

“I’m right here, Hanta.” You said making him snap his gaze to you. He looked you up and down, probably checking to see if you were physically okay, and when he noticed that nothing was physically wrong with you, he gave you a curious look.

“You’re not hurt?”

“I am. It’s just not a wound you can see.” you replied to him, trying to strain a smile, but not quite making it work.

“I don’t -” He started but you shook your head.

“Do you know her name?” You asked, words tumbling out of your mouth without you really being able to think about them.

“Who?” Sero said, clearly not realizing you were talking about the girl he was supposed to go out with tonight.

“Do you know what she looks like? Is she prettier than me?” You asked, making his look grow even more confused.

“I -” He went to say something, but you continued on with your tirade, not being able to stop the words coming out of your mouth now.

“I sat here today, and I just thought, how has he not noticed? Has he, and just chose to ignore it, but you’re not that kind of person, you wouldn’t blatantly ignore someones’ feelings. You’re a hero, acknowledging people and their feelings is a part of that job, but then you told me you were going on a date today, and my world stopped. It literally stopped because I was okay with it being unnoticed as long as nothing changed, but you dating changes everything hanta because I can’t just stand by and watch the man that I am hopelessly in love with, who just so happens to be my roommate, go on a date with someone that’s not me. Not without telling him how I feel. I don’t want to live the rest of my life with unanswered questions and thoughts about what could happen.” You sighed. Taking a breath, looking at him as you did, seeing him with wide eyes and an open mouth. He opened and closed his mouth as if to say something, but you could tell he wasn’t sure what to say.

“I love you, Hanta Sero. I love the way you care about people in your life and people you don’t even know. I love the way you try to make sure I am okay when you get home, even though you’re the one that is out there saving lives every single day. I love the way your eyes crinkle and you have a little dimple when you smile, and I mean really smile. I love the sound of your laugh. I love the way you smell when we cuddle on the couch while watching movies because I get cold so easy. I love the way you play with my hair when you think I’ve fallen asleep during the movie, when the truth is that I just pretend because I don’t want you to stop. I love how smart you are and how you continue to surpass everyone’s beliefs about you because you’re so great and no one ever sees that, always doubting you. I see that though. I see you, Hanta, and I love you just the way that you are.” You were so into your thoughts and feelings that you weren’t even aware of the huge smile that had made its way onto his face. You just kept talking.

“I know I’m not the greatest. I get upset easily, and I’m not the smartest. I’m not athletic, and I’m a decent cook, but nothing noteworthy, and there are probably so many people that would be better for you, who could love you better, take better care of you while you’re out there saving the world, but instead of dating someone that you don’t even know, that KAMINARI picked out, is it so far fetched that you never even consider dating me, when I was right here, all along? Was I not even a thought? No matter. I’m here. I’m pouring out my feelings, despite my intense fear of you rejecting me, and I’m asking you, pleading with you to pick me. Pick me, hanta. Choose me. LOVE ME. If you just do that, if you just choose me, I’ll spend the rest of my life showing you that you made the right decision, that I’m worthy of your love. That I -” You were cut off by the feel of lips slamming onto yours, words dying in your throat as the band that was stretching so tight, finally snapped. You had kissed guys before, but it had never felt like this, no one’s lips had ever felt like they were made just for yours, but his did. They fit together with yours perfectly, in sync, as the kiss went on and on, and you never wanted it to end, but it did. He slowly pulled his lips away and took a breath.

“Please. Stop talking. I wouldn’t want to choose anyone else. How have we both been hopelessly in love with the other and never noticed each other’s feelings?” He breathed out. His words made your stomach flutter with butterflies and instead of tears or sobbing, laughter, unadulterated laughter, flew out of your mouth, making him laugh along with you.

“I guess we’re both blind when it comes to feelings, huh?” You asked, smirking, and he nodded as he leaned in to kiss you again, and everything melted away, your brain flooding with serotonin.

#Rina Writes #rina speaks #Rina recommends #sero hanta x reader #Sero Hanta #latin sero #bnharem collab #bnharem #fluff #slightly angsty #please dont hate this #bnha fic #bnha fanfiction #sero fanfiction #reader insert

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criminalmindzjunkie · 4 years

Text

I Carry Your Heart With Me (Part One)

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Summary: Spencer and the reader are reunited for the first time in fifteen years.

A/N: Very excited to get the ball rolling on this one. I hope you all enjoy it! Message me if you would like to be added to the taglist.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Content Warnings: swearing

Word Count: 4.5k

“I cannot believe you talked me into this,” Damien mutters from the passenger seat, his icy blue eyes wide with fright. He pulls his gaze away just long enough to point at a lone cow grazing to the left of the road. “Look! That cow is just like… standing there. No fence around him or anything. What’s stopping him from stampeding into us the second we get out of this car?”

Damien sounds so genuinely horrified that you almost feel bad for laughing. Almost.

“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem, Dee. Besides, that cow didn’t even look up when we drove past. We’re not even on its radar.”

“Oh, yeah? Ever heard of a little thing called mad cow disease?” Damien persists, in typical dramatic flair. You roll your eyes at him and he curses underneath his breath. “You know, when I agreed to go with you to this wedding, I pictured something more akin to a five-star resort with a minibar and a heated pool. Not rogue livestock and shitty cellphone reception.”

“You didn’t agree to anything – you practically begged me to take you with me.”

Damien waves his hand, dismissive, his eyes still roaming over the pasture. “Because I wanted an excuse to take a week off work. This is not the controlled environment I expected.”

“If you don’t quit complaining, I won’t hesitate to push you out of the car and leave you here with the cow,” you retort. In your periphery you’re able to make out Damien raising his middle finger to you. Rude.

You chuckle and fix your attention back on the dirt road. You’re driving almost painfully slowly, because the very idea of having to pay extra for damages to this already astronomically expensive rental car makes you feel nauseated. Despite your efforts, the car is covered entirely in dust. Its once pristine, white paint job has transformed into a muddy color.

There goes my deposit.

You shake your head at the thought. You had more pressing matters to concern yourself with; i.e., the fact that you were approximately five minutes away from coming face to face with the one person you swore you’d never speak to again. Two months seemed like ample time to prepare yourself in theory, but now that it is no longer some far-off thing, you know that your attempts at preparing yourself were in vain. With each day you crossed off the calendar leading to your departure date, your anxiety grew and grew until you worried your poor heart would give out under the stress. Getting onto the plane bound for Montana felt like the proverbial nail in the coffin, and a hefty dose of Dramamine was the only thing that kept you from spiraling as the plane ascended into the air. You slept through the entirety of the trip and, much to Damien’s chagrin, there is a sizeable puddle of drool on his left shoulder to prove it.

The lengthy nap helped. The tight band constricting your chest had loosened, and you pulled out onto the highway feeling refreshed and rejuvenated. You had Damien by your side and five vacation days to enjoy. Your best friend was getting married to the love of her life, and you were hellbent on standing by her side through it all. Spencer Reid can kiss your ass, as far as you are concerned. No way is he going to ruin this for you.

You are still very much clinging your take-no-shit mentality when you breach a hill and the ranch comes into view, effectively expelling every single positive thought from your head. Aforementioned anxiety reappears in full-force and you stomp down on the breaks.

“Fuck, I don’t think I can do this,” you squeak out, casting a look at Damien, whose eyes are trained on the sprawling expanse of the house ahead of you. “We can still turn around – no, we should turn around. There is no version of this that won’t end in me getting embarrassingly drunk and crying in front of everyone. I’m turning around.”

Damien’s hand on yours, strong and steady, is the only thing that keeps you from whipping the car around and retreating with your tail between your legs. His fingers pry your white knuckled grip off of the wheel slowly, his thumb rubbing reassuring circles across your skin. Its sweet and so overwhelmingly gentle that you’re a bit stunned. You glance at him in a silent question, as if to ask who are you, and what have you done with my friend?

He gets the message loud and clear, because of course he does. Damien fixes you with a smile, grip tightening on your hand.

“I’ve seen you hold your own against some of the biggest names in journalism on an almost daily basis – looking damn sexy while you do it, might I add,” Damien chuckles, and you can’t help but give a weak laugh of your own. Damien’s smile grows at this, and he continues, “If you can handle your business against those conniving pricks, I’ve no doubt that you can tough it out for this. You’re not the type of woman that lets some guy dictate what she does or doesn’t do. And you sure as hell aren’t the type of woman that would let some guy rob her of the opportunity to stand by her best friend on the most important day of her life. As the person who probably knows you better than anyone else on the planet, my opinion of you is pretty rock-solid, if I do say so myself. So, unless I’ve completely overestimated the extent of your badassery, I suggest you rethink that plan. What do you say?”

You avert your eyes and swallow against the lump in your throat.

“Spencer’s not just some guy. For a long time, I was convinced that he was the guy,” you whisper. The car is silent, save for the quiet crooning voice of George Michael flowing through the speakers. Damien squeezes your hand, prompting you to continue. You blink up at him with wet lashes, lips pulled into a sad smile. “Have you ever been in love?”

Damien shakes his head and rubs his thumb along the top of your hand. “I can’t say that I have, babe. Haven’t been that lucky.”

You let out a shaky breath and bring your other hand up to wipe at your eyes.

“Maybe you’re better off. I’ve only been in love once,” you gesture to your pitiful appearance and choke out a wet laugh. “Look where that got me. He fucking crushed me, and fifteen years later I’m still broken up about it. It’s pathetic.”

Damien frowns and shifts in his seat so that he’s fully facing you.

“I don’t want to hear you say that self-deprecating shit again. You were hurt by someone you gave your heart to, and I can only imagine how devastating that must feel. Being upset about seeing him again does not make you pathetic. The fact that you’re here, about to spend a week with the guy just so you can be there for Cassidy, is pretty damn admirable as far as I’m concerned.” Damien ends his monologue by pulling you into a tight hug, and you couldn’t be more thankful that he’d come with you. Not only was he a secret sweetheart, he also gave the very best hugs.

By the time he releases you, the tension in your chest has eased significantly. You nod once, and Damien’s rewards you with a smile.

“I am pretty cool, aren’t I?”

Damien snorts rather unattractively and rolls his eyes.

“I take back everything. You suck, and I don’t know why I bother with you, you narcissist.”

Now that the mood has lifted significantly, you reluctantly press your foot against the gas pedal.

“Too late. No takesies backsies,” you singsong. “You think I’m sexy and badass, and I’m never going to let you forget it.”

Damien mutters something undoubtably snarky underneath his breath, but it’s drowned out by the sound of gravel crunching underneath the tires. That, and the sound of your blood roaring in your ears as you inch further down the driveway.

The house, a beautiful log cabin with stone accents along the underside, is massive. Standing at two stories tall with a large wraparound porch and more than a dozen large windows, it’s a far cry from the modest little cabin in the mountains that Cassidy had made it out to be. Even Damien is slack jawed at the sight of it, sitting pretty against a back drop of rolling mountains, and you can’t help but feel a little smug.

“Still want to complain about that five-star resort?”

Damien shakes his head dazedly, “I retract my earlier complaint.”

All too soon, you roll to a stop and put the car in park. Several other cars are parked haphazardly in the grass around you, and that annoying voice inside your head wonders which one belongs to Spencer. It’s not that you care – you totally don’t – it’s just that you are kind of hoping that he hasn’t arrived yet. A few hours to acclimate to the environment before having to deal with him would be nice.

“You’ve got this, babe,” Damien murmurs. “And I’ll be with you the whole time, just in case you need a reminder.”

You flash Damien a nervous smile.

“You’re a really good friend, Dee. I’m really glad that you’re here,” you say, before narrowing your eyes at him. “If you tell anyone I said that, I’ll deny it.”

Damien snorts and pushes open the door.

“Get your sassy ass out of the car. I’m ready to mingle.”

As soon as you set foot on the porch, the front door flies open and a flash of curly red hair precedes a collision that nearly sends you flying back into the railing. Ecstatic squeals rip through the otherwise serene evening air and two boney arms envelop you into a tight hug.

“I cannot believe you’re actually here,” Cassidy laughs as she squeezes you tight. Her enthusiasm has you joining in, the two of you laughing happily and pulling back to examine one another. Cassidy places a sloppy kiss to both of your cheeks before throwing an arm over your shoulder. “I fully expected you to just blow off the whole thing, if I’m being honest.”

You cast at Damien, who’s watching on with an amused grin on his face.

“Believe me, she tried.”

Cassidy turns her attention to Damien and extends her free hand.

“I take it you’re the infamous Damien that I’ve been trading emails with?”

Your eyebrows scrunch together in confusion, “Wait, what? The two of you have been emailing?”

Damien accepts Cassidy’s hand and gives it a firm shake, all while smiling smugly.

“Yep. Me and Ms. Cassidy go way back.”

“I mean, that’s cool, I guess, but why?”

Cassidy and Damien share a look, both of them shrugging.

“Mainly to talk about you,” Cassidy admits, not even bothering to look apologetic. When you frown up at her she waves her hand dismissively at you. “All good things, I promise. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.” Cassidy punctuates her words with a patronizing pat on your shoulder.

“I knew letting you two meet was a bad idea,” you grumble.

Cassidy simply drops her arms from its place on your shoulder in favor of tugging on your hand.

“Come on, sour puss. I want you to meet my husband. He’s a real sweetie – you’re gonna love him.”

A flash of white-hot panic shoots down your spine and you dig your heels into the floor.

“Wait,” you squeak out, eyes wide. “Is… Is he here yet?”

Cassidy’s eyes shine mischievously, briefly flitting up to Damien before returning to you.

“He is. And you’ll be happy to know that pictures do not do the Good Doctor any justice.”

Salt, meet wound.

“Don’t know why you’re telling me that,” you mutter.

“Denial is not just a river in Egypt, my friend,” Cassidy singsongs as she begins tugging you forward. For someone so tiny, she makes easy work of forcing you through the threshold.

The foyer is just as impressive as you expect it to be – beautiful cedar walls and a grand staircase that leads to the second floor. If you weren’t horribly on edge at the current moment, you would definitely comment on the fact that the foyer alone is probably larger than your entire apartment, but you’re too busy scanning the immediate area for tall skinny white guys with stupidly curly brown hair to comment on the grandiosity.

Cassidy leads the two of you to double doors to the right, and just as she’s about to push them open, the shrill ring of your cellphone offers you an out.

You slip your hand from Cassidy’s grip and give her a faux apologetic look.

“I should probably take this – it might be work.”

Damien narrows his eyes at you. “I thought you left your work phone at home.”

You ignore him and begin taking a few steps backwards, “Is there somewhere private I can go?”

An indiscernible look flashes across Cassidy’s face and then her lips pull up into a sugary sweet smile. “Follow the hallway to the very end. Leads to the back porch,” she says. “No need to rush. Take all the time you need!”

Okay, weird, you think to yourself, but the idea of putting off the inevitable for a few extra moments is too tempting to pass up, so you continue your retreat. You make it to the back door in record time and let out a relieved breath as you bring the phone to your ear.

“Hi, mom.”

“Hi, baby. I was just calling to make sure the two of you got there safely.”

You push open the back door and the breathtaking view of the ranch prompts you to take pause; sprawling fields and rolling hills as far as the eye can see, grazing livestock congregating near a lazy stream at the far end of the property, and several horses running across the expanse of the left field. It was wonderfully serene and vastly different from the bustling rat-race that was New York.

You smile to yourself when a loud moo rips through the otherwise quiet ranch. I could get used to this.

“Yeah, we made it,” you murmur into the receiver. “You would love this place, Mom. It’s probably the prettiest place I’ve ever been. I’ll send you a picture when I hang up.”

“How’s Cassidy? Still a little spit-fire, I assume?”

You lean against the railing and let out a snort, “Oh, absolutely. Don’t think that’ll ever change.”

“I’d hope not,” your mother hums. “How does Damien like the ranch?”

“He’s not exactly a fan of the livestock,” you chuckle. “Damien’s never even seen a real cow before. City boy through and through, that one.”

You and your mother share a laugh that dissolves into a comfortable silence. Comfortable, until the telltale clearing of your mother’s throat warns you of the impending inquisition.

“So,” your mother begins. “Are you going to tell me how it went, or are you going to leave an old woman wondering? “

You sigh and run a hand through your hair. “Fortunately, I have yet to run into him. I may or may not be hiding out on the back porch as we speak in an attempt to avoid just that.”

“Y/N,” your mother chastises. “Prolonging the inevitable isn’t going to make this any easier.”

“I know, I know. I’ll go in there soon. It’s just a lot, you know? I needed to take a breather, first.” Just until my hands stop shaking. Or until Cassidy comes hunting for me. Whichever comes first.

“I know, baby,” your mother coos. “I’m proud of you for trying. Just don’t drag things out, okay? You’ll only make yourself sick with nerves.” Unfortunately, that ship has sailed. The rolling in your stomach can attest to that.

You laugh a humorless laugh, “I don’t know, Mom. You always like to remind me how stubborn I am. I’m sure if I put my mind to it, I can just avoid him for the entire week.”

A tiny movement at the very corner of your vision and a loud creak makes you whip your head around, and what you see has your heart falling to your ass.

Spencer Reid, looking absolutely stunning in a pair of khaki dress pants and a white cable-knit sweater, sits in a porch swing with wide eyes and a book clutched tightly in his hands. Soft, caramel-colored curls frame his face and a five o’clock shadow runs the length of his jaw, adding a bit of grown-up flare to his otherwise boyish features.

He looks every bit as beautiful as he did on the day he broke your heart.

Spencer knows that he should have spoken up as soon as you walked onto the porch. It was immediately obvious that you hadn’t seen him, and he swears he’s one second away from clearing his throat and launching into the introduction he’d been planning for the last sixty days. But the words die on his tongue as he drinks in the sight of you.

You’re so close to him for the first time in years and it’s more than a little bit dizzying. And yeah, he’s used his very limited knowledge of how the internet works to Google you on more than one occasion, but the version of you leaning against the porch railing is a far cry from the pixelized one. A light breeze rolling through the air lifts your hair away from your face, and Spencer’s breath catches in his throat as he surveys every perfect inch, from the curl of your lashes to the smattering of freckles on your nose. He indulges himself, eyes settling on your cherry red lips, fascinated by the way they move as you talk on the phone. Spencer is intimately familiar with those lips – can recall the way they felt pressed against his own. The years spent apart have done nothing to dull the memories. He’s not entirely sure if that’s a good or a bad thing.

It amazes him how you’ve somehow managed to change a lot, but also not at all. You stand before him as an oxymoron personified, and it’s a lot for Spencer’s poor heart to take in. Your hair is a bit lighter than he remembers, as well as a little longer, but it still looks just as soft and he can recall with startling clarity how it felt when he used to run his fingers through it. You have a few more laugh lines than you did, as well as a scar on your left elbow that hadn’t been there before, but everything else about you is so painfully familiar that Spencer could almost pretend that no time had passed – that he still knows your body as well as he once did.

Spencer knows this isn’t true. Every seven years, the body resets; old cells destroyed and replaced with new ones. You’ve both spent enough time apart that your bodies have reset twice over. You’re as much of a stranger to him as he is to you.

Spencer positively abhors the thought.

The sound of your laughter pulls him from the depths of his mind, and while the laugh isn’t warm or inviting in the slightest, he relishes it. What was once one of his favorite sounds has existed in his head as only a memory for far too long. Hearing it in person is jarring in the best of ways.

The euphoria he feels dies a horrible death when you speak again.

“I don’t know, Mom. You always like to remind me how stubborn I am. I’m sure if I put my mind to it, I can just avoid him for the entire week.”

Fucking ouch.

Spencer cringes hard, too hard, because the porch swing screeches out an angry creak and you whip around and holy shit, have your eyes always been that entrancing?

He watches as your entire body goes rigid, tensed as if you’re about to bolt. You blink hard, eyebrows drawn together to form an adorably bewildered expression as you assess him. Spencer hopes he doesn’t look too disheveled. He hadn’t even thought to freshen up after his trip, an oversight that he’s regretting terribly as your eyes flit over him.

Spencer isn’t sure why, but he stands up. Maybe it has something to do with feeling vulnerable. Maybe he just wants to close the distance. The two steps he takes towards you support the latter. He’s thankful that you don’t move away, but the blank expression on your face worries him.

The two of you stand five feet apart, but you feel worlds away. Spencer refrains from speaking for as long as he can stand, which is only about thirty seconds.

“Hi.”

Your lips part, and Spencer holds his breath.

“Hi.”

More silence. Spencer gulps.

“It’s good to see you,” he says, cautious. The last thing he wants to do is fuck up within the first five minutes. Unfortunately, his brain and his mouth seem to have some sort of disconnect, and Spencer continues against his better judgment. “It’s been a while.”

It’s been a while? That’s seriously the best I can come up with?

Spencer contemplates drowning himself in the nearby stream.

“It certainly has.”

“Five-thousand, five-hundred and seventeen days.” And roughly thirty-six and a half hours, but who’s counting?

Muted noises flow out of your phone speaker and you pull your eyes away from Spencer. He’s both relieved and devastated.

“Yeah, Mom, I’m fine. I just ran into someone. I’ll call you back later, okay?”

Spencer agonizes over the fact that he’s been reduced to someone while you and your mother exchange goodbyes. You’re smiling when you look up at him again, but Spencer’s seen what a genuine smile of yours looks like, and this isn’t it.

“I didn’t see you sitting there. My apologies.” Your formality makes the situation all the more excruciating.

Spencer lets out a nervous laugh, “I suppose avoiding me is out of the question now, huh?”

It’s hard to tell who’s more horrified by the words that tumble from his mouth, you or Spencer. A fierce flush spreads across your cheeks. It’s the first crack in your otherwise calm and collected exterior thus far and Spencer relishes in it. Maybe you’re not as unaffected by him as you seem.

“I… I’m sorry you had to hear that,” you stammer, blinking up at him with guilty eyes. “That wasn’t very kind of me.”

“Don’t worry about it. I can’t say that I’m undeserving of your anger,” Spencer whispers so quietly that he worries you don’t hear him over the gentle flow of the stream. The hardness that returns to your eyes lets him know that you heard every word.

You clear your throat, signaling your unwillingness to discuss that particularly painful topic. “You’re still partial to Cummings, I see.” You gesture to the book clutched tightly against his chest.

Now, it’s Spencer’s turn to blush. The book in his hands, tattered and worn from years of use, is incriminating. The two of you both know what lies just beneath the binding. The fact that Spencer has it with him now makes him think that he might as well be wearing a t-shirt that reads, I’M STILL NOT OVER YOU.

Spencer raises a hand to scratch at the back of his neck. “Oh, yeah. Old habits die hard, I guess.” His eyes scour your face for a sign of anything that might clue him in to you feeling the same way. A flicker of something dances across your face, but it’s gone so quickly that he can’t be sure if he imagined it. He forces a nervous smile. “If I remember correctly, he was your favorite.” It’s a shitty attempt at a joke.

You exhale a shaky breath and to his absolute horror, your lower lip begins to wobble. He wishes he could reach up and pluck his words from where they hang heavy in the air.

“Not anymore,” you murmur, and fuck if that doesn’t absolutely wreck him.

Spencer shouldn’t ask, but he can’t help himself. “Oh. Why not?”

He holds his breath, anxiously anticipating your next words. You seem to be battling with yourself, mouth opening and closing several times. Spencer is content to wait as long as it takes for you to answer, but the universe is much more impatient than he.

The door leading onto the porch swings open and out walks an honest to God Abercrombie and Fitch model. Or at least, a man who meets the qualifications and then some. Long, flowing blonde hair and a crisp white dress shirt makes Spencer’s unruly brown mop and dumpy sweater look pitiful in comparison. Spencer frowns.

“Sweetheart, you’ve been out here for like ten minutes,” the man chastises as he closes the distance between you and him. Spencer watches him wrap his arm around your shoulders and pull you to him like someone might watch a car wreck happen; with equal parts horror and morbid curiosity. “You can’t hide out forever.”

All traces of rigidity leave your body and you melt into the man’s side. It happens in such a way that screams familiarity, as if the pet name hadn’t already driven that point home. The awful, gut-wrenching realization slams home and Spencer has to fight to keep his knees from buckling.

“Uh, sorry,” you mumble, before nodding your head in Spencer’s direction. “Damien, this is Spencer Reid.”

The man’s – Damien’s - eyes go almost comically wide as they settle on Spencer’s dejected frame, before schooling into a cool indifference. He offers him a polite smile that’s a little tight around the edges, but doesn’t outstretch his hand.

“Ah, Spencer. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Spencer swallows hard to keep himself from barking out a crazed laugh. He’s heard of me! That’s certainly something, considering the fact that no one thought it necessary to tell Spencer that you have a –

Spencer’s eyes dart down to your left hand. Thankfully, mercifully, your ring finger is bare.

“Uh, y-yeah. It’s nice to meet you.” The words burn as they roll off his tongue.

Damien nods at him before turning back to you. There’s an unmistakable fondness in the way he looks at you as he speaks. “Cassidy wants everyone back inside. They’re about to serve dinner.”

You smile up at him, not even casting a parting glance at Spencer before Damien leads you back inside. Spencer stands there long after the door closes behind the two of you.

The book feels heavy in his hands.

taglist: @is-this-even-important @evelyncade @usuck @m0rce1ddd @bauhousewife @whxt-to-write @spencerwaltergubler @lovesicksofi @idgafayiowf @shadyladyperfection @mercy-burning @sapphic-prentiss @itsmytimetoodream @m0rce1ddd @bauhousewife @whxt-to-write @spencerwaltergubler @enchantedcruelsummer @no-honey-no @inkstainedwritergirl @tnoh13 @xxconfettiitsaparade @calm-and-doctor @muffin-cup @fortheloveofcriminalminds @arcticrory @holl2712@themanwiththreephds @blameitonthenight21 @stellabelle @me-a-hopeless-romantic @musicxlover97 @anightflower @andiebeaword @annesauriol @haylaansmi

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #spencer reid self insert #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds self insert #fanfiction #icyhwm #my writing #spencer #reid

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 4 years

Text

Unfurl and Fly

Prompt: Hello! I've been meaning to request this for so long but, you'd never posted any Sanders Sides fanfics till recently so I finally get to ask! = D

This is simply a request, but could you possibly to a Hurt/Comfort and Angsty o ed! Virgil fanfiction? Where he hides his wings for whichever reason you want- And it's *painful*, and eventually his wings get to damaged from constantly being hidden and self-groomed and other stuff of the sort and the others find out either accidentally cuz Virgil is in Too Much Pain, or Virgil reaches out- Just, take creative liberties with it! (Platonic LAMP all around- Or you can decide if it's romantic! Idc, whichever you prefer-) = D You can decide whether the others have wings or not, or if it's only the 'dark sides', or no one except Virgil, etc etc. I just have craved this for So Long in your writing specifically!

Whether you decide you would like to do this idea of not, that's fine! ^^ Just thought I'd suggest it! Thank you very much! = D - moonscar

Thanks for the request, babe!

Read on Ao3 The sequel: Soar

Pairings: LAMP, DLAMP, DLAMPR, found family babes let’s go

Warnings: self-hatred, some implied self-harm, self-destructive behavior, poor Virgil is not having a good time, y’all. Sympathetic Janus, sympathetic Remus

Word Count: 7,932

Out of all of the Sides to have wings, why the fuck did it have to be Virgil?

Come on, it’s not like it even fits with Anxiety, being able to fly? Having these big fucking things sticking out of his back? No thank you, that’s more literally anyone else’s thing! Roman would love it, he’s sure, soaring to great heights and all that. Patton’s the closest one of them to actually being an angel. Logan could use them to fly away from the bullshit.

But nope. Virgil’s the one stuck with them. Isn’t that just fantastic.

Virgil grunts and pulls his hoodie on tighter, zipping it up over the sports bra. He growls and reaches back to tug the wings into place under the layers of fabric, hunching his back so the others don’t notice that there’s conspicuously more mass on his back than there’s supposed to be. Thank god he’s already known for baggy clothes.

He has to walk carefully. Too much jostling and the wings’ll pop loose. He leans on the stairs as much as he can before making his way to the back of the couch. He looks around. No one else is here.

Which would make sense, seeing as it’s three am.

Virgil winces when something twinges in his shoulder blade. His ears strain to pick up the sounds of anyone moving; no floorboards creak, no doors open or close, no sinks or anything else. Shit. Fuck, it’s happening when he’s breathing now too.

Shit.

Wincing, Virgil unzips his hoodie and slowly, slowly starts to lift his shirt up, sliding his hands under the material to try and—

A door opens upstairs and in a flash, Virgil’s hoodie is fully zipped up and his hands are back in his pockets.

Patton walks downstairs, rubbing his eyes. He blinks lazily and turns to go to the kitchen.

“Patton?”

Virgil winces when Patton startles horribly, whirling around until his eyes land on Virgil, perched on the back of the couch.

“You scared me, kiddo,” he pants, leaning against the counter before forcing a smile onto his face, “what’re you doing up?”

Virgil shrugs, trying to hide his flinch when one of his wings snag against something. “Just couldn’t sleep.”

“Aw, I’m sorry to hear that.” Patton tilts his head. “Anything I can do to help?”

Patton…Patton might be nice.

Patton would help, right? He—he’d care enough to help. Wouldn’t he? Patton had tried, so hard, when Virgil was first…around, just to make him comfortable, help him fit in, make him feel at…at home.

But—but Patton is the kind of person who would do anything to help someone and Virgil…Virgil doesn’t want that either.

Patton would see his wings—his ugly, dirty, huge wings—and look at Virgil with so much pity that he would be forced to help out. And the thought of hands in his wings was bad enough. The thought of unwilling hands in his wings was even worse.

Not Patton.

Virgil smiles, tightlipped in the dark. “No thanks, padre. ’S just the job.”

It’s a little sad how quickly Patton nods. “I trust you, kiddo, if you say you can do it I believe you.”

A sigh of relief lessens the ache in his shoulder blades for just a moment, then Virgil narrows his eyes. “What’re you doing up right now?”

“Needed a drink!” And sure enough, Patton goes into the kitchen and grabs a glass. “You want one?”

“…no, no I’m good.”

“Suit yourself.” Once the glass is full, Patton yawns, his jaw cracking, before he walks over to ruffle Virgil’s hair. “You gonna try and sleep a little?”

“Maybe.”

“G’night, kiddo.”

“Night.”

Once Patton vanishes back up the stairs, Virgil holds completely still until he hears the door click. As soon as it does, he slumps, burying his head in his hands, ignoring the bolt of white-hot pain that shoots through him. That was too fucking close.

What was he thinking? He can’t be here, not now, not while they hurt so much.

He sinks back to his room, biting his lip to stifle the noise when his wings slip under the bra. Now he won’t be able to get it off without hurting them—fuck why is this is fucking life?

He has to go slow, agonizing second by agonizing second, until the bra lies crumpled at the foot of his bed and he’s panting, sweat beading on his forehead and two new gashes in his lip. He takes one shuddering breath, then two, then—

“Come on, you assholes,” he mutters, “just…fucking cooperate for me.”

His wings creak and groan as he unfurls them, stretching them out until his throat protests with the effort of holding back a scream. He bound them wrong this time. One of the tendons is twisted, slipped over the bone on his right wing and every flex threatens to rip it entirely. His eyes, screwed tight from the effort, blink away tears, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

He forgot to cover it again.

Virgil winces when he sees the state of his wings. The primaries aren’t lying flat, the secondaries are all bent out of shape, he can see the loose feathers stuck in the rest of the mess, and his oil gland must be clogged again. He can hear everything rasping together, the creaking, and everything. He—he has to try again.

Slowly, he sits down in front of the mirror, crossing his legs and sitting up as much as he can. He holds his wings out and winces at the sharp yank. Flexing his fingers, he reaches out with his hand and starts combing through his feathers. He can’t get the right angle no matter how much he twists his wrists and trying to hold the wing in place doesn’t work either. But he’s able to pull a few of the loose feathers out. It doesn’t matter that he plucks out several of the remaining healthy ones as well.

Alright. Step one done.

Virgil braces himself and twists, reaching out quickly for his wing before his back pulls away from him. He grabs it with two outstretched hands and can’t stop the cry of pain when another sizzling bolt races down his spine. He can barely hold onto it for three seconds before he has to let go. A roll of nausea makes him retch, hunched over himself, tears springing anew to his eyes.

Pathetic.

Can’t even clean yourself properly.

Worthless.

Useless.

Dirty.

The room rings with shuddering breaths as his chest heaves, the pain still zinging through his wings. He can’t. He can’t do it. He can’t clean them properly, not now, maybe not ever. He fucking bound them wrong, like an idiot and now he has to sleep on his stomach and if someone walks in they’ll see them and he won’t be able to bind them properly if they don’t heal and—

The fucking worst thing about his wings is they always try and make things better. They twitch whenever he’s near someone he likes or bristle when he feels upset. And when he’s alone, all by himself, about to have a panic attack, they always try and hug him.

So Virgil cries there, on the floor, surrounded by his ugly, dirty, painful wings.

He sleeps on the floor that night too, a few pillows here and there to keep him from pressing his face directly into the ground, wings as outstretched as he can until he can ignore the pain long enough to fall into a fitful, uneasy rest. When he wakes, the joints are still tender and he curses, knowing if he tries to bind them again it’ll just get worse. That means a day of staying in his room, which by itself wouldn’t be awful except that the others would know.

When Virgil was alone, he could have his wing day all by himself and no one would care. He could stay shut up in his room without fear that someone would come and knock on the door, wondering where he was, if he was okay, did he need anything? He’d tried, he’d tried so hard to convince himself that alone was better, alone was safe, alone protected him.

But the others were magnets, always pulling him closer, closer, closer until he was bound within them. How was he supposed to pull away from that warmth, that care, when every time he was close to it his wings reached out? He had to start binding them when he first appeared to Thomas, yes, but it wasn’t until recently that he had to start binding them. Because they would reach for the others. All the time.

He couldn’t have that.

So he tied them up.

And it was worth it. It was worth being able to stand next to Roman, to see that smile up close. It was worth being able to stand next to Logan, to hear him talk and explain everything he could ever want to know. It was worth being able to stand next to Patton, to feel warm and safe.

The pain was worth it, even if it didn’t always feel like it.

The others couldn’t know about his wings. If they did, they might—they would—

Only dark sides had animal traits. If they knew Virgil had wings—

Virgil shakes his head and groans into the pillow. He can’t go back. Not after what he’s done. He can’t—he won’t—there isn’t—

He barely remembers being small. He remembers being scared, being afraid, fumbling in the dark, but he almost never remembers being small. Small enough where he didn’t know yet to be afraid to ask someone for help, when hands in his wings weren’t tied up with problems or intimacy or care or obligation. Small enough where he could cuddle into the lap of someone who loved him and not have to worry.

He remembers getting older and being scared, huddling in the dark with the others.

He remembers rubbing his hand over shedding scales. He remembers helping rub away the twitches in newly formed tentacles. He remembers hands, hands in his wings.

Those memories are locked away, behind bars Virgil won’t let himself bring down.

A knock on the door startles him out of his thoughts.

“Yeah?”

Fuck, does his throat sound like that?

“Virgil?” Logan. “Are you alright?”

“What the fuck is an alright,” Virgil mutters, pushing himself up off the ground and wincing, before raising his voice, “I’m fine, Logan.”

“You didn’t come down for breakfast—“ shit— “and we were concerned.”

“Didn’t feel like coming down,” Virgil tries, aiming for nonchalance and failing miserably, “but I’m all good here.”

“Are you certain?”

Logan…Logan would help.

Logan would understand things from a logical perspective. He would be the most business-like about it, just doing what needed to be done and leaving. He might find it…interesting? He would get it over with.

He would…get it over with.

A human figure having wings is illogical. Virgil doesn’t want to be stared at like some sort of…object. And…and…Virgil wants to be cared for, not treated like a chore. The desire burns a shameful hole in his gut, the craving for soft words and gentle touches accompanied by flaming cheeks and a roll of disgust. He doesn’t think he’d be able to hold back the tears at being treated so…coldly, even if it would be better for him.

Not Logan.

“I’m sure,” Virgil grits out, “thanks, though.”

“Of course. Will we see you for dinner?”

Swallows before his tongue chokes him. “Dunno.”

“Very well.”

He hears Logan walk away and cringes. That was awful. But he’s made a commitment now, so he has to get ready for dinner. Four hours should be enough.

Sitting up is a slow process and every few moments he has to stop when his vision grows spotty. He flexes his wings, watches the shape twist back for a few seconds before he has to relax it again. The ache has dulled slightly and maybe he can try again.

Raising his arms straight above his head, muscles straining, shaking, Virgil bites his lip and holds for one, two, three seconds until he cries out and lets them drop. Nope. No way. If he can’t even do that, he’s not gonna be able to pull the sports bra over his head, much less get his wings tucked into position. He winces and looks around for the belt.

He hates using the belt but it is easier on his shoulders. Instead of tucking the whole folded-up mess into the sports bra, he folds his wings up as small as they’ll go and wraps a belt around them, straining behind him and valiantly ignoring how much it hurts until he’s sure he’s got it around the joints. He lets go with a gasp, rolling his shoulders experimentally. It still aches, yes, but much less, and as he turns to the side, if he just wears a big enough shirt, with his hoodie on, no one will notice.

That means he can use the rest of the time to get used to it.

By the time he walks down to dinner, the others are waiting, Roman’s face lighting up in a huge smile as he sees Virgil round the top of the stairs.

“There’s our little Stormcloud!” He waves Virgil over to the chair next to him. “Haven’t seen your gloomy face all day, I’ve missed it!”

Virgil snorts. “You’ve just missed seeing another version of you, Princey.”

“Can you blame me, Hot Topic?” Roman winks. “We’re gorgeous.”

“The fact that we all share a face should not be surprising to you,” Logan remarks as he closes his book.

“Aw, you think I’m hot.”

“Pasta!” Patton places the pot on the table and Virgil winces when the sound makes his wings twitch. He doesn’t catch Roman’s concerned look. “Who wants what?”

“Just olive oil for me.”

“You got it, Logan.”

“I’ve got mine,” Roman announces, sweeping half of the condiments on the table toward him and combining them in…a way.

“…jeez,” Virgil mutters.

Patton rolls his eyes fondly as Logan and Roman start idly bickering about the appropriate condiments for pasta. A steaming bowl slides to a stop in front of him and without pausing, Roman passes Virgil the jar of sauce.

Virgil watches the jar slide to a stop in front of him, blinking up at Roman who just gives him a quick wink and goes right back to bickering with Logan. Patton giggles as Logan pinches the bridge of his nose, obviously trying to hide his smile as Princey grins. It’s a game now, to see which one of them will break character first. Princey’s the actor, but Logan’s got an incredible deadpan face. And when he’s in a playful mood the two of them can go at it for hours. Virgil and Patton just sit back to watch the show.

As it turns out, both of them break character at the same time tonight, Logan stumbling over a word, and Princey accidentally slurring Logan’s name as he tries to come up with a comeback. Logan immediately tries to hide his smile behind his hand only to snort when Princey screws his face up in protest.

“How did I manage to do that,” he cries, “I said—what the hell did I say?”

Patton’s laughing too hard to answer and Virgil just shakes his head helplessly.

Logan snorts. Tries to stifle it again. Then his giggles start to slip out. “D-damn it.”

Roman gives up trying to stop his own cackles and throws his head back, letting it ring out. “We were doing so well, too!”

“We were indeed,” Logan says through a smile, “perhaps we should try again.”

“No, no, no, I won’t be able to get any words out before I’m reminded of whatever the heck my tongue did.”

“What word were you trying to say?”

“I don’t even remember.”

Dinner gets finished and Logan stands to help Patton clean up. Roman leans back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head. Virgil watches him, his eye first caught by the movement, lingering when he sees the rush of relief on Roman’s face.

Is…is that what stretching is supposed to feel like?

“Stormcloud?”

Virgil blinks. Oh. Oh, fuck, he’s staring. Roman stares down at him, his head tilted.

“You’ve been quiet today, Stormcloud,” Roman says, too low for Logan or Patton to hear, “everything Gucci?”

Nope. Princey’s not allowed to do that. Definitely not. He’s not allowed to sound that caring because Virgil will talk to him.

“Everything’s fine.”

Roman raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

“Shut up,” Virgil grumbles, shoving Roman halfheartedly as he chuckles.

He goes to pull his hand back but Roman catches it, making him wince when his wings jar. This time he doesn’t miss Roman’s look of concern.

“Virgil,” Roman calls, “are you hurt?”

Yes. “Nah. Just slept weird.” On the ground, in pain.

“You don’t want me to sic Patton on you, do you?”

Virgil shudders, ignoring the twinge in his wings again. “No. Nope. I’m good.”

Roman chuckles, pressing a quick kiss to the back of Virgil’s hand. “Alright. You just come and tell me when you need something, hmm?”

Roman…maybe Roman?

Roman, who is desire and passion and so, so warm to the touch. Roman, who has tried so, so hard to make Virgil his friend, to care for him. Roman, who looks at Virgil with soft expressions and sly winks and is just so there.

…Roman, who treated him like a villain. Roman, who Virgil knows struggles to keep his own head above water most of the time. Roman, who can put on a mask to rival any actor’s, who can hide everything so well they might never know what’s really going on.

Not Roman.

“…yeah, sure, Princey.”

“Marvelous!”

And despite everything, despite the pain in his wings and the belt digging into the soft points of his feathers, Virgil smiles, just a little.

If this is what he has to deal with to be a part of this, then he’ll do it.

Then Deceit shows up and Virgil panics.

Not because of what this means, not because of how it’s going to affect Thomas, but because Deceit knows.

Deceit knows that Virgil has wings. Deceit knows that Virgil is a dark side. Deceit knows that Virgil hasn’t told the others.

He’s safe—at least he thinks he’s safe—because if Deceit tells them about his wings, he’d have to tell the others he sheds too. And Deceit won’t ever volunteer information about himself like that. Virgil has one moment of panic on the witness stand, thinking Deceit’s about to split his defenses wide open, but no, no, he’s wings stay tucked up, ugly and rumpled, Virgil’s very own dirty little secret.

Luckily—or unluckily—there are too many other things to focus on for Deceit to let slip that particular little secret. Virgil is too worried about Thomas and Patton and Roman and Logan and everything to worry any more about his wings. He runs on adrenaline and worries for days, weeks, months until it’s all he can think about, over and over, coffee being drained as quickly as Logan can brew it.

He plucks out his own feathers in the dark and washes the blood off the carpet. He strains to move his arms, his shoulders, anything, just to get a little more range of motion. He wipes the crusted salt from the corner of his eyes and grits his teeth.

Then Remus shows up and does what Remus does best: wreak absolute chaos.

Roman is knocked out, Logan gets a shuriken in the forehead, and Virgil tells Thomas he used to be a dark side.

The second he sinks into his room after that he tears at himself, his hoodie thrown to the corner of the room as his wings groan and buckle and writhe as Virgil paces.

Why did he do that why did he do that now he knows now they know now it’s going to be so much worse they’re going to hate me again I’m going to be alone alone is safe alone protects me but alone is cold and lonely and alone hurts it hurts I hurt make it stop please—

He’s panicking, he knows he’s panicking, he knows he should go, go find someone, have Logan help him, talk to Roman, get a hug from Patton, but his wings are out, he can’t put them away and they hurt, they hurt so much, everything hurts so much, he just wants it to stop.

Virgil collapses onto the floor, ignoring the sickening crunch as one of his wings buckles under his weight. It just…it just hurts.

Thomas doesn’t say anything.

Patton doesn’t say anything.

Logan doesn’t say anything.

Roman doesn’t say anything.

Remus doesn’t say anything.

Janus doesn’t say anything.

And somehow…somehow that’s worse.

It doesn’t get easier, it just gets repetitive.

He doesn’t try to get the spots he can’t reach anymore. He knows he can’t get the oil glands cleaned. He washes them as best he can but he knows he can’t dry them properly. He wears the sports bra. He wears the belt.

He endures.

Then he fucks up.

Janus has been watching him. In fairness, Janus watches everybody, but he’s been keeping a particularly close eye on Virgil. If Virgil didn’t know any better, he’d think Janus was suspicious of him, that he’d do something to ruin Janus’s seat at the table, or hurt the others, or try and turn them against each other. It would make sense, given their…history.

But Virgil knows Janus better than that.

He knows that look and that’s why he shies away from it.

He lashes out and he hates himself for it. He scorns Janus’s attention and has to hold back a gag. He slams his door shut and claps a hand over his mouth to stop himself from crying.

He can’t let himself stop now. If he stops he’ll fall apart. He’s been numb for so long he wants to stay numb, can’t start feeling it again or—or—

He can’t. He just can’t. The dark sides may be accepted now but that says nothing about Virgil.

Which is why it is so, so stupid that Janus chooses to stand next to Logan when the next session comes. Because he’s right there, so close, where Virgil can practically feel his presence prickling along his left side and he’s so glad he bit the bullet and wore the sports bra today because his wings are straining to reach for him.

But then Remus pops up next to Roman and Virgil visibly flinches.

He’s able to pass it off as surprise but the knowing look Janus gives him tells him Janus can see right through him.

He shouldn’t be feeling this way. He shouldn’t. He left the dark side ages ago, he shouldn’t—this shouldn’t—

He shouldn’t be aching for them. For all of them. His wings shouldn’t be bristling and yearning and his back shouldn’t feel like it’s splitting in two right now.

His mind shouldn’t be filled with thoughts of the soft touches they would give him as the helped groom his wings, the gentle jabs and playful barbs tossed back and forth as they supported each other.

He shouldn’t feel so cold.

The debate is already going, Logan and Patton tossing things back and forth, Roman and Remus doing the same. Janus adds a comment here and there, Thomas frantically trying to keep track of all of them. It’s far too easy for Virgil to withdraw, sink into his head, focus on keeping his wings in, make them stop, ignore the ache.

Someone shouts right next to his ear and without thinking, Virgil reaches out and grabs Janus’s cloak.

He freezes.

Fuck fuck fuck he fucked up he fucked up—

Why the fuck had he done that? Was it just because he was scared? He’s Anxiety, he’s always scared, why had this made him do something he hadn’t done since he was tiny?

He’s not some frightened child anymore, tugging on his parent’s clothes to beg for scraps of comfort. Is this what he fucking wants, to be coddled, told pretty lies about how everything was fine?

Too late, he realizes he’s still holding on and tries to let go quickly enough that no one will notice.

It only partially works.

The others are too busy scolding Remus—who just looks very pleased with himself—to notice. Except for Janus.

Of fucking course Janus notices.

Virgil shoves his traitorous hands into his pockets. He hunches his back, not caring that it makes his wings strain against the fabric of his hoodie. The only one who could see them right now is Janus and Virgil’s already dug his grave there, hasn’t he?

He just wants this to be over so he can go and Janus will stop looking at him.

The video ends and he can’t be the first one to sink out of the common area, that will draw attention, he can’t draw any more attention, but the longer he stays then someone will ask him something and he doesn’t want to—

Oh.

He blinks. Is…is the room empty? Oh. He can sink out now.

…or he could stay here.

The others tend to go cool off in their rooms after heated videos, just until they can all come out and make nice again. Virgil…Virgil has the common room to himself.

“Virgil?”

Fuck.

“…hey, Janus.”

“Hello,” Janus says softly, and no, no, no, don’t do that.

Janus is being kind and it’s so hard for Virgil to just stand here and not let his wings rip out of the hoodie. He didn’t sink out, he stayed, of course he fucking stayed, Virgil tugged on his cape like a little kid—

Virgil curses under his breath, collapsing to sit on the steps. He ignores Janus’s soft noise of concern and balls his hands up, beating out an erratic rhythm on his legs. His back hurts. His shoulders hurt. His wings hurt. Now his legs hurt. Now his hands hurt.

Something grabs his hands and pulls them over his head. The searing pain tears a cry out of his throat.

“Shh, shh—“ Janus, it’s Janus— “none of that now, sweetie.”

“Let me go.” It’s meant to come out as a snarl but instead, here Virgil is, whimpering at Janus’s feet.

“Will you keep hurting yourself if I let you go?”

No, Virgil wants to lie, yes, he wants to say just to spite him, what comes out of his mouth is neither of these.

“You’re hurting me,” he pants, “you’re—it hurts.”

Janus is silent above him, still holding his arms firmly above his head. Virgil chokes back a sob in the agonizingly painful position, barely suppressing his cries enough to still his shoulders which of course did nothing to alleviate the pain. Then another hand—right, he has six—touches gently beneath his chin, guiding his head up.

Virgil meets such an open expression of concern that tears spring to the corners of his eyes. He looks away immediately, only for Janus to crouch in front of him. He keeps a hold of Virgil’s hands but the release in his shoulders is enough to make him gasp.

“Sweetie,” Janus calls, “sweetie, look at me.”

“No.”

“Virgil, I need you to look at me.”

Gritting his teeth, Virgil looks up at Janus. Janus squeezes his hands once.

“When was the last time you had your wings groomed?”

Virgil’s heart drops to the pit of his stomach.

“Y-yesterday.”

“Did you do it yourself?”

“…yeah.”

“When was the last time someone else helped you groom them properly?”

Virgil swallows heavily and doesn’t say anything.

“…oh, sweetie, have you not had anyone help you groom them since…?”

Janus doesn’t even have to finish his sentence before Virgil’s nodding, the shameful secret finally spilling out. It’s Janus, he rationalizes, he knows how to keep a secret, right?

“Why haven’t you told them,” Janus murmurs, his voice broken, “why, sweetie?”

“Because telling people things is always so easy,” Virgil snarls.

Janus accepts it with a slow nod, reaching out to cup Virgil’s cheek. On instinct, Virgil jerks back, unable to get away from the touch because of the grip on his hands. Janus’s eyes widen.

“…oh, sweetie…”

“Don’t tell them,” Virgil blurts out, “please don’t tell them.”

“You’ve been hurting yourself, Virgil,” Janus whispers, “so badly, I can’t let that continue.”

“I’ll—I’ll fix it, I can fix it—“

“You know you can’t do this by yourself, honey.”

“I have to,” Virgil cries out finally, “I have to, I can’t—I messed up, I messed everything up, I have to do it alone now, I have to—“

“What did you mess up, sweetie?”

“You a-and Remus and I can’t—I can’t ask you ‘cause I messed it up so bad—“

“Shh, shh,” Janus soothes instantly, reaching out with another pair of hands to cup Virgil’s face properly, “you haven’t lost me, sweetie, you haven’t messed anything up so badly. You know you can come to me for help, you can always come here.”

“But you’re—“

“What, sweetie,” Janus prompts when Virgil cuts himself off, “what am I?”

Nope. Because Virgil can’t even use the dark side excuse anymore because now the dark sides are accepted. He has no fucking excuse. He has no justification for why he’s doing this. He’s—he’s—

He’s hurting himself.

“It hurts,” he whispers instead, “m-make it stop.”

“Do you have enough energy to sink out, sweetie?” Virgil shakes his head. “Okay. I need you to stand up for me, honey.”

Getting to his feet is a slow process, Janus murmuring encouragement as they go. He sets Virgil’s hands gently against the stair railing and whispers that he’ll be right back, he just has to grab some things, wait here, please? Virgil lets him go and clutches the railing for dear life, trying to keep the waves of nausea inside thank you very much.

“What do you mean, you haven’t seen him?”

“I knocked on his door, he didn’t answer.”

“So?”

“So I…tried the knob.”

“Roman!”

“I know, I know, I’m not supposed to, but I was worried and he isn’t in there, so—“

“Wait, he’s not in his room?”

“No! That’s the problem!”

“Well then where is he?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I came to find you two!”

“Wait…Virgil?”

No, no, no—

“Stormcloud,” Roman breathes from the top of the stairs, racing down, “there you are, we’ve been looking for you!”

“What’re you doing down here, kiddo,” Patton asks worriedly, “are you…you don’t look so good.”

Logan hustles around the end of the stairs to face him and no, no, Virgil doesn’t want this, not now—

“Virgil,” Logan calls softly and he sounds so much like he cares— “Virgil, are you having trouble standing?”

Virgil nods jerkily.

“Let’s have you sit down, then,” he continues gently, trying to cover up the shake in his voice.

When he doesn’t move, Roman can’t help himself. He walks forward, his arms opening to hover around Virgil’s waist.

“Can I carry you, Stormcloud,” he asks, “just to the couch?”

What does he do? He can’t say no, not when they look so worried. They just keep asking questions, they’ll just—but Janus asked him to wait for him, but standing is so hard and they all look so worried—

He nods again.

Logan carefully places his hands around Roman’s neck as Roman scoops him into a princess carry, heading for the couch. He sits down in the middle, holding Virgil as securely as he can, looking up when Logan crouches in front of them, nervously adjusting his tie. Patton sits on his side, pulling Virgil’s legs into his lap.

“What do we do?” Roman whispers. “I don’t—what do you need, Stormcloud?”

Logan nods encouragingly, still looking at Virgil with his brows drawn until realization dawns on his face.

“Virgil,” he says as he gets up to sit beside Roman, resting his hands on Virgil’s shoulders to encourage him to lean against him, “are you…is your ‘everything machine’ breaking?”

Oh.

Yeah, that’s what’s happening.

It’s Roman’s turn to have the ‘aha’ moment when he nods, taking one of Virgil’s hands and tenderly pressing a kiss to it. Logan keeps a steady, grounding pressure on his sides as Roman carefully lies him on the couch, going to the kitchen.

“Can you sit up? It’s perfectly alright if you can’t,” Logan assures quickly, “but it might be easier to drink something if you are upright.”

Virgil nods.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, “we’ll go slowly, alright? If you feel dizzy or light-headed at any point, squeeze my hand and you can lie back down.”

As promised, by the time they’re fully sitting up, Logan’s hand still on his shoulder, Roman’s breezed back in with a tissue box, a glass of water, a glass of orange juice, and a mini french loaf on a tray, set it all down on the coffee table, pulled the table close enough where he can perch on the edge, and reached out to take his hand again. Patton rubs encouraging circles into his knee, murmuring soft words of encouragement.

Virgil can’t move. He doesn’t know what to do. He—they feel so warm, they keep touching him so gently, it—his wings are straining.

He whimpers when Logan’s hand lands on his back and Logan moves away immediately. The loss of contact has him itching to reach out but he can’t can’t can’t—

“Well.”

Janus.

Virgil blinks, and sure enough, there he is, standing with his hands clasped out of sight. Distantly, Virgil thanks that he’s still trying to keep Virgil’s secret, hiding whatever he has behind his back. He makes eye contact with Virgil and asks a silent question.

Virgil can’t respond.

“Janus,” Patton says, “do you—do you know what’s going on?”

“Can we help,” Roman blurts, “with whatever it is?”

Logan stays silent, gaze going back and forth between Virgil and Janus. Janus doesn’t take his eyes off Virgil.

He’s waiting, Virgil realizes, to see if I’m going to let them help.

…he doesn’t really have a reason not to anymore, does he?

Logan leans closer, his lips barely brushing Virgil’s temple.

“Please,” he whispers, “please, dearheart, let us help care for you.”

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

“…help.”

It’s loud enough for Janus to hear and he nods sharply, sitting down on the floor and holding out his arms. “You’re going to need to pass him to me. Be careful of his back.”

It takes the other three to get him tucked up against Janus’s chest before they shuffle back, wary. Janus wraps his lowest pair of arms around Virgil’s hips, holding him close.

“You just focus on me, sweetie,” he whispers, much too quiet for the others to hear, “and if you want them gone, you say so, okay?”

“R-Remus?”

“Remus is coming, sweetie, he found me looking for your things.”

“You kept them?”

“Of course we kept them.” Janus rests their foreheads together. “Of course we did.”

Janus holds him close, whispers a few more soft words, until Virgil nods and lets him unzip his hoodie.

“How, sweetie?”

“…sports bra.”

He can hear Janus swallow a noise of protest before he nods. “I’m going to have to cut them off, it’s going to hurt too much if we try and pry it off you.”

“But—“

“Sweetie,” Janus hushes, “you’re losing circulation, it’s not good for you.”

Virgil shudders. “…does that mean you have to cut off m-my shirt too?”

“Do you think you can hold your arms up long enough to get it off?”

“…no.”

Janus holds him tightly. “I’m so proud of you, sweetie, I’ll be gentle, I promise.”

Against his better judgment, Virgil turns and tucks his head into the crook of Janus’s shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent. “…always are.”

“I’m going to need the others to help me, help you, okay?” When Virgil nods, he can feel Janus look at the others, can feel the way his face changes.

“Roman.”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“I need you to get Virgil’s hoodie off.”

“O-okay,” Roman says, and Virgil can hear him shuffle up behind them, “is it already unzipped?”

“It is.”

“Here we go, Stormcloud,” Roman says softly, sliding the battered old thing from Virgil’s shoulders like it’s some fine silk garment, “you’re doing great…there. Where should I—“

“On the couch.”

There are a few more rustlings and then Janus’s mouth appears by Virgil’s ear again.

“I’m going to cut them off now. You just hold still for me, alright?” Virgil nods and Janus squeezes him around the waist. “Good.”

He turns his attention to the others. “Virgil has decided to trust you with this. I have decided to trust you with this. Betray that trust and you will not like the consequences. Am I clear?”

Murmured assurances. Then the soft rip, rip, riiiiiip of fabric, and the pressure on his wings releases.

Virgil’s sure Janus is talking from the vibration of his throat and he’s also sure the others are saying something back, but he can’t hear anything right now over the rush of blood in his ears from his wings unfurling, creaking, in all their ugly, dirty glory.

He winces, tries to stretch them, only to hear a cry of dismay from over his shoulder and an ‘oh, sweetie,’ from Janus. The tendon snaps back out of place and his wings slump.

“Virgil,” Janus says next to his ear, “Virgil, Remus is here now. Do you think you can explain what we need to do or would you like us to?”

Virgil should explain. It’s his problem. It’s his responsibility.

But…but it would be nice to not have to…for once. To…to let them take care of him.

“…c-can you?”

“We can.”

He feels another warm hand on his bare side and Remus’s voice in his ear.

“Hey,” Remus says, “you really are a mess right now, huh?”

Coming at any other time, it would be an insult. But right now, laced with concern, Remus’s statement sends a rush of warmth down Virgil’s spine.

“We need to get the tendon reset first,” Remus says. Someone shuffles over to join him. “You know what you’re doing?”

“I think so.” Oh. It’s Logan. Logan knows what he’s doing. Good, good. “Hold still for us, dearheart.”

“Ah!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Logan stammers, “but we’ve got it now.”

“You’re gonna be sore for a bit, little monster,” Remus says, “but Logan’s right. You’re all reset now. You wanna stretch it out? Carefully?”

Virgil does, tentatively extending his wing and it—it feels better. Well, it feels bruised and sore and achy—but it feels better.

“It…it’s back,” Virgil says in a strangled whisper, “it’s back.”

“Yes, sweetie,” Janus murmurs, “now let’s get you cleaned up.”

Virgil drifts. In and out. He hears Remus explain how to straighten his feathers, feels two strong steady hands carding through them, Looks up to see Roman, expression more focused than he’s ever seen, sees that expression melt when he catches Virgil’s eyes. Plucks a loose feather out and lays it in a growing pile.

Feels two more on his other side and looks around to see Patton doing the same, running his fingers through the primaries, secondaries, up to the covets, and through the scapulars. Feels his fingers linger just where the tips of the feathers brush Virgil’s bare back, stroking reassuring rhythms where he lands.

Janus still has two of his arms holding Virgil in his lap. With Virgil’s nod, he slowly raises Virgil’s arms above his head again, letting the others have access to the rest of his wings. With his last two hands, he starts smoothing the bottom of his wings, lingering in the spots where Virgil winces, gently tugging and adjusting until everything’s just right.

A flash of movement and he sees Remus over Janus’s shoulder, grabbing a spray bottle and two hairbrushes. He ruffles Virgil’s hair as he goes back around, warning him before he starts gently spraying Virgil’s wings, passing the hairbrushes to Roman and Patton with the instructions to try and get as much of the gunk out as possible.

“You,” Roman murmurs as he works, “are magnificent, Virgil, just look at you.”

“Don’t,” Virgil manages, “please don’t tease.”

“I’m not teasing,” Roman promises, brushing a part of his wing that sends a shudder down his spine, “you’re…you’re—these are spectacular, Virgil, truly.”

Virgil shifts in Janus’s lap. “…ugly.”

“What?”

“…they’re ugly.”

“Of course they’re not, what do you…” Roman turns to him. “Stormcloud, who told you that?”

“…me.”

“Falsehood,” comes Logan’s voice from directly behind him, “your wings are indeed quite splendid.”

“Because they’re interesting?”

“Because they are a part of you,” Logan corrects softly, “and yes, because they are interesting.”

“We love you, kiddo.” Patton reaches up to squeeze his hand. “That means all of you, even your wings.”

Virgil opens his mouth to respond when hands slip through his feathers and every breath is stolen from his body.

“Here,” Logan says softly, “are they here?”

“Yep. Feel around in there a little, you should find the—“

“Here.”

Two thumbs swipe over the glands and Virgil shudders, right down to the tips of his wings. Logan pauses, leaning forward and doing it again. Virgil shudders harder, warmth shooting through his body, so warm, so warm. Then Logan’s hands start spreading the oil through his feathers and Virgil can’t.

“Shh,” Janus soothes, holding him tightly, “shh, I know, sweetie, just hold on…you’re doing so well.”

“Be gentle, Logan,” Roman orders, his gaze fixed on Virgil’s face.

“I am.” Logan does it again and Virgil gasps. “This area is simply…sensitive.”

Virgil swallows. “…haven’t…haven’t been able to…to…”

“You have not been able to reach these areas yourself,” Logan finishes when Virgil can’t make words happen anymore, “and so the sensation is heightened by the newness of it.”

“Y-yeah.”

Then Roman’s hand brushes over his alula and he whimpers.

“S-sorry.”

“Would I be mistaken in saying this is quite…an intimate action?” Virgil shakes his head at Logan’s question. “Then you do not need to apologize. Trusting others with this level of intimacy is difficult, and you are doing very well.”

“You are, kiddo,” Patton adds when Virgil makes a noise of protest, “and you don’t have anything to be embarrassed about. It’s okay that you’re sensitive, it’s okay.”

“Is this alright, Stormcloud,” Roman asks softly as he keeps brushing the feathers, “can we keep going?”

“Mhm,” Virgil mumbles, head lolling forward, “mhm.”

“Good.”

As they finish removing the clearly damaged feathers, the real grooming starts. Roman and Patton start gently tugging here and there to pull out loose and broken feathers, pushing the ones that are just slightly crooked back into place. The hairbrushes, with nice wooden spokes, split the feathers easily without a snag as Logan carefully works the oil throughout. Remus slips down, carefully spreading the oil over Virgil’s back, kneading out the tension from his sore muscles. Janus holds him steady, murmuring softly.

Virgil floats, punch-drunk on the fuzzy feeling from Logan’s hands, Patton’s hands, Roman’s hands, Remus’s hands, Janus’s hands. It’s so warm, so warm, as he feels the lingering strings of hurt and tension slowly and persistently untangled from his wings.

“I think that’s everything,” comes Logan’s soft voice an uncertain amount of time later, and yet none of the hands move away.

“You’re so pretty, kiddo,” Patton murmurs, running his hands through the feathers, “so, so pretty.”

“Guess you really did dig the purple, huh?” Remus gives Virgil’s hair a ruffle. “I think these are the best these have looked in a while.”

Virgil shifts in Janus’s lap. “…yeah, well…”

Janus shushes him. “It doesn’t matter, now, sweetie. It’s okay.”

“You were hesitant because being vulnerable is hard,” Logan adds, still stroking up and down the joint of his wings, “that isn’t anything to be ashamed of.”

Virgil opens his mouth to reply when Logan’s fingers skitter over the spot right under the joint and he cries out.

“…Virgil?”

Logan raises an eyebrow when Virgil simply shudders, his back arching. Slowly, he does it again, smiling when Virgil all but purrs.

“I think he likes that,” Patton says quietly, “don’t you, kiddo?”

Virgil whines.

“Where else are you sensitive,” Roman murmurs, scritching his fingers lightly along the top of Virgil’s wing, “where else, Stormcloud?”

“I don’t think he’s got command of words right now,” Remus chuckles.

“If Virgil’s wings are anatomically similar to bird wings,” Logan murmurs, “then…”

Roman’s hand is tangled in his alula. Patton’s hands are rubbing at the crook of his wings. Logan’s thumbs stroke over the oil glands again.

Virgil’s mouth is suddenly very, very dry.

Remus’s thumbs suddenly dig into the space between his shoulder blades, startling a short moan out of him. He hears a chuckle from over his shoulder.

“Does that feel good, dearheart,” Logan murmurs, his nails scraping lightly over the soft skin where Virgil’s wings met his back, “right there?”

Virgil’s only response is a long, low, drawn-out sound that would have been mortifying had he any control over his brain right now.

“Oh, wow,” Patton mumbles from the side.

Roman reaches up and wiggles his fingers next to Logan’s and Virgil keens.

Janus chuckles, lowering Virgil’s arms around his neck and reaching out to scritch lightly at the marginal covets. “You’re about to get spoiled, sweetie,” he murmurs, “you just hang on, hmm?”

Virgil wraps his arms around Janus and holds on for dear life just as fingers wiggle into his axillaries and he freezes.

Then he melts, right into Janus, right into the hands in his wings, the sound physically being ripped out of his chest.

Lips brush the side of his neck like the owner couldn’t stop themselves. The hand on his right twitches violently. From his left comes a long, shuddering breath.

“Oh, Stormcloud—“ Roman, that’s Roman— “you best believe we’re going to spoil you all the time.”

Just like that, everything multiplies. Pats, strokes, kneads, scritches, ruffles, so many so many so many gentle, adoring touches and soft voices in his ears and Virgil flies.

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#sanders sides #fic #dragonbabbles #virgil sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #logan sanders #janus sanders #deceit sanders #remus #sympathetic deceit #sympathetic remus #sympathetic light sides #tw self harm

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motherjoel · 4 years

Text

last cup of coffee (spencer reid x reader)

summary: you and spencer are the famous frenemies of the BAU, but one day he goes too far in a fight and the team decides to force you both into the same car to make up. little did you know, the check engine light isn’t just a suggestion.

a/n: this is on my ao3 but i wanted to post it on here too! let me know what you think :)

wc: 2.6k

tw: brief mention of suicide

“Triple A says it’ll be a few hours before they’ll get here,” Spencer sighed, shutting off his phone and shoving it in his pocket. The car engine had stopped working about 10 minutes ago and you cursed yourself for your terrible navigation skills. It may have been your fault that you had no idea where you were, but you'd never admit to it- like many other things you’d never admit to. Your extreme sense of pride led you to blame Spencer for not doing anything about the check engine light. It was this same sense of pride that hid your real feelings for this man- feelings you would never admit to even yourself. Instead, you shielded yourself from these emotions in the form of daily bickering matches with Mr. Genius.

The two of you had ended up in the same car on the way back to the hotel, which was insisted on by the team. You could feel the tension in the air- the tension that had been there since you stormed out of the break room earlier. You both normally never went for blood in these arguments- nothing behind either of your words were to be taken seriously, even the team knew this. Everyone knew that you and Spencer had a bit of a love hate relationship- today, however, was focused on hate. Ever since he went a little too far during one of your bickering matches, you had been icy with him. The team couldn’t take the tension, so they figured a long car ride would solve the issue, except, what was meant to be only an hour of awkward silence was now an indefinite amount of time.

“Well that's just great,” you huffed, going to check your phone to see that it was dead. You dropped it into your lap with a sigh and leaned your head on the window to gaze outside. The cold glass felt nice on your forehead- a contrast to the flushed hotness you had been feeling whenever your mind drifted to your fight with Spencer. The pent up anxiety from this case had really weighed on you- the unsub was killing teen girls and was framing the deaths to look like a suicides. This struck a chord with you, but you tried your hardest to not let it show. You thought back to your argument earlier, where your icy exterior had faltered slightly.

Most of the team was in the break room of the police station you were working the case at, fueling up on the coffee you all so desperately needed. You were the last one to fill your cup, or so you assumed, so you decided to fill your mug to the top with what was left in the coffee pot. Spencer was the last to walk in, and when he saw you holding the empty pot he immediately started in on you.

“Wow, I'm not surprised Y/N took the last of the coffee. Predictable,” he said with a huff, slamming his travel mug on the counter. You winced at the noise, your stress headache was back and you didn’t feel like dealing with his temper.

“You know what Reid? Maybe if you weren’t shitting around with that pretty receptionist over there, you would’ve gotten here on time. Not my fault men think with their dicks,” you said the last sentence under your breath, but he definitely heard it from his flustered reaction.

“I was asking her to bring me some files!” he yelled, seemingly defending himself to the room of your teammates who had stopped in their tracks to watch their daily entertainment. “You know what, Y/N, you’re just insufferable,�� he said, turning to the coffee machine to fill it up. Your eyes widened, but you tried your best to mask your expression or to come with a response- when both failed, you stormed out of the room and went to the bathroom to ground yourself, not hearing Morgan whack him on the back of the head once you were out of sight.

You had both been silent for about 20 minutes when you decided to look back at him for the first time. He was shifting in his seat, trying to get comfortable for a nap. You couldn’t stand to sit here in silence for what could possibly be hours, so you tried to break the ice.

“Tired?” you asked him. Simple, but enough to get the two of you talking. Or so you thought.

“Yeah, someone took the last cup of coffee,” he said sarcastically, not daring eye contact.

Groaning, you opened the car door, stepped out and slammed it, deciding to walk down the street you had stopped on until you reached the dead end. It had begun to snow as you walked, and you cursed yourself for forgetting your jacket. At this point, it didn’t matter- the icy coldness of the outdoors was better than the coldness coming from Spencer's attitude.

After walking for a few minutes, you had come across a cliff with a view overlooking the city below. The sight was enough to make you forget about your dead phone and the genius, who had, unbeknownst to you, quietly followed you to this spot. You spotted a green wooden bench overlooking the city and took a seat. It wasn’t long before your tears began to flow. They were wet hot tears of embarrassment, of anger, and of sadness. For years working in the BAU, you had tried to keep up your barrier, being the badass in the black boots (Garica’s loving nickname for you). Your past weighed on you, however, and you kept everyone at an arm's length. All of these people you so desperately wanted to be closer to, and one person in particular who uncharacteristically gave you butterflies. Letting these people in, however, meant vulnerability. Getting close to someone just meant that losing them would inflict great pain on you, and you didn’t think you could survive any more loss in your life.

After crying for a few minutes and wiping your tears on your sleeves, you felt a sweater being draped around your shoulders. The sweater smelled like him. He made his way around the bench and sat next to you. You hastily wiped the last of your tears and scooted to the edge of the bench to stay as far away from Spencer as possible.

“So, why'd you follow me? I thought I was ‘insufferable’” you quoted him from earlier, the sentiment that struck a chord. You hugged the sweater tighter to your body, ignoring that it belonged to him because the chill of the night catching up with you.

“Listen, Y/N, I'm sorry about that. You know how I get when I'm having difficulty with a case, and it's not like we have a great track record with each other,” he defended himself, and he was right. Neither of you really expressed outward kindness for each other, but you never knew why. “But… I didn’t think today was any different,” he finally looked up at you.

“You’re right, Reid. Today isn’t any different,” you sighed, avoiding actually telling him what was wrong- although your splotchy red post-cry face was telling enough. He flinched at your use of Reid- although you two were “frenemies,” you always called him Spencer, sometimes even Spence. The team teased you for it but you shrugged it off- “Spence” was just easier to say, or so you told yourself.

“Then… why did you storm off?” he asked softly, looking back down at his hands on his lap, fidgeting with them slightly. You avoided his gaze, knowing that you were about to tell him something that only Garcia knows- she did a bit of research on you because she wanted to know why you were so cold, and when she found out that your parents had died at a young age, she was nothing but kind to you. She also kept everything to herself, which you were grateful for.

“When I was in high school, I was in a really bad place,” you started, fighting back the tears. Spencer scooted closer to you, urging you to continue. “I wasn't very well liked. When I was 15, my parents both died in a car crash and I transferred schools to live with my aunt,” you confessed. Spencer's expression saddened greatly, and he rested his hand on your arm as a form of comfort. You gave him a look that said “oh, and that's not even the half of my trauma” before you continued.

“At this new school, I was bullied a lot. Like, a lot a lot. People told me I was a waste of space, I was… insufferable,” you said, ignoring his pitying expression. “I started to believe these things. Spence… I tried to take my own life,” you said, finally breaking down in tears. Before you could continue, he wrapped his arms around you and you buried your face in his chest, letting your messy tears stain his shirt without thinking twice. His hands stroked your back, soothing you. You had melted into him, finally feeling vulnerable for the first time in years. For some reason, you were no longer embarrassed of your vulnerable side. You bore your heart and soul to this man and were greeted with nothing but kindness. Pulling away for a moment, you continued telling your story.

“I’m doing a lot better now,” you said, wiping your tears with your sleeve as he maintained eye contact, showing his full support. “I don’t have those thoughts anymore, and if I do I know to get help. It’s just difficult to get close to people because I'm afraid… that if I lose them, I’ll be right back where I was when I was 18,” you finished, realizing his hands were grabbing yours.

“Y/N, I am so sorry. This case probably affected you differently and I was such an ass earlier, god I'm terrible,” he criticized himself, putting his head in his hands. You reached over and took his hands in yours again, resting your entwined fingers between you. This was the most physical contact you had ever had with him, but for some reason it felt more right than anything- you never knew what you were missing until now.

“Spence, there's no way that you would have known,” you soothed, looking into his eyes and rubbing his hand with your thumb. He looked down at your hands and sighed, before returning his gaze to you, but there was something different about his expression. Rather than his usual contempt, or even the pity from a few minutes ago, he now looked almost amazed. Like you were some celebrity or a superhero who had just saved the world. Before you even knew what you were doing, you started to lean in, Spencer mirroring you. Soon enough, you were inches away from his fluttering lashes, you could feel his breath on your lips. You pulled away suddenly, apologizing profusely for your out of character actions.

“Oh my god Spence, I'm so sorry, I think I'm just emotional right now, and you're being so nice to me, I didn’t mean to make things weird,” you avoided eye contact, face flushed with embarrassment.

“Y/N, it's okay! I leaned in too…” he blushed. You looked back up at him to see his eyes were already on you. Simultaneously, you both leaned in and crushed your lips together, his arms snaking around your waist and yours resting on the sides of his face. Your lips moved in perfect harmony with passion as you leaned your back against the bench armrest, him leaning forward to keep your lips connected. There was a hunger between you two- like these years of bickering and sexual tension (that apparently everyone but you two had noticed) had built up so much, it finally spilled and manifested itself as a makeout session with your once enemy.

You didn’t know how long you stayed like this, entwined with each other, before you both came up for air. He pulled away from you, still leaning over you but his face was now a couple inches away, and smiled. You both sat up and started to laugh uncontrollably. It was ridiculous, really- the two of you having an intense makeout sesh only seconds after you bore your soul to him. But he was Spencer, and you were you.

“That was…” you started.

“Amazing,” Spencer finished for you. You both sat in silence for a minute, his hand touching his lips, before you scooted closer to him and rested your head on his shoulder, curling your legs under you. He wrapped his arm around you and your hands met, resting between the two of your warm bodies.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks you. You sigh in contentment, the cold air biting your nose in the right way.

“I'm thinking that this is one of those moments that are so... perfect. It’s just so wonderful, you almost feel sad because... nothing will ever be this good again,” you confessed. He took his arm back from around your shoulder and faced you, looking in your eyes.

“If you’ll be my girlfriend, I can promise you that we can have endless moments like this,” he told you, taking you by surprise. You looked at him, smiling widely as his face broke into insecurity.

“Your… girlfriend?” you asked, still in shock. He started to fidget a bit in his seat.

“Obviously, you don't have to do anything you don't want to do, I know this is really sudden but I don't know… I'm sorry, I know we're supposed to hate each other or whatever, but I’ve just… I’ve liked you for a while now,” he blurted. You laughed at his shyness, it was really adorable to see him flustered like this around you.

“Spencer, I really like you. I’ve liked you ever since you spilled your coffee on me on my first day,” you recalled fondly, he smiled. “I even liked you when you tried to clean it up but accidentally felt up my boob,” you laughed at that memory, he blushed profusely. “I think these little arguments that we get into were just fueled by my ‘keep everyone at arm's length’ rule- it was you that I was afraid to get close to, because Spencer Reid, you are dangerous. You have the capability of shattering my heart into pieces because I just like you so damn much,” you confessed to him, his face was in awe. You studied his expression, lips parted slightly, eyebrows raised. His eyes held pools of adoration, and rather than be scared and shy away from it, you finally wanted to dive in and soak in it. His expression softened as he leaned in, tilting your head up by putting his hand on your chin.

“Y/N,” he whispered. “I swear to never shatter your heart into pieces if it's the last thing I do,” he said softly before closing his eyes and pressing his lips to yours. This kiss held less intensity, but more soft passion and caring. You felt safe in his embrace, safe for the first time in years, and you knew this is where you were meant to be.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid/reader #spencer reid angst #Criminal Minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds reid #spencer reid x you #spencer reid/you #Matthew Gray Gubler

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